November, Living Fully and the gift of Ava

Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness"
-   John Updike, A Child's Calendar

"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it,
the dead feeling of winter.  Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show."
-   Andrew Wyeth

For most of my life, I took November for granted. The month was just gray and cold and, up until seven years ago, I didn't truly appreciate Thanksgiving. November was just a month I didn't particularly care for.

There was a certain ominous beauty to it, though. I couldn't deny that. The way nature so obviously turned inward. At first glance, everything appears dead, but is it really?

We were given the most intense, beautiful lesson of our lives in November of 2005. Our fifth child, Ava Mae, was born in our home and lived nine peaceful days. She took her last breath in the very same room she took her first.

We found out that Ava had something special in store for us in my 30th week of her pregnancy. An  ultrasound showed signs of trisomy 13, a chromosomal abnormality "incompatible with life", as the doctor stated. We agreed to the ultrasound because of our two previous births; our third child, Kelly, surprised us with Down Syndrome and our fourth, lovely Grethe (Greta), shocked us with a congenital abnormality that required immediate surgery and a month long hospitalization 2 hours from our home. We were told the two conditions were not related and I was confident all would be well. Statistically, things were in our favor for a healthy baby. But life had other plans for us.

After the ultrasound, I walked out of that examining room carrying the same life inside me that I walked in carrying only an hour before. Inside me, a little girl moved about and made herself known to me every hour of every day, but now I was told her life will not continue after it left the comfort and of my body.

What does one do with that information?

You move forward. You move forward because you still have children that need to eat and run and laugh and go through the motions of living. You move forward because the family needs food and the laundry needs to be done and the bills need to be paid. And when your 11-year old son asks why you are crying, you sit him down with his sweet 9-year old brother and talk about death.

And what happens is totally unexpected. They are not frightened. They are open and curious. We marvel together about the ironic fact that the one thing we can all be certain of, the only thing we can all count on happening in this life, we fear: Death.

What does death mean anyway? What really happens to us? Do we become angels and get to fly around and do whatever we please? Oh, and is Heaven made of candy? It must be. These are the things I discuss with my older children and it is really shockingly beautiful. I spend as much time as they will allow in their presence and I am anxious to talk about the baby whenever it spontaneously comes up. Their perception of the situation is so matter-of-fact and so amazingly light. Mom has a baby in her belly and this baby just may not be built for this world.

Simple. End of story. Now let's get on with this kickball game.

It wasn't so simple for me, however. I was carrying this life inside of me. I felt my little girl poke and move about. I oscillated between hoping for a miracle and knowing my baby would die. The roller coaster of emotions was exhausting. I knew I needed to surrender. I was powerless in the fight. But surrendering is not easy. I needed some help.

In the beginning of November, my mother gave me a great gift. She died.

My mother was a glorious woman. She was beautiful, active and fun. She loved to travel and loved to eat and loved clothes. But something started to happen to my dynamic mother when she entered her 60's. Her speech was altered and her memory was not the same. The experts ran tests and had their opinions, but no one was able to help my mother. She deteriorated slowly and left her family and friends a little bit each day until finally, the mother I loved so deeply, was no longer there. The illness that leached the life force from my mother spanned over 10 years.  At the end of her life, she was in a nursing home, confined to a bed, not able to perform even the simplest tasks on her own.  There was nothing left but her body. She no longer knew me or any of my four siblings.

When I received the call that she was not doing well, I immediately drove the 2 hours to be by her side. I sat beside her with my brother and sister and watched her struggle for her last breaths.  After several hours, I asked to be alone with her. I laid my head on her chest and put my arms around her. I felt the rhythm of her labored breath and asked her to help me with my baby. Help me get through this, mommy. I felt the only way she could do that was outside her prison of a body. I begged her to leave this physical world and help me as a spirit.

She died that night and I was elated. I know it may sound strange, but anyone who has lost a loved one to dementia will understand. Now I had a loving spirit to help me navigate the time ahead with my baby. I was so grateful. Truly euphoric. When I had to spend 8 hours on my feet greeting my mother's friends at her wake and answering all of their well-meaning questions about my pregnant belly, my mother was there. I truly felt joy.

I saw November's beauty that year for the first time. The days surrounding my mother's death were unseasonably warm. Walking home from her wake, the sky lit up with lightning and rumbled with thunder. What a spectacular send off!  I remembered that my mother loved this time of year because the trees dropped their leaves and allowed her to see things in a whole different way. After the storm, I looked out at the leafless trees and noticed their grace and beauty for the first time-their bare branches like dancers reaching up to the heavens.

Ava Mae was born two weeks after my mother died. She arrived almost 4 weeks early and lived peacefully in our home for all of her nine days. There was so much intensity and beauty in those days I can't even begin to describe it here, but what I will try to describe are the gifts she left with us.

She made us stand still and experience the full cycle of life. She made us face our fears and keep pushing through, keep moving forward.

