One Foot Here, One Foot There

 I have always been a transparent person. All of my emotions, thoughts, feelings...I’m very free with them. What you see is what you get, and as I get older and older I care less and less about what people think about that. 

I am always either too much or not enough. The truth is I am just Me. I like Just Me. 

Just me grieves loudly. I have to talk about it. I just have to. I have to write about it and I can’t ignore it. I walk it and breathe it in. I cry at my desk and in the van and sometimes at three AM. It loud and invasive. It soaks into my art and my mothering. My children talk about Death and Heaven. Ellie asks me, every time I start crying again, if Grumpy is dead. 

We read books about life...and death. We talk about being sad and how to remember. I quietly put pictures up all over my house of my Dad with the kids, my Dad with my mom, my Dad with me on my wedding day, our awkward slow shuffle while he pretended to dance with me. I find shows that teach kids about Death. Daniel Tigers blue fish dies. 

When something or someone dies, they don’t come back. 

My vibrant, opinionated, goofball Dad has one foot here and one foot in Eternity. My family waits with baited breathe. 

How do you grieve and move on when the body of the person you love is still here, but their soul is gone? My Dad was loud and big. He filled a room. He had a fierce scowl when he was mad. The man loved History and we took a lot of day trips to have picnics at various abandoned places. He loved old houses. He told me once he wanted to start a website where you posted pictures of an abandoned houses to see if anyone recognized them. He said “I wonder who was born there...who lived there or died there. I wonder about the history of that house.” 

I think of him when I see houses that are abandoned. I think of him when I use the color blue and when I use gold. I think of him when Ellie tells me she has a noodle arm and when Dean prays about Chuckie Cheese. I think about him when I take back roads instead of the highway. When Ellie comes out of Sunday School after an Answers in Genesis study...

Life feels surreal. Day to day life just keeps plodding along. We pay our bills, Blair works hard, I paint, change the diapers, teach my kids, order groceries, do the dishes over and over and over. Every day bleeds into the next. I wake up thinking two things, “Is today the day” and “Please Lord let him make until I can say goodbye...”

Yesterday I was talking with Deano about counting his blessings. Last night as I laid in bed around two AM, awake, again, I had a hard time counting mine. Good things *have* happened this year. I know that. They are pushed so far back in the fog of grief I have a hard time cutting through to see them. 

Truth be told, some days I don’t want to. I don’t want to fight or feel or think. I want to completely zone out and forget for one small second that this hurts. I want to pretend my heart isn’t constantly aching. I want to pretend I can pick up the phone and call my Daddy. I want him to send me thirty billion texts until I respond. I want to hear him ask me when I’m bringing his grandkids to see him. I want to hear him tell me that all he needs is to see them to make him all better and I wish to God that was true. I want him to call up Blair and say “I need your help. I miss my boys. Your my boy here.” 

Being a mother and grieving is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. 

I can’t zone out, more importantly, my Dad would HATE me zoning out. He loved seeing me as a Mama. He loved seeing me as an Artist. He loved seeing Blair and I work and struggle and thrive together. He wouldn’t want me to be so bogged down in grief that I couldn’t function. 

So. I carry on. I wake up and Mother and Love and Encourage. I have conversations about Heaven and WHY Grumpy is going there and how Ellie can make sure she goes too. I make breakfast and do school and sometimes I yell because I’m tired and kids are intense. We go to the Library (which makes me think of my Dad...my mom hates the Library). We go to our co-op. The kids take turns going to Mimi’s house...I love the time they spend with her. I love the way Grandpa J has started to really play with Ellie and Dean. I love seeing them know...soon, he will be their only Grandpa...

And I wait. Impatiently. Anxiously. Sometimes angerly. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes loudly. Some nights I put the kids to bed and make my way down to my art space and I just sit there. 

Sometimes I hate making art I know my Dad will never see...

