Thoughts on Motherhood, part 2

Mac is in his crib, singing at the top of his lungs. I'm working in the office, a light, warm wind blowing through the room. It's nearly 90 degrees outside but the breeze is making our house bearable. 

This morning, Mac must have sat on my lap 10 times. He walks up with a book or toy and sits right down, unaware that my space isn't his space, too. Today, as his full weight fell upon me, my lap getting smaller as the baby gets bigger, it hit me that, someday, he won't think of my lap as an extension of himself. He won't sit on it as the rightful owner, unaware that my body wasn't only created for his use. 

The baby is kicking now, as I type away. Mac's singing, this sweet kicking, these moments - I hope I don't forget them. I hope I never forget the feeling of Mac's weight upon me. I hope I never forget the way he sings, with so much confidence and certainty, "Now I said my A-B-SONG!" 

Last week I decided that two is my favorite age, which I also said at 6 months and 12 months and probably not 18. :) When I hold another newborn later this year, will I say it's my favorite, too?

There's this beauty in motherhood that each season can feel like the very best one, which fills me with joy and also anxiety - why does it have to go so quickly? Motherhood is constantly knowing you're going to miss it when it's gone, paired with an inability to do anything about it. It can almost make you crazy. 

If a genie really did grant me one wish, it would be to have a little bottle where I could go back in time and see Mac at various ages whenever I wished. A little sip of him as a newborn. A hit of him at 12 months. Moments, here and there, to taste a little bit of the past, while staying in the present, still moving forward. 

Someday he might be taller than me (though I'm pretty tall!). With arm hair and facial hair and a manly voice. Someday he won't sit on my lap or lay his head on my shoulder when I sing to him at night. Someday he won't say, "One more squeeze?" with the biggest smile at bedtime, already knowing one more hug is coming his way. It brings tears to my eyes just to type these words, to know these days are not forever. 

I know it's all about sinking into the present and enjoying each moment. I know it's about being grateful for each day that we get. I know all that. But today, I feel especially nostalgic for the sweet moment we're in, just the three of us Saxons with one - whom we've yearned for so deeply - on the way in 16 weeks. 

So here's to today, for what it is and all that we have. 

Some Thoughts on Motherhood

For a couple of days, Mac called himself “Map.” I asked him his name all of the time, just wanting to hear him say it, “Map, Map, Map.” Then, just like that, he was saying Mac. I rocked him tonight and asked again, just to be sure we’d really moved on from Map. And there is was, plain as day: Mac.

I try to be grateful for every change in him, knowing how lucky we are to have a healthy boy, who is growing and learning and changing. But for some reason, hearing him abandon Map so quickly made my heart break a little bit. I rocked him a few minutes longer, feeling nostalgic for the present. For who he is on this very day in March.

//

I sometimes wonder if every mom loves her kids as much as I love Mac. And then, of course, it feels obvious. Of course they do. Then it hits me: all of these women are walking around, feeling this way all of the time? Like their heart is just walking on the sidewalk, carrying monster trucks and pretzels, waving at the neighbors?

It’s a vulnerable life, if you think about it.

//

Mac recently started throwing tantrums. It felt like they came out of nowhere, though Toddler Wise tells me otherwise. So we’re learning a whole slew of things about what frustrates him, what he wishes he had the words to say.

Sometimes the tantrums make sense (see yesterday when he was exhausted from swim lessons and starving). Sometimes they make no sense at all (see last week when he was rested and had toys and snacks galore).

It’s the first season, since he was a newborn, that I sometimes feel in over my head. Am I disciplining him right? Does he respect us enough? Am I being stern enough? Too stern? Am I developing him into a gentle, kind, authority-respecting, but creative, positive, hard-working and energetic member of society!?

You can make yourself crazy.

I’ve recently tried to take the approach that if you care enough to make yourself crazy with questions, you’re probably doing an OK job.

//

Mac helps me fold the laundry a lot. And by fold, I mean unfold. His favorite is to dive into the warm basket and announce each hot item. “Hot sleep sack!” “Hot lambie!” “Hot pants!” There’s really nothing like hearing a one-year-old say hot pants.

//

Mac loves having his forearm rubbed. He asks me to do the left, then the right, then both at the same time. His tiny forearms almost make me tear up when I look at them. They’re so little, with no hair. I can’t believe someday they will look like a man’s arms.

We took him to a preschool on Tuesday, to decide if he should enroll in a twos class twice a week. He jumped right into the group, playing alongside the mostly 3-year-olds. He barely looked back at us the entire time we were there.

When we left, Chris said, “Well, I’m sold!” I looked at him, my mouth probably wide open. “You are!?” I asked with equal parts shock and awe. I was holding back tears the entire time, fighting the homesick feeling for my baby. How are both of the men in my life so ready for this when I’m not? I just kept thinking about his tiny forearms. They aren’t going to be tiny that much longer. What if he comes home from school one day and he doesn’t want me to rub them before nap time?

Everything changes so fast. Time is a thief. Babies don’t keep. Long days, short years. Ah! All of the cliches are just so true in motherhood.

