Tombs and Homes and Fighting

I don't know any person who has never struggled with self esteem. I don't know one person who never had issues with the way they looked or how they sounded or what they wore. Everyone has something. I refuse to believe otherwise.

I have never not struggled with the way I see myself. I go through times where I feel strong and confident and other times when I feel literally like a beached whale. I try desperately to see myself through Gods eyes because I know He seriously loves every part of me. I am not God though and I do not see myself that way.

After our last miscarriage something in me snapped. People kept telling me to take care of myself because that's important but I totally didn't understand that. My body betrayed me. My body was supposed to keep our baby alive, and it didn't. So I stopped caring. And I stopped sleeping. February and March were awful. I didn't sleep, couldn't sleep. I would take NyQuil and Melatonin and beg to sleep and I couldn't. My anxiety issues came back, I didn't want to leave my house. Thankfully I didn't have panic attacks...

I hated my body. Truthfully and in big ways. I hated it. I didn't and still don't, fully understand what happened. If you talk to doctors they will tell you I never actually carried a baby which is a big old pile of crap. I know there was life inside me. And I know that life died. We found out on a Friday our baby wasn't there and I did not actively miscarry until Monday morning, rocking my hips on the side of our bed, clutching Blair's hands, sobbing out a silent prayer. According to doctors our baby had been gone for weeks. My body became a tomb

And I hated it.

I've always struggled with weight and self esteem but I just stopped caring. And it got scary. I wanted to sleep all the time but couldn't sleep and I knew that if this was how I was going to continue to grieve I was going down a dark path.

Luckily I have friends amazing friends. Wonderful friends. Beautiful friends. Friends who ask me to set goals and then stick to them. Friends who tell me things like "taking care of your body is taking care of the only home your babies ever knew." Friends who listen to me when I want to eat to make feelings go away. Friends who listen to me cry two months later, mourning the loss of a happy healthy baby.

See when I stopped using food as a crutch I had to deal with my emotions. And it suckssssss. Yesterday morning I literally sobbed while eating breakfast with my kids. I cried a lot yesterday. Because not only did our baby die, but my hopes and dreams of a healthy baby died too. I don't remember Deans early days the way I remember Ellie's. I mourn the loss of his baby hood and the loss of getting to do it all again this year. I wanted family pictures of us together for the first time. My children met through facetime. Face. Time. While I'm thankful for that...it pierces my heart a little too.

I joined a gym. And have gone consistently. And it has helped me FINALLY sleep at night. But it's hard too. Today I worked out and had to fight back tears because somewhere along the way my thought process became "if I was stronger..." or "if I was thinner..." or "if Id tried harder..".

None of those things define me and none of those things brings my babies back. And being healthier and thinner or stronger physically...will never prevent us from the very real possibility that we could miscarry again. No matter how hard I work...I will never get the memories and the images and the pain to go away.

I've said it before...but this miscarriage was particularly bad. Particularly traumatic. If you've ever seen the movie The Help...the scene where Minnie breaks down the bathroom door to find the woman ...that was me. That was us. Carnage. I don't get to forget that. And I remember it at awful times. Like when I'm at the gym working out. Or when I use our upstairs bathroom. Or when Ellie asks me where her new baby is...we've had a lot of talks about Heaven...

And then my friends. Two in particular. One who is walking the grief journey with me and one who is walking before me. The one who reminded me that taking care of my body, this body...is loving the only home my babies ever knew.

Seven weeks.
Ten weeks.
Twelve weeks.

Of pure unadulterated continuous love. That's all my babies ever knew. My body may have felt like a tomb for a while...but with help and healing I can begin to see it as a home. A beautiful home. A worthy home. Their home. And I'm just sprucing it up a bit. It feels good to make my body strong. It feels good to finally be able to sleep well at night. It feels good to be mentality clear and have people who help me set goals.


And as much as it hurts, it feels good to finally be dealing with the awful grief and pain that I have gone through in the past three years. Between Deans diagnosis and treatment and this last miscarriage, it has felt like punch after punch.

I have two choices. I can take it and let it break me. Or I can fight.

I'm fighting.

It has been one month. Tonight I am up late and my heart is racing and I can't force myself to sleep because that means tomorrow will come and I don't want to deal with tomorrow. I don't even want to deal with now.

You did not wake up this morning feeling an emptiness inside you. I did. I feel...like a tomb. A grave yard. I feel like I am standing on the edge of a panic attack...

Look so many things have happened in the past week and in the past month. My brain is swimming in images and thoughts and sensations. I want to write about everything. I want to tell these stories. None of the words formulate right and I honestly am afraid I sound like I'm having a pity party.

