We Should Get Jersey’s

I woke up this morning to a text from a good friend “Laundry service is here.” See, she asked me to save up all my laundry so she could come get it and do it for us. From there we started our day. Blair had out his Bluetooth speaker last night, so I hooked up my phone and started listening to All Sons and Daughters, an album I really love.

It reminds me of the first house Blair and I lived in six years ago. It reminds me of olive green and deep green, the colors I painted in our first kitchen. Colors I have burned into my memory and can’t wait to replicate one day. I sang while I made breakfast for my kids who are both home, watching old school Teen Titans because the Teen Titans Go is crap. I sang while I made myself a good healthy breakfast for this new little girl who has, by far, been my easiest pregnancy.

Ordinary things.
Beautiful things.

On Saturday we will have been married six years. And I’ve been reflecting on that quite a bit. The whole day, the people who made it happen for us, the kids who were here and the kids who have been added to our family since then. Baby Boy in our wedding pictures, forever stamped on all our hearts. My brother Nate praying for us and my Father In Law as well. The blue sequin slippers I wore and my green nails that I spent WEEKS obsessing over so I would have pretty nails for my wedding. Brushing my teeth in my wedding dress because I 100% forgot to. Lee Montgomery who officiated our wedding, the Church where both my parents and Blair’s parents go, the Body of Christ that has walked through some awful things with us.

And Blair. My Blair.

He’s goofy and quirky and amazing. He’s selfless in ways I never expected and is braver than me in some things. Last year when we miscarried, I said “I don’t know if I’ll ever be excited to be pregnant again” and he simply said “I will always be excited. Always.” He carries his burdens quietly. And holds me when I fall apart, which is often.

2019 has already proven to be tough. Deans surgery and recovery...it’s tough. Harrowing? Awful? Necessary. We went into it knowing how much Dean needed it and knowing how much it would affect us and for how long. He did so much better than we ever imagined. And there were complications we never imagined. His chest tube not coming out, going back into surgery to remove them, and the cold/virus that sent him back in just a week after being discharged. Being home and managing his pain, keeping our cool when our boy is screaming because of his “boo boo”.

This is why this ordinary morning was so beautiful.

We are faced, every day, with the beauty of life. His life, our life, our children’s lives, the children we didn’t get to hold. Beauty doesn’t mean it’s not messy though. We swear sometimes, dishes pile up, our room looks insane, there is ALWAYS something that needs to be swept, we get angry with each other and our kids. Ellie asks to go see friends and Mamas germaphobe self has to breath deeply if we go ANYWHERE in the world. Or if she does. Balancing “safety” and “fear” always always always. Keep him safe, my heart wispers...let him live, my brain screams. Balance.

I am thankful we are coming into a time of peace. I am thankful we are coming out of a time of struggle. I am aware every day, why the Bible tells us this life is like the blink of an eye. Ellie will be five in June, Dean is already three, our pregnancy is already over halfway. We have had the privilege of being married six years. Blair affords me the opportunity to be home with my babies, to paint and create. I am literally watching them grow up.

I am marking time. Four weeks post op. One week home. 16 weeks until baby girl. Four days until we hit six years. Infinite love. Infinite fights. Infinite struggle. Infinite joy.

What’s next? Six years, three miscarriages, one sassy compassionate girl, one brave single ventricle son, another little girl growing in a secret place, kicking to remind me she is here. One marriage holding fast to a Faith that keeps us together through things that would send anyone running...one Faith holding us together when one of us did want to run...

What’s next?

The Creator knows. The Artist knows. He is painting a beautiful picture for our lives. One I never expected but am no less thankful for. Because it adds depth and character to the canvas...it makes us dynamic and stunning.

Whatever is next, whatever He does paint into our lives, whatever He does ask of us, we will face together. We will watch it unfold. We will still chose to say “Thank you”...even in the middle of the struggle and heartache.

And we will do it together.

Honestly, we should get Jerseys. We make a great team...

Family Update, Baby Nugget, and Gimpy Heart Boy

I haven’t written in a while. Focusing on my art and building myself up as an artist has become a lot of my focus. I’ve wanted to write, I enjoy writing, but I recognize the ebb and flow of life. I allow myself to be taken with the waves.

Since I last wrote we have: had an amazing family vacation in the summer, I had an amazing art show focusing on grief and loss, did an entire month of paintings daily, and we found out we were pregnant with our sixth and third living baby. We have confirmed a heartbeat, made it to 18 weeks and I have made it through the morning sickness (which I’m not 100% sure I’m over all the way, but it’s gotten better!). I have had more blood draws than ever before in my life and met a midwife who saw the despair and fear in my soul and did her best to counteract that immediately. 