I worry about my baby sisters. I want to carry the grief for them. I know their grief is their own and so so so much different than mine. I worry my brothers will be annoyed with my openness and the way I speak about my grief, constantly, openly, loudly. I worry about my mom being far away from me. I hate not being able to see her face or cry with her. Or take her shopping at the mall because while we all know Retail Therapy isn’t healthy GOSH DARN SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED A NEW DRESS. I worry about my sisters in law who are more like sisters. Who each hold a special place in my heart and who are walking with my brothers through this hell...I worry what Thanksgiving and Christmas will be like. 

I wonder if I will ever feel less snappy at people. If my compassion will ever return. If I will ever feel like a good friend again. I don’t feel like I can have a compassionate conversation about much of anything right now. Everything is marred by this awful terminal cancer that has slowly taken my Daddy from me. 

My oldest brother said earlier this year, “It’s hard to remember Heaven, when you’re going through Hell.” 

Right now my Dad has one foot here and one foot in Eternity. 

And it is hell waiting for him to take the next step. Because I know when he does, I’m here. On this side. Waiting. 

Right now our lives are put into a weird limbo of waiting. Where we move forward every day knowing soon we will be stopped in our tracks. 

And quite frankly, it’s exhausting. 

Grief is really just exhausting. 

The Miracle

 My baby sister recently took time to write. I was incredibly proud of her...and suddenly reminded I too, should write down my thoughts. 

I’ve thought about writing. I tend to start posts in my brain. But that is not the same as actually writing and putting it out there. It is not the same as sharing it. And who knows? Maybe I will write and then not share for a few weeks. 

It has been difficult to write lately. Or to work in my art journals. If I’m being honest it’s been difficult to get out of bed. 

Every day right now I wake up and think “Is today the day my mom is going to call me and tell me my dad is dead? Is this it?” 

When was the last time I told him I loved him? What was the last meal I got to cook for him? Did I get a picture of me and him together? Are my baby sisters ok? I’m so far away from them...how can I be there for them and be a present mom? 

How do you grieve when the person isn’t dead and you have a life to live? 

How do you remember to find joy when every day feels tsunami waves of pain and hurt? 

We are house sitting for friends before we finally move to our own house. My kids, for the first time in two months, get to just be us. While I am so incredibly grateful for the people who have opened their homes for us, I have seen the toll it has taken on my children. Finally Ana is sleeping better, Ellie isn’t constantly overwhelmed, Dean has been whining less. 

Today Ana and Dean were silhouetted in the window while they played blocks together. Ellie made a whole town out of beanie babies. I spilled coffee on all our new school curriculum. Ellie drew pictures of Earthquakes. Ana ate a red marker. Dean practiced writing his name. 

Life goes on. 

It is beautifully slow today. And in the back of my mind I’m wondering how my Daddy is. I’m wondering how my Mama is. I wonder if she needs me to take her shopping at the mall, to get away from my Dad, from the grief that can be stifling. I wonder if my Dad wants me to make him French toast casserole or bacon and eggs. 

I just want to sit next to him and kiss his hands again. 

I want my art studio back up. So I can start the Painting. The one that’s been in my brain for months now but I can’t bring myself to even sketch out. I believe God has given me a creative heart to help people heal and grieve. But when it’s my own grief it feels deeply emotional and vulnerable. Writing is one thing...painting it...

I keep thinking about that stupid song “Live Like You we’re Dying”.  What a load of complete crap. 

Dying is harsh and brutal and consuming. It hurts. My dad doesn’t feel like sky diving or Rocky Mountain climbing. Or any of the other crap that stupid song sounds like. He *barely* made it to Chuckie Cheese with us. He got tired and had to leave. (Not that I’m knocking it, I’m incredibly proud and thankful we made that happen.) 

See this blog doesn’t make sense, does it? I can’t explain my thoughts. Some days I take all this in with Grace and Faith and some days I want to crawl back in my bed and pretend like my Dad doesn’t have cancerous brain tumors that are slowly, but surely, killing him. 