She made us live FULLY. We experienced every emotion- the full range- from the deepest pain to the most exquisite joy. During my pregnancy I explored a lot of spiritual material looking for some answers. I remember hearing Deepak Chopra speak of how we are often too afraid to live fully. I didn't quite understand what he meant until after Ava. If I were actually given the choice to have my child live for only a few days or to skip the whole experience all together, which would I choose?   Her time with us is one of the greatest gifts of my life and I am profoundly grateful for the experience, but would I consciously choose to go through it? Probably not.

Living fully is scary, dammit! Some things in life are so intense, it takes all the courage we have to move through them. I think that's why we don't get to choose. Humans will not choose to go through pain, but it is only through experiencing such pain that the true deep,exquisite beauty of everyday life is revealed.

Any yet, even after this most powerful lesson, I still might choose the to skip the hard stuff all together and take the "easy" road. That's why I'm glad we're not running this show. Because "easy" is boring and nothing ever changes or grows the "easy" way. Oh, there are times when we may believe we have everything under control and have this whole cosmic mess figured out, but we don't. No one does. I now believe its our job to  just flow through this life as gracefully as we can. Ride the waves with skill and ease. Float and hand over the oars, because the hard and fast truth is we are not rowing this boat, mister...no siree.  Poet Annie Dillard wrote, "We are most deeply asleep at the switch when we fancy we control any switches at all".

Ava taught us to push away from the controls. In the end, we had no choice but to surrender and let the experience wash over us. Change us.

Today we will have our yearly birthday party for Ava. We will light her candle in the morning. The same candle that burned every day of her life 7 years ago. We will make a cake and celebrate what her life taught us and what having her spirit around us means to us now. Celebrating her will allow us to appreciate the love we have for one another and will remind us not to take such important things for granted.

And then, without realizing it, life rolls along and even Ava's lessons fade.

But then November comes again, in all of her beauty, and we are reminded once more.

beauty

"I guess I could be really pissed off about what happened to me, but it's hard to stay mad, when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain. And I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sure. But don't worry... you will someday."

-- Lester Burnham from the movie American Beauty

Leaving

My teenage son is leaving for Brazil on an exchange in a few months. This weekend he's gone on a preparatory retreat locally for a few days. A few hours before he left, we had a blow-up. He was trying to finish a movie that was required watching for the retreat (this was assigned months in advance, of course). He was watching it in the family room and his 4 year old twin brothers were in the room. The movie shifted to a scene that was inappropriate for his brothers, so I asked him to finish in his room. 

He refused.

I asked nicely again.

He refused again.

I stated that this was not a choice.

He heatedly refused.

I removed the movie and stood by my request.

He exploded.

I try to remain calm and explain his options while he follows me screaming about my evil, unreasonable ways. 

This goes on for 30 minutes. He push, push, pushes while I try to calmly stand my ground without losing my temper or showing that I'm really not so sure all this is worth it and maybe I should have kept my mouth shut and let him just finish the movie in the family room and asked the younger boys to leave the room even though he has the nicest room in the house and could easily move.

He begins to call me names an tell me how rotten I am. I see the shock on the faces of my little ones and I do the wrong thing:

 I lose it, too.

I tell my oldest baby that this is the exact behavior that I will not miss when he leaves us for 10 months. I say that maybe it is time for him to go. It is one of those times where the words come out of your mouth and, even as you are saying them, you know a good mother should never say such things.

I do it anyway. I cannot stop myself.

All of the fear about this exchange comes tumbling out of both of us. In a few months, my baby will get on a plane and travel to a foreign country where he does not know a soul and does not speak the language. He will leave the comfort of his home, his family and friends and live in a house with complete strangers for close to a year.

Right there in front of me is the little boy he used to be. He, too, was once 4 years old and his only concern was what imaginary game to play next. When he bumped his knee, I was the one he ran to for comfort. He crawled on my lap when he was sleepy or scared. He sang his A-B-C's while we cheered him on and hid our smiles as he said the k twice. He was the baby that curled his body into mine as he nursed while we both drifted off into a blissful sleep. He was once an adorable little boy that loved his mama like no one else.

That same boy is now taller than me with high cheekbones and whiskers and big muscles.  That same boy now needs to find his own life.  To do that he has to release parts of his old life. To find out who he is, he has to push Mama out of the picture a bit. This is not a conscious push, it's done gradually over time throughout the teenage years with occasional, unexpected, heated explosions. 

At least, that's what I think is happening. This process of growth can be so painful at times, I look at all of my younger children and think, what the *bleep* did I do?! How am I going to survive this four more times?. It never, ever occurred to me that my little baby that I just wanted to inhale would someday turn into a man that I would actually, genuinely, dislike at times.  I never stopped to think that I was churning out a bunch of creatures that would eat all my food, complain about it not being any good, leave their dishes on the table and then roll their eyes at me when asked to pick up their possessions (that I paid for!).