How to Love Someone Well After a Miscarriage

I’ve been asked a lot, lately, about how to care for someone who is going through a miscarriage. I’ve hesitated to write about it because grief is so personal. What felt helpful and healing to me might not to you.

But after enough people asked the same question, it hit me: this is one of the very few silver linings of our losses. To be able to help people love their friends who are grieving better might be one of the main benefits of what we went through.

Recognizing each piece of advice below should be read through the filter of your friend’s personality, here are a few ways to love a couple well in the wake of a miscarriage.

1. Take food, send a small gift, or send a card. Leave it on the doorstep. Don’t ask them to talk, just let them know you are there, loving them and the baby they lost.

2. Pray for them and text them your prayers. I sobbed through text messages for days after our losses and believe, someday, I’ll see those words in Heaven. They carried me.

3. Remember their baby. It’s really easy - especially if you haven’t had a miscarriage - to want them to move on. We all feel better when grief ends. But the minute you find out you are pregnant, you begin dreaming of that baby. Of the name and the nursery and the sweet face and the gender. Losing that is heartbreaking; whether it is 48 hours or 14 weeks later need not matter. It feels like a death in your family. Different than a child or adult death, yes. But a major loss nonetheless.

4. If you have not had a miscarriage, don’t offer advice. Just let them know you are ready to listen at any moment.

5. Ask them if they want to talk about it. If they do, be a safe listening space. If they don’t, do not force it. Offer a distraction if that’s what they want. Everyone grieves at different paces and in different ways.

6. Don’t offer platitudes. I have learned that platitudes generally leave the speaker feeling better, but the recipient feeling worse.

7. If you think you might have a podcast, book, Instagram post, article, etc., that might be helpful, ask them if they would like to see it before sending it. Sometimes it feels helpful to read other people’s stories. Sometimes it can be haunting or panic-inducing. Check before you send it their way.

8. If you are pregnant, acknowledge it. Tell them it’s OK if it is hard for them to be around you, attend your baby shower, etc. Give them extra grace. Pregnancy is so, so visible, it can feel like it’s in your face in the wake of a miscarriage. When my friends acknowledged this, it changed everything. It made me feel safe to attend their showers, knowing there might be tears.

9. If you get pregnant and are going to share the news with them, tell them over text first. One of the hardest parts of our miscarriages is that I wanted to be (and was!) happy for my friends. But it’s SO much easier to hear it over text first, then call when you’re ready to celebrate.

10. Remember their due date. Text them on that day and let them know you’re thinking of them.

What 2019 Taught Me

The week before Thanksgiving, we lost a third baby. Another positive pregnancy test, another beautiful due date, slipping through our finger tips.

On the hard days, I’m tempted to say 2019 was a terrible year. I’m tempted to make it only about our miscarriages. I’m tempted to let these losses define all 365 days, leaving us limping into 2020.

But I know better than that. And, for me, to label it only as a no-good-very-bad year, would feel like taking the easy way out. Like leaving a movie when it gets to the sad scenes. It is shortcut; not the full picture.

In 2019, Mac turned one. He learned to walk - and run! He went from a baby to a toddler. He talks and jumps (or thinks he’s jumping!). He dances and has opinions and loves spicy food and vinegar and La Croix.

He’s funny and wild and a reminder, daily, that we can create life.

Chris started a new job and no longer travels (three cheers for that!!!). We’ve never felt closer. If our marriage is a knot, it has been yanked and tugged all year. Financially, emotionally, spiritually - it is as if someone has taken the rope and tightened it in every direction. The pressure and pain of that has been real. But the result is our marriage being stronger and more certain than ever before.

Charlottesville feels like home. We have family nearby who we see all the time. And we have friends - really good friends! We feel known and loved in this community.

There is so much I could say about our miscarriages and the way they have shaped our faith and family. There is so much I could tell you about the hard days - how I still cry unexpectedly and beg God to move us out of this season. How I feel scared we’ll never hold another newborn in our arms. About how hard it is to be around friends with babies - even though I’m so, genuinely happy for them. About how I honestly wonder if pregnant people are following me (are they?).

I could tell you about the good days, too. How sure I am that the Lord has not forgotten us and already knows the birthdays of all of our babies ahead. How He has written this season for us and not one minute of pain will be wasted. How I’ve never felt more surrendered in life.

Yes, there is so much to say and so much I am still learning. So much on which I am uncertain. But today, I know this to be true:

2019 was hard.

2019 was beautiful.

2019 taught me you can have both peace and pain simultaneously.

It taught me that sorrow deepens joy. But joy does not deepen sorrow.

It taught me to celebrate everything. And to be grateful for every single day with a baby inside you. A day with a baby is better than a day without, even if you don’t know how long you’ll get to keep it.

It reminded me to think of afterlife often, of our babies dancing on Heaven’s doorstep.

It reminded me that every single life is a miracle.

We say goodbye to 2019 with gratitude for all it taught us. And we await 2020 with open arms, hoping for a turning tide.