Dean got the flu. And just like I thought we would, we ended up spending a night in the hospital. If I can, I avoid ER trips. Do you know why? They suck. They always keep him up late they always traumatized him, they always make me cry. This time, his face turned blue while they placed the IV. The last time I saw him that blue was when he was air lifted because he was dying. All of my mom instincts wanted to be like "look we're here just cut him open fiddle around in there and be done, please".  Because honest to God I am effing sick of this. I just really am.

I'm sick of being scared to go places because he could sick. Then deciding not to scared and going places and then him getting sick. I'm tired of leaving Ellie with people when she should be with me. She had the flu too ya know. She felt just as miserable. And I had to leave her.

I don't think I handled this ER trip well at all. I don't think I've handled the past month well at all. I don't think people realize how traumatic and awful our miscarriage was. I don't think I realized how angry I am about all of it...

How many baby's do I have to watch die to have live kids? At this point, in order to carry to term, I assume I have to have a miscarriage first. It's like pieces of me are missing. Every time we take a family picture, three of my kids aren't there. Every time I see a family tree, three of my kids aren't there. When people ask me how many kids I have...how do I tell them I have five kids, when only two are with me? The X-ray tech at Deans hospital asked if I was pregnant or had any chance of being pregnant. I laughed. I didn't know what to say. "Nope! That baby died a mo th ago! We're cool!"...

I was so damn excited to be having another baby. To feel that little stinker kick and move, to watch my body change, to have him or her here in our home. I wanted t to nurse a baby again. I wanted a sweet cuddly newborn that snuggled with me late at night, wrapped in our own world...

Now I'm not sure if I ever want to do it again. I'm not sure I ever want to tell Blair we're having another baby only to watch myself bleed it out.

I don't really sleep any more. I've been having nightmares. It's easier to just stay awake.

This is not the life I ever imagined for myself. For Blair. For my kids. And lately I'm having a hard time accepting it and being content.

Anyways...it's late. And Moms don't get days off. So I'll go lay in bed for a while pretending I'm going to sleep...

Good Things

It's late and I'm staring at my computer screen as though I am looking at a blank piece of water color paper. What words can I paint for you? What image do I want to leave for you tonight?

I've had all sorts of thoughts swirling around in my head...but life is busy and messy, so I haven't had the time (ok, fine, I haven't made the time) to sit and write out any of them.

I have made time for my art. I have worked every day to be a little better, do a little more. The efforts of that work are currently up at Happy Creek Coffee and Tea, where some of my favorite pieces are up and for sale. I have sold two paintings that I know of. I am humbled and excited and in awe of this. I am an Artist. It has taken me 27 years to truly believe that in my heart. It gives me so much hope for my future.

My three year old calls me an artist. She pulls her chair up to my desk and says "Mama can I work with you?" She loves to paint too. She still doesn't remember purple is purple and mostly wants to use pink or blue. She mashes my paint brushes and she gets very intense. I love everything about creating with her. My son likes to take my paint brushes and "pretends" to paint the walls. Sometimes he finds crayons and colors on the walls...I am in a constant state of fear of what he will do with his colors. Magic erasers give me life fam. (That was ironic millennial talk for I seriously love those things).

I have been supported from the get go by an amazing husband. Who has put with so many Micheals runs that it's ridiculous. He also knows that many of the packages we get/got from Amazon are more than likely more supplies that I want to check out. I stay up late and get distracted all to often by what I'm working on. He comes and peeks at what I'm doing and says "Please come to bed by 10:30"...and I try, I really do. But it doesn't always happen that way.

He has been such a source of encouragement. He has a good eye too, he can look at a piece I'm working on and he can tell me "I don't think this one is quite there yet" and he's usually right. I have an artists heart. And he loves every inch of my messy, distracted, paint stained hands.

I have made time for playing in the floor with my babies. We roll and laugh and giggle and smile. My son walks now. He walks. And he is learning more and more how to communicate with me. He tries to run now...he will throw his arms up and shuffle his feet across the floor. He loves necklaces and almost all his teeth are in, but I can't be sure because he doesn't like me to look.

Every now and again I'm reminded that we aren't done with all his medical care. When people ask me when his third surgery is (I don't know, and I don't mind being asked!) or when he gets cold and his hands and feet turn blue. When we go to the pediatricians office and simple, small procedures throw him into hysterics. The last time that happened we got home and I had a panic attack. I had to call my mom, her voice reminding me that right NOW my children are healthy and safe and here.

I read stories of toddlers who are going through the Fontain. Anxiety and PICU stays and effusions. I have heard stories of families who have had to transfer to Children's Hospital of Philadelphia and I am comforted knowing we have close family near there. I read stories about week long stays, month long stays, and complications that lead to heart transplants. I worry that I'm not checking his O2 levels enough but then I think, would that help me or cause me to worry even more?

