After the Diagnosis

My younger sister Amy needs some help, and she asked me if she could use my blog to reach out for it. Of course, it was the least I could do. I will let her tell her story, but I will say that I love her and her family very much. They are incredible people who are incredibly special to us. Regular blog readers may have seen her pop up in posts from time to time over the years, most recently when she and her husband Joe traveled nine hours to take care of me and my family when I was miscarrying. They are awesome people. The kind of people who deserve to receive as much help as they have given to me and to others. 

Not only does Amy share her story below, but Joe does as well. Read them both, and then please - if you have any prayers, advice, or support you can share, do so in the comments. 

Amy
I’ve sat down to journal about what is been going on with us about 5 or 6 times in the last two weeks. Every time I write, a different story is told. Whether I am in the throes of worry and pain, or having intense moments of gratitude for the bountiful blessings that we have been given…a very different picture is painted of what we have been experiencing.

This morning I am feeling intense gratitude for a number of blessings in my life, big and small. I’m grateful for my dream house that I am sitting in and for the mug of pumpkin coffee I am drinking as I write this. I am thankful for my sweet daughter that I hear singing in her bedroom as she waits patiently for us to tell her it is time to get up. I am grateful for the happy sounds I hear coming from my son’s crib. I am grateful that my husband, Joe, happens to be the strongest man I know, who takes such better care of our family that I ever could have dreamed. Over the last 2 weeks, our lives have completely changed in so many unthinkable ways…and it is safe to say, we were not prepared for any of them. Well, I suppose we have always been preparing for this…we just didn’t know it at the time.

Almost two weeks ago, my 21 month old son Joey was diagnosed with autism. Although the days and nights spent crying almost nonstop have been replaced by shorter bouts of occasional tears, my eyes still well up every single time I speak or write those words.

God sure does work in mysterious ways. I mean, when I applied to Syracuse University 17 years ago, I knew I wanted to be an elementary school teacher. I was immediately enrolled in the Elementary and Special Education Program. "But I don’t want to be a special education teacher," I said. "That’s not how it works here," I was told. "You will get dual-certification because we prepare our teachers to work with all types of students."

Despite the fact that my program at SU completely changed my life and the way I would forever view education, I still had no idea what I was being prepared for.

When I was 27 years old, I met my husband. I was basically single my entire life until we crossed paths. I am now completely certain why my life played out the way it did. God did not want anyone else getting in the way. This man was undoubtedly meant to be by my side during this lifetime…I’ve always known this, but after the last two weeks, there is absolutely no question in my mind.

Early on in our relationship, we spent four of our happiest years together in California, experiencing so many new things and learning to depend on each other being totally on our own. But after we had our daughter four years ago, we started to have this nagging feeling like we needed to move back to New York…we knew it was time to be closer to our families again. Only now is it completely clear how important that move really was.

As I am sure you can probably guess, shock, deep sadness, fear, and worry don’t even begin to describe the range of emotions we felt as we’ve dealt with this diagnosis. I feel like I have so much to say and I don't know where to start and I feel like I don't have the time to get it all out. But so far, the only thing that has gotten us through this has been the unimaginable support of those around us and being able to talk about it.

So I also have felt completely compelled to write about it publicly, for a number of reasons.

1) My sister Karey’s blog is followed by many faith-filled and prayerful people and I am looking for as many prayers as possible in this moment. Prayers for Joey and his continued development during this critical early intervention time. Prayers for Joe and me to be filled with the grace of God and to have strength to continue moving forward finding the best services, therapists, programs, etc. for our son and being the best advocates that we can possibly be. Prayers for Caleigh…that she can find her own balance of understanding and loving her brother, and sticking up for him and wanting to care for him and protect him…while always knowing that we support her living her own life and pursuing her own dreams and not feeling held back…that she does not become the forgotten child who resents her brother due to how much of our time he inevitably will consume. Prayers that we can find just the right balance as parents that both of our children grow up feeling loved and supported and most of all, happy. 

So thank you in advance for all the prayers!

2) For the same reason, I know Karey has hundreds (maybe thousands?) of followers around the world, and I am fairly certain that some of them will probably have amazing resources, contacts, articles, books, or stories of their strength, experiences, and hope for me as we pursue options for Joey. We are open to anything at this point. The more public with our experience that we go, the more resources we can learn about, then the better it will be for Joey.

3) I also am finding it incredibly difficult to break this news to people, one on one. I have started to move to a place of acceptance and no longer cry nonstop. Yet each time I tell someone for the first time, I break down, especially when they naturally become emotional about it. Even envisioning myself telling the story to different people makes me cry…every. single. time. It took me almost a week to talk to my own family about it. I still haven’t told many of my best friends. But I am finding that, once it is out in the open, I am okay. I am able to talk about this rationally and logically, and without tears, for the most part. 