The week we found out we were pregnant, we went for Deans cardiology checkup where his cardiologist said “Ok. It’s time. Let’s get the third surgery done.” She also suggested getting it done as soon as possible because of me being pregnant. Deans heart cath was in october and I’m not sure I handled it well. Honestly. I was a mess. And I was throwing up a lot still...

We went with him, to the lab. We helped out the mask on him for the anesthesia. I pray and hope you never, ever have to experience that. And if you have, please know how much my heat hurts for you having that memory etched into your mind. 

Soon after that appointment Blair found out he was leaving for a three week long military training. Our idea had been to get his surgery done ASAP...but those plans were put on hold. Without a doubt I know God did that for a purpose. Those three weeks were long and awful for me. I was sick quite a lot and relied heavily on family and friends. Dean got a rash because everytime I tried to change a poopy diaper, I’d throw up and he sat in them just a *little* too long. I questioned my worth as a mother, as a wife, and the despair that comes with the morning sickness I experience set in. I’m so thankful for the friends who speak life into my heart during times like that.  

So here we are, January. I decided I was done waiting for Cardiology to call me and I made some calls. I made what felt like a million calls. Then out of no where, we got the date. 

We send our son for his third open heart surgery January 24, 2019, provided Dean has no colds or sickness. We are preparing as well as we can. Many people have asked me how I’m feeling or how I’m doing. 

Well. Guys, I mean, this sucks. They have to hurt him, again. It doesn’t do anyone any good to sugar coat that. They saw through his sternum and skin. He’ll have a fresh wound and then have to recover and feel all of that. Never, please, diminish a child’s pain because they are “young enough they won’t remember.” No. He won’t. That doesn’t however, mean he will not hurt. Our little sassy girl will, once again, be away from us. You know what I’m bummed about? That by the time we really start feeling this baby kick, Ellie will be with grandparents and godparents. Do you know how excited she is to feel her baby? It makes me sad for her. She’s bigger now and realizes what’s happening. We have already begun the conversations about what’s going to happen to Dean. She needs to know. She asked me the other day if I was scared. And I told her the truth, I am. It’s heart surgery on a three year old. It’s scary. 

Now. That doesn’t mean we aren’t hopeful. Because we are! This kid, man, this kid is a nut cas. He has two goose eggs on his head, impaled himself on a toothpick on Christmas Day, and he’s fearless. He’s absolutely fearless and brave and amazing. And so is his sister! My kids are amazing resilient goofy little suckers who drive me up the wall! It’s fantastic! I can’t wait to see him blow doctors and nurses away. 

I can’t wait to see him P I N K. Not BLUE. P I N K. 

We are doing our best to prepare. How do we do that? We talk, we pray, and we started a t shirt fundraiser. (https://www.bonfire.com/deans-gimpy-heart/) The heart on these shirts is hand drawn by me. No one is under any obligation to buy one, and I know not everyone likes T-shirt’s or sweatshirts as much as I do. Haha. If you’d rather donate money straight to Blair and I, you can always use my PayPal (mcarrigan04@gmail.com). Fundraising is a weird thing for me. Between Blair missing work to be right at Deans Aide (where he wants to be) and the expense of eating hospital food almost daily, parking garages, and any bills that might surface, let alone our regular bills...well the word *tight* comes to mind. We have no idea how long Deans recovery will be. It could be two or three weeks, it could be months. And if anyone would rather send a gift directly to Dean for his stay, I have an Amazon wishlist of things I have asked other heart moms about. 

Kazzos, recorders, and harmonicas to help him blow into and get his lungs working. Batman slippers and Button down pjs for wires and to help give him incentive to start walking more. Pout Pout Fish Books and ty erase workbooks because he loves both of those things. We’ll be bringing his Batman pillow and sheets, all four of his special blankets, and his favorite stuffed animal doggy. A Heart Mama suggested putting s bandaid on the stuffed animal for every tube and bandage he has, and as each comes off, take off the bandaid to SHOW him the progress he’s making. We’ll be bringing Blair’s Lap too so we can watch all he Hotel Transylvania, Boss Baby, and LEGO Batman and any other Batman movies I can get my hands on. 

I feel confident in the people who will be watching Ellie. I know they LOVE her and will do all sorts of fun things and will send me a million pictures on the days I’m missing her something fierce. I know the doctors and surgeons and nurses are pulling for him and rooting for him. I know we will fight this together. I know we aren’t alone. I feel like we’re as prepared as we can get. 

And that gives me a lot of peace and a lot of confidence in the whole thing. 

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.