Either way, it's a long way off. So I have my moments, then I usually hear Dean screaming at Ellie because she took something from him and I move on.

These are small snippets of what make up my life. My messy hard wonderful life. A life that I live as well as I can, rooted in the love I have from the Lord, His strength keeping me going. His Joy on the days when I desperately want a nap or when I look at the pile of dishes that I just don't want to do. Remembering who I am in Him has helped me let go of all the other things that used to make me feel guilty.

And I am making time. Stealing moments. Writing when I can, painting pictures with my hands and hopefully my words to let you know there are good things about this world. I know because I look for them. You should too.

Two Voices. One Choice.

The list in my head starts very early in the morning.

Do the dishes. 
Pick up the toys. 
Make breakfast. 
Clean up from breakfast.
Play.
Keep the TV off. 

The exhaustion creeps into my bones.

Pay the bills. 
Remember the bills due today that you forgot about. 
Frantically search to see if you can pay them online. 
Find out you can't. 
Decide to pack the kids up to go pay bill. 
Stand in line with two tired, hungry cranky kids. 
Realize you left the house without your wallet. 
Decide to leave. 

This is when the Voice starts to whisper into my heart, "You are not enough"

Make it home.
Change diapers.
Hurriedly make lunch.
Feed the kids lunch on the floor.
Worry that you didn't feed them enough.
Realize that you have a drainer full of dishes to be put away...and another sink full to wash.
Again.
Look around. See the toys. Realize you need to pick up.
Again. 

The Voice says in a sinister way "You are failing."
A still smaller voice whispers into my heart "I Am enough for you."

That second voice is so very hard to hear.

Turn n a movie. 
Toddler cries because its not the right movie. 
Get impatient. 
Yell, spank out of anger. 
Cry when she cries. 

That menacing voice says "You are a bad Mother."
That tiny voice insists "I have give you a gift, treasure them."

Realize your toddler has been begging you all day to play with her.
Realize you haven't played in the floor with your children.
Realize that you haven't read your Bible or prayed.
Waves of guilt and shame wash over you.
Cry silently while you hold your children. 

The harsh voice starts to say "What a horrible person you are-"

And that still quiet voice becomes a roar in my ears, crashing into my heart, drowning me in Grace screaming, yelling, willing itself to be heard

"I. Love. You. Right now. Right here. I love you. I love you when you forget bills and yell at your kids and forget your wallet when you leave the house. I love you at 3 AM when your son is not sleeping and you are angry. I love you when you lose patience. I love you when you worry and stress. I love you. Right here. Right now. Right where you are." 

And I let the list go. And I sit quietly with my girl. And I tell that first voice that is has. no. power. here. And I listen to that still small voice that tells me Grace is new every minute. That tells me that I am Enough in Him. And I let that voice seep into my bones and heart.

And I am thankful for it.

Only Love

Motherhood finds me in the strangest places.

The cries of a son who doesn't sleep well. Groans as I force myself out of my bed to his crib. He stands there now and the tears fall from his face and the exhaustion is so real and potent that the compassion I should feel is evaporated. I hold him, and rock him, remind him that I am indeed there for him.

At least once a night now I hear the smallest pitter patter of feet, the slightest creaking of my door. My daughter crawls into my bed with her baby elephant and her green worn blanket. She snuggles into my arms and I can feel her breathing get calmer, slower. I close my eyes and turn my face away from her wispy hair. I can feel her become more and more peaceful. Until she crawls back into her bed, snuggled up with her animals, quiet, still.

I alternate between hating and loving these routines. Smiling at the power I have to help calm their little worlds. Crying in anguish over the messes and lack of sleep. The deep desire for everything to run smoothly, to have time to do EVERY THING I want to do. The list in my head grows and grows, constantly present. It is often put on pause.

Little hands pull at my pants legs. Little feet run back and forth in our tiny house between her room and the kitchen. I encourage the running. She has so. much. energy. Selfishness creeps into my heart, I want to sit and create. I want to make messes on paper with colors and shapes. I want to practice more and more. I want studio time. I long for quiet. I love for time alone. Joy is stolen by selfish desire.

My children Need Me. Constantly Need Me. My arms scoop them up when they are hurt, my kisses ease their pain. In the deepest black of night they long for me and only me.

There is a power in that. Quiet and strong. Of all the people in the world, and people who truly love them, my children long for and need...me.

As inadequate and selfish as I am, they need me. All my insecurities and hurts and failings fade when I hold them in the dead of night. I rock my son, his head tucked under my chin and I feel important. I snuggle my daughter close to me, my hand on her chest, her heart beating slowing from its erratic pace and I know I am loved.