Oh and I get it guys. I know you’re tired of hearing about this. I know it’s depressing. I know I’m sort of a negative Nancy bitter Betty and I’m not particularly fun to be around. I know when people ask me how my dad is doing you don’t want to hear “Oh he’s dying slowly, so ya know, it’s pretty crappy.” But that’s literally every thought that consumes my mind. I don’t ever get to forget. 

None of my family does. 

I know a lot of families are broken and messed up and not close at all. Me and my family? We’re definitely broken and messed up but I would argue we are closer than most. I love my brothers. I love my sisters. I love my sisters in law, I love my future brothers in law. I love my nieces and nephews. I love seeing them. I love being with them. 

I hate that I can’t shoulder their grief along with my own. I hate that, for whatever reasons, God closed the doors in Tennessee and opened them here in Virginia. 

I hate that my father is slowly dying. I hate that I pray for God to end this quickly. God help me, I do. I hate it.  I hate that I panic every time my phone rings. 

And yet...my life keeps moving. Kids need teaching, diapers need changing, art needs to be made, people in my house insist on eating like a million meals a day, bills still have to be paid. 

And it all feels wrong. Because my world isn’t spinning and I feel like the rest of the world should stop too. 

Maybe by this time next year he will be in Heaven. Maybe it will all have ended and I will look back on these endless days and see the small spark of Gods plan running through it all.  Or maybe I won’t. Maybe I will never know why God chose *this* until I’m in heaven with My Jesus and my Daddy and my Babies. 

And maybe there is no big miracle meant for my Daddy. 

Maybe the big miracle is that we, my mother, my father , my siblings...all of us, maybe the miracle is we continue to chose to love God. 

Knowing He could end all of this, right now, and do a miracle so big...

We know this. And we all still chose to say, “God is good. All the time. All the time. God is good.” 

Miscarriages? God is good. 

Heart defect? God is good. 

Terminal brain cancer? God is good. 

Slow death? God. Is. Good. 

Magical Mundane Stories

The night before I got married I wrote a blog post. I’d link you to it, but I’m tired. And y’all are big kids, you can find it if you really want to.

I’m spending another last night in this big empty house. Something I never thought I’d be doing. Yet here I am, the walls echoing, the boxes packed, the plan made. Here I am. Leaving Front Royal. Ending an Era.

I hated this place. I hated my parents for making me move in between tenth and eleventh grade, dragging me away from an intensive art program, my friends, the Beach. All for goofy Front Royal with its Mountains and Hills and Rivers.

And I love goofy Front Royal with its Mountains and Hills and Rivers.

I made a Home here. I made a community of moms here. I made and birthed three beautiful children I got to meet and three who I will meet later. I laughed and cried here and made some pretty awful mistakes that I thought made me unlovable and unworthy. And God took that brokenness and gave me Blair. God gave me a Church Family here. One that has blown my mind and carried me because God gave me a lot of things I couldn’t carry.

That Church Family loved my baby’s I lost during Miscarriages. They treated me as though I’d lost any other person. If you ever want to see if a Church truly believes in the sanctity of life, look at how they treat Mothers who have had miscarriages or still births...be part of those Churches who honor even their tiniest members.

This community carried us when we had Dean. I can’t even...oh I’m not even sure I can *go* there. It’s too much. It feels too much. Because it is too much.

I’m sitting in the same room I sat in the night before I got married. The night before my Daddy walked me down the aisle. Before we slowed shuffled together.

Moving makes me *feel* like he’s dying faster. Nothing will stop that feeling. Oh I know it’s not true and I know that feelings have no intelligence and that they are simply that, feelings. But they are there. And I must take them down off the shelf and visit them so I’m not consumed by them.

I will never regret moving with my Mom and Dad. I will never regret the time I am spending with my Dad right now. I know he is dying. I have been a witness to it every day, all day, since February First when we moved in here. It was part of the deal. And I am not sorry we did it. I never will be. He has fought long and hard and I am proud of him for it. I am glad I get to see my Daddy every morning. I am glad I was here to listen to my mom rage at the injustice and unfairness of it all. I am glad I caught her when Mawmaw died in the middle of revamping the house to sell it. I am proud of the way we handled our one big fight.