The teenage years are not a constant stream of pain. They have peaks and valley's. They ebb and flow. There has to be some bright spots in there or our species would not survive. If it were all constant pain, we, as a species, would eventually figure out that these cute, sweet smelling babies eventually turn into large, foul smelling, shrieking monsters and we would just choose not to go through with this whole child raising nonsense. 

The larger versions of these sweet babies, however, can do some pretty amazing things when they are not in the unconscious "I need to find out who I am so I'm going to be cruel to my mother" stage. They can be incredibly smart, strong, funny, creative and kind (to others, that is) and that in turn can make us very proud. When we are on the peak, celebrating with our dazzling star of a child, we have to store some of that light away for the next time we visit the dark, dry, harsh valley. In the end, hopefully it will all balance out into a nice, calm, lovely straight line.

So, for now I guess I'll just try to do my best and love my teenager no matter what. I will try to explain to him that when it sounds like I want him to leave, what I am really saying is that I just want him to love me like that little four year old boy did.

Forever.

Toddlers and Teens

I have been given a tremendous gift. A gift that few people have the privilege of experiencing.

I am parenting teens and toddlers at the same time.

When people hear this, their reaction is usually not a positive one; both age groups tend to have a bad reputation.  Remarkably, experiencing the two simultaneously helps cancel a lot of the negative stuff out.

Let me explain...
  

When my teens are being so awful that I am almost brought to tears, I can turn around and grab a loving toddler and get a whole lot of unconditional love. The contrast of having incredibly adorable people in the same house with incredibly not-adorable people allows me to appreciate the adorable ones that much more.

You see, now as I parent my toddlers, I know what is coming (and lots of time it ain't pretty) and it reminds me to soak up every bit of these little beings. Every. Single. Second.

When I became a mother for the first time I was 28 years old. When I had my twins I was 42. One thing about getting older: you really are so much wiser. Your priorities shift, and for the better. You tend not to sweat the small stuff as much because, to be honest, you really don't have the energy for that anymore. When my first child was born, it took me quite a while to adjust to my new role as a mother. I spend the first few months feeling a tad resentful that this little creature had stolen my life. I mean, what the hell?!

Eighteen years later, that original life is nothing but a fuzzy memory, so I don't feel like I am missing out on a single thing.

My toddlers (and twins, no less) add nothing but joy. A tantrum? Go ahead, give it your best go; I've seen it all before. Belligerent behavior? Go for it. What is the worst that can happen? When you are 3 years old, Mommy does not have to worry about you turning to drugs and alcohol when you don't get your way. That comes later and I am fully aware of the fact.

Let me be clear: I have fantastic teenagers. They are respectful, loving and kind. But then, in a blink, they are not. I know this is totally normal developmental behavior, but let me tell you, it really sucks (and fyi, I don't allow people to use the s-word in my home, but in this situation, no other word is more appropriate).

We as humans are built this way. Teens need to push away to develop their own identity. I get it, but it still feels like a kick to the gut, every time. And if you are bouncing a chubby, drooling baby on your knee as you read this and thinking, "not my darling...", I'm telling you, it will happen. It has to. That is the work of the teenager: to separate and create their own identity (and break their mothers heart while doing so.)

One day I'm conversing with my loving child and the next, a person I do not recognize physically or emotionally is screaming at me.

It happens to all of them and I know it will happen with my babies. This is why I drink every minute with them up and I am so grateful for the gift of them I could just about burst.

One more cool thing. That screaming teen I spoke of? He will turn into putty in the hands of the adorable toddler. Nothing will fill me up more than to see my 15 year old play with his little brothers. My teens love my toddlers with a ferocity. It helps them take themselves a little less seriously. It lets them play. Nothing else in their world gives them full license to act like a little kid again and to have some plain and simple fun.  Mixed in with that is the bonus of a dose of pure love.

It is a beautiful thing. It is a glorious, fabulous gift and I soak it up every time it happens because I know in a blink, my toddlers will be teens.

Loving the Belly

I love my body.

Ok, so maybe this is an affirmation. I am actually working on loving my body.

My issue is with my belly. It sticks out. It is gushier that I would like and it has been known to jiggle when I run. If I poke it, it pokes back.

Some days I am fine with all of this. Some days it feels like the end of the universe. 

My belly has worked hard for me, though. It has stretched to accommodate seven children (including a set of large twins); I should probably cut is some slack (pun intended...).

I realized today that I would really love to have the body that I had ten years ago back again. What about the body I had 20 years ago? Well, I'd give you my first born (disclaimer: he's 17 and a little testy at times...). My point is this: I had a great body 10 years ago, a great body 20 years ago and you know what?

I didn't appreciate it.

Just like I am not appreciating it now.

Ten years from now, will I be yearning for this strong, healthy body that has a bit of a jiggly belly?  Perhaps. Maybe I should spend a little time in the appreciation arena?

I might wish I had.

My belly carried all of these beautiful creatures, plus 1