Motherhood has taught me more than I will ever be able to explain. And yes, I write about it a lot. Why wouldn't I? We all have our jobs and passions. I am passionate about the job I have been given. These hard days with my children. These beautiful moments where they teach me about the self I want to be.

They don't know what time it is, they don't know about financial stresses, they don't know that I am completely and utterly exhausted two thirds of the time. They don't know what time we have to get up, they don't know what appointments we have. They only know Love.

And that I know I can give freely.

Limbo

I want to think I am over things. I want to stop having nightmares and getting angry about things that happened.

Recently, the trauma that we experienced came back full force. It hurt like mad to think about it all and what was worse, Blair was gone. I feel like such a broken record, talking about these things now that we're doing so well. Not that Dean is doing so well. I feel like people will get tired of hearing it or be frustrated with me for not getting over it. I had all these pent up emotions last weekend, didn't know who to talk to, cried a lot around four in the morning, and wished like mad that Blair was hear to listen to me.

Last year around this time we were blind sighted with another hospital stay, one that ended with him having his second surgery. The ER trips are always rough. They fit so many procedures into a tiny amount of time to make sure that your kiddo is ok. It's invasive and it's rough.

I still mourn the loss of my time with my son as my baby. I still miss cuddling this tin little squishy bundle and being home and having every one tell me how cute he is instead of asking how he's doing. I still wish I had gotten to take him home when he was a day old instead of sending him for a surgery when he was three days old. I still have nightmares and panic attacks about medical procedures. I still cringe and panic when I hear the sound of a helicopter.

The wounds are healing, but they are itching.

I still have a hard time when any one else has a healthy baby. I struggle with my own heart and the things we have gone through. I remind myself often that I'm being a petty jerk and I need to move on. I do. It just hurts for a second before I can.

And. I am angry. I didn't realize how much until recently. I am. I just am angry that my son had to go through it, that I had to go through and I'm angry that now that things are so calm and stable that I can't flip the switch in my brain that tells me I can stop panicking. And his third surgery may not be for months and years, but it feels like we are just waiting and waiting and waiting for it. Waiting to see how it goes for him. Waiting to see if he's one of the ones who it kills, waiting to see how long we will be in the hospital. Our whole lives based off of "we will see how the third surgery goes". It's always there. Always in the back of my mind.

It is a frustrating time for me. And I just feel a little lost.

And, Not Just

I worry about the word "just".

Am I just a mom?
Am I just a wife?
Am I just a workhorse?
Am I just stuck here?

I want to be more than "just". I want to be a Wife AND a Mom. I want to be a Home keeper AND my children's play mate. I want to be a Mom AND an Artist.

I know too many moms who stop doing the things they love. I'm not basking them for this, look, being a Mom is a 24/7 all the time job. We don't get a lot of breaks, we don't get time off, and vacations are nice, but still work. We signed up for it and we know it and it's ok. But I've never wanted to give up the things that I love. The things that make me so deeply who I am.

I have always loved to draw. I have always loved to color. I love to dig in clay and make misshapen things. I love to have paint on my hands and clothes. I love when people ask me about it.

For the first in my life I feel like I can call myself an Artist. Other people always have. They introduce me that way "This is Maddie, she's an artist". But I would never introduce myself that way. It just didn't feel right. I liked art, sure, I was always making something, but yet...never did I feel in my heart I was an artist.

When Dean was born and we started his life long battle with his little gimpy heart I experienced for the first time true pain. We all think we go through these things that are the hardest things, and then we go through something so much harder and long for the things that were "less" hard. I'd much rather move in the middle of sophomore and junior year than watch my son struggle the way I had to. I had to figure out a way to take all that pain and get it out of me. For my Husband, for my kids, for me.

And I turned to Art.

I have created more this year than I think I ever have in my life. I have filled notebooks and watched tutorials and made countless trips for art supplies that I "needed". I have stepped out of my comfort zone and for the first time in my life I'm truly exploring and trying new things. I have seen improvement in my work. I have seen the nameless emotions I've felt come out of me onto a page. And I have shared my work.

From this deep pain I have found out who I am as an Artist and guys, it's freaking awesome.

It cracks me up that I have two kids, a house to keep track of, a husband to keep encouraged and I have suddenly found ("made") the time to sit and work on my art. Early mornings, late nights, small spinets of time hunched at my art desk, furiously working out an idea.  My husband being the one to tell me "It's late you need to go to bed" and I'm the one saying "One more minute babe".

It just feels nice to be able to call myself an Artist. And not "just".

I am And. All these things AND.

And it's beautiful, to be in this place. To be a wife AND mom AND artist.

And is so much better than Just.