If houses told stories...I think you’d want to hear the one this house could tell about our family.

I think You’d want to sit and listen about this crazy family with all the kids that was loud and messy and wonderful. You could hear all about Nate passing out on the front lawn, sledding with my sister in law Karynne, eating Thanksgiving dinner one the living room because we didn’t fit in the dining room.  Or about the time Zeb and I made a flame thrower in the garage, or Evie and ‘wrassling on the front lawn or when my moms legs cramped up in the pool we had a couple years. And all about the times we fought and yelled, because we did that. We did that a lot. It could get loud and scary. And then we forgave and moved on. Something I think more people need to learn.

You would sit and hear the story of our last Christmas together, here. How my siblings dropped everything to be here. How we crammed into the living room. How my oldest brother read the Christmas story to us all while my Dad held Dean in his lap...

The magical mundane every day things have captured my heart. They are what brings tears to my eyes. My mom sweeping the kitchen again or throwing pots and pans in the sink when she’s mad. Remember the sound of my Dads footsteps thundering down the stairs to ask me something. The way he yelled at me for not wearing pants and the time I caught him letting the dog out at 3 AM I’m his underwear. How he refused to get the AC fixed and the stupid Window. units we insisted he put in so we all didn’t  die of heat stroke.

I used to hate these magical mundane moments.

But now I realize they write the most amazing story I’ve ever been privilege to be part of. The story of a family. And honestly...that’s amazing.

Limping

It is a rainy gray day. And I’m waiting while my Dad goes through his first round of chemotherapy and radiation.

I’ve thought for a long time about writing. What I would say, what do I want to remember, what story needs to be told, is it worth it. Do I write about my Dad or do I just write about my own feelings? Do I tell the story from my own perspective?

I don’t know. I don’t have answers for this. No one has answers for this. Because it is bigger and harder and more than you can imagine.

I was there December 20th in the Emergency Room when the doctor told my parents that my Dad has brain cancer. I knew what Glioblastoma Multiforme (GBM) was. I let my mother cling to my hand as they delivered this news to my parents, while I swayed with Lilliana on my hip. I was the one who answered my my moms phone and told my older brother we needed him here. That we all needed to be here. Every single one of my siblings changed every single one of their plans so we could be together for Christmas...and so we could all be here Christmas Eve when my Daddy had a large tumor removed from his brain.

I’m not sure I’m even ready to write about that day. I’m not sure I can do it from my phone. I’m not sure I can convey the love that that waiting room felt or how when one of us said “we need to pray”, how it saturated in the Spirit it all felt. No words can describe those things.

My husband and I moved in with my mom and dad. Every one keeps telling me how selfless that is but the truth is, I’m selfish. I want to walk up the stairs and hug my Daddy. I want my kids to see him every day. I want Lilliana to hear his voice and know it. I want to see Dean hug him and Ellie climb into his lap and snuggle him. I want to sit with him and watch the History Channel with him. I want to joke him and laugh with him and cry when it becomes too big and too scary.

I keep painting with blue. It’s all over my journals and paintings. Not because of sadness but because blue is a color my Daddy can see. He’s always, always been a huge fan and supporter of my art. I want him to see how it’s carrying me through this.

  

You know when we found out about all this, I got angry. Not for the normal reasons. I felt like we had *just* done all this. It was only a year ago we were helping Dean recover from his third heart surgery. I thought we were done withsurgeries for a while. With hospitals. 

I am tired. That bone weary tired that you don’t feel 24/7, but man when it hits, it his hard. And I do not understand. I don’t understand why it’s my Daddy, our family who has been chosen to limp through this. That’s what I feel I’m doing. Limping. There is no walking here. Just a slow and stumbling limp. Ragged and rough to watch. But forward. And definitely not alone. 