4) And probably the biggest reason I am writing about this publicly - we need support. Plain and simple. I think I need people to know about this situation we are going through because we can’t go through it alone. I am terrified that people are going to start hearing this news and will privately share it with one another and will talk about it without me there. I won’t know who knows about it, but inevitably people will find out. They might think they shouldn’t know or shouldn’t talk to me about it. Or they might not know what to say. But I am here stating that I WANT you to ask about my son. I WANT you to ask how we are doing. I don’t want this to be some secret, private thing that people are afraid to talk to me about. I’m going to need to talk about it in order to make sense of it all…so I’m here to tell you, PLEASE ASK.

It’s amazing how your life and its trajectory can completely change in one single minute, and at the same time, be exactly the same as it was just before. It is such a paradox. My son is the same child. Nothing happened to him as Joe and I sat around a giant conference table at the Yale University Child Study Center, hearing life-changing news. When we came out of that room, there he sat, eating goldfish and looking up at us with a bright smile, deliriously happy to see us. Our sweet boy, with the same strengths and weaknesses that he’d always had…yet somehow that meeting changed everything.

Well, I should say, it was only OUR lives that have changed dramatically in the last two weeks.
We know more about autism than we ever thought possible, since we have spent every waking second researching on the internet, reading books, and visiting local schools.

I now understand and believe in the power of intensive early intervention therapies and that we need to do absolutely anything to get the best for our son, whether that means me leaving my job to be home more, moving somewhere where those resources are available, or becoming certified in some of these intensive therapies myself.

We truly realize the power of family and friends. It has been hard to talk about what we’ve been going through, but to those we have been able to reach out to for support, we have been blown away by the love and understanding we have been shown.

The fear when thinking about the future is indescribable…so we have forbidden ourselves from focusing on that for now, as much as we can avoid it anyway. One day at a time.

I doubt my strength and resolve to do this, every single day. We are on a roller coaster that is exhausting...and I am not sure how long I can endure the ride. And it just started. To say I feel overwhelmed does not cover it. But everyone keeps saying to just keep putting one foot in front of the other and just do it…so I guess I will for Joey.

We go back and forth between acceptance and denial daily, though each day we move closer to that place of acceptance. Some may think that researching different treatments might be a sign that I am in denial… And honestly, I am okay with that for now. My denial is not preventing me from doing what is best for my son. If my denial made me continue my life as it has always been, then I would say it would be harmful. But I am not acting like he is a typical child... We are doing everything we possibly can for him, as recommended by the specialists at the Yale child study center where he received the diagnosis.

As a special education teacher, I’ve always been an advocate for students with special needs and ensuring that they get the best education possible. It’s always been incredibly important to me as a teacher that all children learn to treat one another with kindness and respect. But that has been brought to a whole new level now. It is so much more personal. 

Our long-term goals, in a single instant, have been altered. I was a few months away from getting my certificate to be a school administrator. Those plans are now indefinitely put on hold, as that career path is no longer in line with what is best for my family. Just a couple of days before we left for Yale, I was planning my internship for the spring semester. How quickly things can change. 

I have an intense appreciation and gratitude that my children are safe, healthy and happy. While this diagnosis is unquestionably life-altering, it is not life-ending. There are many other diagnoses that parents get every day for their children that are a million times more challenging than autism…and the gravity of that is not lost on me.

Ways that my Joey is still exactly the same boy: He loves to giggle and snuggle and play with his sister more than anything else in the world. He loves jumping in his crib and playing peek-a-boo. He is a great eater and a great sleeper. He absolutely loves Poppa, my 90-year-old grandfather. He loves to snuggle on him and always has his eye on him. And the feeling is mutual. He loves to pet and chase Frankie Moons. He still can’t talk yet (though this week, with new strategies from the specialists at Yale, we FINALLY got him to be able to consistently sign the word “more” independently!!!). He is loved unconditionally by his grandparents and all of his aunts and uncles and cousins…and basically everyone who knows him. He has the best smile and laugh you could ever imagine. Everyone constantly comments on how sweet he is. You can truly see it in his eyes, even though he has never uttered one word.

One of my biggest struggles in life and with my faith has been acceptance. I grapple with it - accepting God's will for me and accepting those around me. Saying the serenity prayer is an integral part of my every day routine. However when I think about the serenity prayer – "Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference," there is a section about having the courage to change the things I can. Why not do absolutely everything I can for my son during this time when his brain is able to develop the most? 

 I ACCEPT that my son has a severe disability that will most likely impact the rest of his life.
 I have the COURAGE, or at least I'm struggling to find the courage, necessary to research the best therapies and to develop more of my time working one-on-one directly with him to increase his engagement and social interaction in order for him to learn how to imitate better. All major research shows that it makes a difference.

As time goes on, I will develop the WISDOM to know what therapies are best…and also the insight about what parts of my son are just going to be who he is. 

I just don't want to have too much acceptance, where I let a label define that.

I don't want a label to let us to make excuses for my son…that he is able to do something or is not able to do something, because he has autism. I don't want acceptance to let us rest on our laurels too much. What if it was a misdiagnosis and we just said, oh well that is because he has autism, so we can't expect him to be able to do that. Think of how much time will be lost where progress could have been made.