Never in my whole life have I ever been so thankful for the strength and bond my family has. I love to see how each of my siblings strength is being called upon. I love seeing Benjamin help organize us and how he checks on each of us. I love seeing Nate’s heart wide open and willing to listen when I need it. I love seeing how amazing my brother Josh is with the legalities and finances of all of this. I love seeing Zeb working so hard and taking over the things he can so our Daddy doesn’t have to worry. I love seeing Evelynn come to the house as often as she can to sit and snuggle with her Daddy, she is most definitely his girl. I love how brave and beautiful my baby sister is, forging ahead with her plans and life and praying so diligently for our Daddy. Not to mention my amazing sisters in law, between grocery trips and helping my mother get organized...the three of them amaze me. And my

Nieces and Nephews. This tribe of people who have banded together in love. 

We’re all limping through this together. 

And that gives me a Peace I can’t even explain.  

Lilliana Marah Beth: Part Two

Lilliana’s birth story actually starts, truly starts, on June 15. This was a Saturday and it was the day Blair left for Annual Training. 

We knew him leaving would have to happen. In my hormonal mind though, I was absolutely convinced that he wasn’t going to be here for Ana’s birth. My mom, my Doula who had been there for Ellie and Dean’s births, was also out of town. So I was wrapping my brain around my two biggest supporters not being at her birth...

The whole week I had been miserable. One day I was content “oh we can do this we can wait” and the next day I would be in tears asking Blair why God hated me and why this baby would not freaking get out of me. My code that I needed to go cry was “I need to take a shower.” I took a lot of showers. 

That Saturday he left and I called my best friend who was basically one of my back up doulas (because every one needs several back up doulas) and asked her to come over. That afternoon she came. She did dishes. Her tot and my tot played together. I sat on the birth ball and she gave me a belly rub. She also talked to Ana. “This is your Auntie Amanda. We know it’s nice in there but we’re ready to meet you. Time to come out baby girl.” I had light contractions all day, but I’d had contractions on and off most of the week so it didn’t mean anything to me. Eventually Amanda left and the kids went to bed. 

I always have a hard time getting to bed the first night Blair is gone. So it took me a while to get to sleep. Around 10:30 or so I finally fell asleep. 

At 11:40 a contraction woke me up. Followed by a second strong contraction. Both felt intense and different. I texted Amanda, asked her to help me time them. I’d send her an emoji every time one started and stopped (🌈 this one actually!). She said “Maddie these are close. I think you’re in labor. You need to call your team.” 

The first person I called was my Mom. While on the phone with her I had two strong contractions that I had to stop talking during them. She said “Yup. Baby you’re in labor you need to call Blair and you need to call Natasha.” I was very much in denial that I was in labor. 

I paced in my room and finally called Blair. Who woke up right away and said “I’m on my way.” We had joked about this, that as soon as he left that’s when I would go into labor. I called Katharine, my kids godmother and best friend and the other back up Doula. She was the first to arrive. When she got to my house she came upstairs while I was making up my bed. At this point I had alerted my Midwife, Natasha, and my birth photographer and another dear dear friend, Chelsea. 

Katharine helped me finish making my bed and then we headed down stairs so I could sit on my birth ball. My mom had been texting me and reminded me that my little sister, Abbie, was coming and on her way. Abbie was the next to arrive, followed by Chelsea. We sat in my living room while I bounced through contractions. I think this was when I put on Remember the Titans and joked about how much I love inspirational football movies. 

My amazing Midwife Natasha arrived, she was also heavily pregnant at this time and I just remember being so impressed with her. She checked Anas heart tones and my blood pressure. We all sat in the living room. My mom FaceTimed my little sister and stayed on the entire time I was in labor. She kept telling Abbie she needed to see my face to see how I was handling labor. Katharine would rub my shoulders and back to help me relax during contractions. I had a hard time remembering to relax my face and shoulders. 

My contractions were STRONG but never felt consistent. I couldn’t talk through a lot of them and I desperately craved physical contact. Blair still hadn’t made it to us. Eventually, Katie, a nurse with Premier arrived to assist Natasha. She sat on my couch and got the good brown blanket and said “Your House is so cold!” I just remember thinking that was funny. 

I turned off the movie and went to my art desk. I dont remember TELLING anyone I was going to do this, I just DID. While there I used the colors that make me think of my girl. Teal and purples. I made these big circles, each time telling myself “open open open” imagining Ana coming down, coming out, meeting this great big world. I listened to my birth playlist, but once again got stuck on Mae songs. Bloom and Our Love is a Painted Picture. Songs that remind me of Blair and our love. Songs that remind me of Ellie and all the baby’s before Ana. 

While at my desk, my Mommy senses tingled and I knew Ellie was awake. Without sayin anything to anyone I just got up and went upstairs and out she came. I said “It’s time for Baby Ana to come out. Mama has to do a lot of work.” She sat in my lap at the top of the stairs and rubbed my back. She came down the stairs with me and colored with my sister while I labored. 

I don’t remember specific times, but I do remember Blair walking through the door, starting to cry, and then hearing Natasha say “And NOW we’re going to have a baby.” 

Blair, Natasha, Katie and I went upstairs to do a cervical check. The one and only check I had during my entire pregnancy. During our last miscarriage I had an extremely traumatic experience with a doctor doing a check and hurting me even while shaking my head “NO”. The thought of a cervical check made me feel anxious and panicky. Wrong. We had talked about this during my entire pregnancy and Natasha KNEW. Her check was gentle, quick, and she talked me through it the whole time. When she was done Blair said “Maddie where do you think you are? What do you want to hear?” I said “I just want to know there’s been some change.” Natasha said “You’re dilated to a seven almost 8.” I’m pretty sure I told her to shut up because I didn’t believe her. 

From then on I labored upstairs mostly. My team came up, Ellie sat with Abbie, Katharine sat in our floor, Chelsea moved around taking pictures. Contractions were intense and I was getting tired. 

I remember asking Katharine to pray for me. My best friend. A friend God knit together in such a beautiful way. I could not have done this without her this time. She laid next to me and prayed and I just soaked in that prayer. She gave words to what I needed. Ellie climbed on the bed and rubbed my arms while I contracted. She was so excited, not scared at all while I vocalized and boy was I being vocal. 

Around six AM I knew I needed Ellie and Dean to go. Blair called his mom and she got ready to come get them. Dean was still asleep at that point. 

I went to use the bathroom and Natasha came in to check on me. She knelt down (no small gesture considering she was past 30 weeks with her own sweet baby!) and looked me in the eye and said “What’s happening with you mentally? What’s holding you back?”

I was so tired at this point. I had prayed and waited and cried for this baby. I had prepared my house and heart to meet her. I had worked through so much baggage and trauma. So many art journal pages dedicated to each week of pregnancy. But. 

I still didn’t think my body was capable of having a baby with no medical intervention. 

I told Natasha “they break my water. They always have had to break my water. She won’t come unless you break my water.” 

I just remember her looking me in the eye and saying “There is no medical reason for me to break your water. Let that thought go.” And I did. 

She rubbed my belly with the contractions and talked to Ana. My mom was on FaceTime and I remember telling her “I’m so tired Mommy” and she just said “I know but you have to do this. Just some more work and she’ll be here.” 

We went back to our room where I got in our bed, pulling my knees to my chest. This wasn’t helping anything and finally Natasha suggested I squat next to the bed. I did, Using Blair for support. 

I’m pretty sure this was when I cussed. Because I felt her move DOWN. It was one of the most intense feelings I have ever felt in my life! I held that squat for as long as I possibly could during some crazy intense contractions. I then shifted so that my elbows were up on our bed and I was kneeling there next to it. Blair and Natasha were behind me and I asked Abbie and Katharine to be on my bed so I could hold onto their arms. 

Once in that position Natasha told me she was going to see where baby was in my pelvis. She said she could feel her behind my pubic bone and it was time to bear down with these contractions. Every time she touched me in any way, she would warn me, talk me through it. 

Not having my water broken made this labor much different. The urge to push never truly came. I could feel Ana moving down, but that intense urge just wasn’t there. Chelsea told me she understood (her son was born in the amniotic sac, and part of the reason she and I became fast friends!) and hearing her say that helped me a lot mentally. 

I remember bearing down a lot and pushing a lot more than I did with Ellie and Dean. I felt a POP and heard Natasha say that my water had broken and then I DID feel the urge to get her OUT. 

I remember thinking “Ok. No one else can do this part. They’re all here to support you, but this part is on you. If YOU don’t get her past your pubic bone she won’t come out Madalynn and you want her out now.” 

I felt her crowning and remembered talking about pushing slowly, not blazing through things. I took my time and roared a lot. I’m surprised I didn’t bruise Katharine and Abbie’s arms because I was holding on so tightly. I felt her head come and vaguely recall hearing Natasha coach Blair on how to help Ana come out. And then this immense relief as she came out and then...and then I heard her cry. 

I immediately looked up into Katharine’s face when I heard Ana crying and I don’t know if I said it but I know I thought “This is what I want for you.” Katharine and I held each other’s gaze and I think we both started crying. Her story is hers to tell, but I will say this: she and I have very different struggles and very different lives, but are Sisters in Christ, bonded in a way we can’t explain. Having her here to witness a baby being born alive was one of the best gifts I could ever think to give her. I hope it gave her hope for her future as well. Because I will never stop hoping for her. That moment, where we both heard Ana crying...will forever be etched into my memory. 

Blair told me I needed to reach down and help him because Ana was slippery. I reached between my legs and brought her up to my chest. The only hands on her we’re mine and Blairs. It was just as I had dreamed. No yelling, no rushing, no doctors and nurses chaotically all around us. It was intimate and beautiful and amazing. Blair and I sat back against the wall right by the side of our bed while I held our baby girl. She still had vernix on her, she had so much hair and she was so alert! 

Nothing else in the world seemed to matter. 

I remember getting my phone out and sending a video message to my best friend Danielle telling her Ana was here. I remember everyone just letting me and Blair be together. Even Natasha helping me deliver the placenta felt calm and unhurried. I even got to see it this time and asked her if it looked healthy! I said “I haven’t been drinking soda it should look good!” And it did! 

Ana got to latch on right there with me on the floor against the wall. Eventually we moved to the bed. I got changed and cleaned up while Blair held Ana on his chest. It’s amazing how much you miss out on when you can’t. The whole time I just remembered how quickly they had to take Dean and how unhurried this was with Ana. I felt so supported and loved. 

I got settled in bed and it came time to weigh Ana. I knew she was bigger, I knew she was over 8 pounds. So when Natasha told me she was 9 pounds 4 ounces I started to laugh and laugh!  I had prayed for a chunky baby and God gave me one! 

Natasha knowing our history with Dean did a oxygen reading for us. Seeing her oxygen levels go all the way to 100...I cried. She was here. She was healthy. She is ours. We did it. 

Abbie made us sausage egg and bagel sandwiches which tasted absolutely amazing. Katharine got to hold Ana and so did Abbie. I was so incredibly blessed to be able to share this with them both, my sisters in heart and in blood. There’s just something special about seeing a baby come into this world. 

Then another amazing glorious thing happened. Blair’s Mom had taken Ellie and Dean to the park, literally minutes before I pushed her out. And within the hour, MY. KIDS. GOT. TO. MEET. ONE. ANOTHER. IN. PERSON. Ellie climbed up and sang to Ana, who recognized her sisters voice. Dean climbed next to me and kept saying “Hi Baby Ana.” Once again, I cried. 

Growing our family has always been hard and riddled with heart ache. Blair and I have done our best to accept what God has given us. Ana’s birth felt like...like a gift. A huge gift with bows and ribbons from a Daddy who says “I’ve seen your heartache. This is just. For. You. I love you.” 

Everything about it was ordained. Abbie witnessing her first birth, her little niece before she moved. Katharine witnessing her goddaughter being born, hopefully as healing for her as it as for me. Natasha, my midwife, who saw beyond the stories I told to underlying grief and fear...she did SUCH an amazing job of getting me out of my own head and helped me release so much fear and tension. Chelsea photographing our birth, a fast friend, a friendship given to us both at a time when we needed it. Even Katie being here to assist Natasha felt like a gift. 

And I did it. I had my baby at home. I had a NINE POUND baby at home, in my own space, in my own time, in my own way. 

Lilliana’s birth was amazing and wonderful. 

Our post partum time together, however, deserves its very own blog post. 

Last year it was my Golden Birthday, 28 on the 28th. I declared that the whole YEAR would be golden and you know what? It really was. 

Lilliana Marah Beth, Part One

I really want to write out so many things about Lilliana. Her birth, her pregnancy, her infancy, even her name...there are so many special things about this third living baby of mine. Unfortunately the post birth haze has hit me, as has the chaotic nature of our life right now. Even now, writing this, I should 100% be napping (shh, don’t tell Blair!). 

Nine days before I found out I was pregnant I was reading my Bible, in Exodus Chapter 15. God has lead Moses and the Israelites out of Egypt and they have come to Marah, a place of bitter water. God gives Moses instructions and when Moses follows those instructions the bitter water becomes sweet. God says “I am the Lord, your Healer.” 

Even now writing about this tears come to my eyes. As I was reading this passage I felt this still small voice whisper to my heart “I will give you another baby, you will carry her to term and you will use Marah in her name. I will take the bitterness I have given you and I will give you something sweet.” I was skeptical and annoyed. Frustrated. Didn’t God know I wasn’t ever doing it again? Didn’t I give Him enough? Didn’t He know how depleted and shaken and traumatized our last miscarriage had left me? He did know. And He told me “I. Am. Your. Healer.” 

Nine days later I took that positive pregnancy test. I cried. 

When we went for our twenty week scan I was terrified. I kept telling her “I just need to see the heart, I just need to see her heart” and there is was. All four beautiful chambers. I cried. I wasn’t at all surprised when she told us we were having a girl, I had known. On the way home Blair and I discussed what we would name her. I kept circling back to Marah Beth. Marah because His promise to me, Beth because my amazing and wonderful Aunt. I love giving my girls strong living roll models and couldn’t think of anyone more worthy than my Aunt. Blair kept circling back to the name Lilliana. He just liked it. So did I. By the time we got home we knew her name. 

Lilliana Marah Beth. 

Our sweetness from bitterness. 

The newest chapter in our story. N

Hands down she was my “easiest” pregnancy. I only lost about 15 pounds, I was able to eat well. I started seeing a chiropractor when we found out she was breech and we both prayed that God would show us what He wanted. I was terrified He would ask me to have a c-section, something I didn’t want. My dreams of a beautiful home birth were threatened and my heart ached. Blair simply said “Maddie if you had a c-section you’d have even more empathy for even more Mothers.” Blair is good with perspective. 

After what felt like forever and a few emotional breakdowns, she flipped. My dreams of home birth back on the table! Now we just had to get through the hard part: the third trimester. 

My due date was June Ninth. I had never gone over my due date. June 15, Blair had to leave for training for the Guard. I begged God over and over to let me go into labor before he left. At one point we thought I was. And then. It stopped. For an entire week we did all the things to put me into labor and nothing happened. I was sort of a hot mess jerk face that whole week. Tired and huge and uncomfortable and anxious and weepy. My code to Blair was “I need to go take a shower” which meant “I’m going to have a mental break down and cry a whole bunch.”

Finally we came to the 15, Blair packed up and headed to Annual Training. I was one day shy of 41 weeks, emotional and huge and at home with Ellie and Dean wondering how in the world I was going to do this. It’s also worth noting that my Mom and Doula, who had been there for Ellie and Dean’s births was camping down south with my Dad. So not only was my husband not here, neither was my mom. 

I was so scared of going into labor by myself in the middle of the night and worried Blair wouldn’t be back in time. 

June 15th at 11:40, I had two strong contractions that woke me up and started the beginning of my labor. 

To be continued...

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...