Don't mistake this for false hope. I love my son for who he is and what he is able to do today. I will let him show me the way. I will get to know him even more closely over the next two years than I have over his first 21 months. I will spend less time on my phone and less time working. I will spend more time at home and more time interacting. That can't be a bad thing. So in some ways, I am thankful for this diagnosis. It is going to make me be a better mother to my son. 

Everyone who has been through this tells us that having a child with autism is, in fact, much like a rollercoaster. The highs are going to be higher and the lows are going to be much lower…and no part of this will be easy. But we’re choosing to focus on the fact that nothing has changed. My son is still the same sweet boy he always was…and God has done all he can to prepare us for this journey, together.

*********

Joe
Being told that your son has autism, by someone who isn’t invested in your life, is a difficult moment to describe.  Here is this professional at Yale, one of the top Autism research facilities in the nation, telling you your son has Autism, as just a matter of fact.  For you, you feel like your life just changed.  The expectations that you had of your son going to a regular preschool like his sister, high school, college, marriage, kids, grand-kids...your son learning to be a man who protects and cares for his family the way that you were taught by your father and your grandfather….they disappear in that second.  They are replaced by fear, sadness, and a variety of emotions that the written word can’t even describe.  Those emotions are then replaced by doubt and disbelief.  OK, I heard you, professional at Yale, but I don’t believe you.  Do you see my son?  Do you see this sweet boy who runs to me with outstretched arms? Do you not see his eyes?  How he looks into your soul, with this sweet caring understanding of you.  Do you hold him tight in your arms, when he is scared?  Do you comfort him when he is sick?  NO!  You don’t do any of that, so I know him. You don’t.

When we left Yale, the three-and-a-half-hour drive home could only be compared to how I imagine it feels to be locked in a box and wanting to scream for help. Here we were, three-and-a-half hours away from anyone who cared, driving through traffic, taking wrong turns because Amy and I were too busy fighting away tears than paying attention to signs or traffic.  What do we do now? My first reaction was shock, then it turned to hope.  We’re working with Yale. Yale shows an interest in my son’s development. Can we ask for more?  The drive home was filled with every emotion possible.  Our minds raced in a million different directions. But our main goal was to get home, hug our daughter and hold our family tight in our arms.  

That night when we put the kids to bed, I kept reassuring myself that “nothing changed.”  Joey is the exact same boy now, as he was a few hours ago. Autism? What is that anyway? So he will have some delays, no big deal. Amy is an amazing teacher, surely she can cure this, right?  I mean…everything has a cure, doesn’t it? I am the type of person who thinks that way, in every single avenue of life.  I feel there is nothing that I can’t handle. 

So the research began. I think I read more articles on autism that first night than I can even count. A common theme I was reading was that Autism can be reversible if caught at an early age. YES!!!!! That’s what I needed to hear.  I can do anything in life. I don’t fail, I refuse to. Autism, looks like you messed with the wrong family. I know Amy won’t give up…she’ll fight you, and I’ll take you on. Looks like you met your match. 

I had so much hope going to bed, it was really nice. I was still emotional, but in a “the hell with this, let’s go! You want some of this Autism, you just got it!”
 
That night, I went to sleep around 11:30. I woke up at 2:30 a.m. and couldn’t stop crying.  I mean, literally, couldn’t stop myself. I laid in bed for an hour, sobbing, uncontrollably. Finally, around 3:30, I went out to our kitchen, sat on our bench and stared out the window.  Cried some more, then some more.  I couldn’t stop the thoughts that were haunting me. When Amy and I first started talking about having children, I remember my goals as a father for myself.  Make sure you raise him to be strong, independent, caring, hard-working.  Make sure he values his family…being faithful to his wife and above all…protecting everyone he loves. 

In a few seconds at Yale, those goals were replaced with fear, a very real fear in my head.  Will my son die alone? Will I lay on my death bed someday and look into his eyes and know that when Amy and I are gone, and our parents have long since passed, our sisters gone...what is to become of my only son?  I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Will he be in an assisted living home, by himself...alone? Alone forever?  

 I know, as I type this, that those thoughts could not even be close to what Joey experiences in his life.  It is a fact, that if caught at this age, a lot of therapy can really improve his ability to learn and adapt.  I also know that the following Monday morning I was on the phone with every professional I could find, every single person who knows about autism was contacted and a plan is being put together to best help Joey. I know I won’t let this affect me for much longer. Amy and I are going to fight for what is best for our son…it’s what we do, we don’t give up.  We will fight for Joey harder than we have ever fought for anything in our lives. He will become the best Joey possible and God has a plan for us all, we know this and soon I will embrace it and be the champion he needs me to be.

My family is a gift from God. Starting with my wife. She is the most caring, compassionate person I know. I am so blessed to have her, through this journey and every other we have been on and will go on in the future. My daughter – she is amazing.  Funny, smart, beautiful, as caring and compassionate as her mother, but as cocky and know-it-all as her father. My son is the best. He laughs deep belly laughs that would make even the most hardened and sad on this earth smile.

Hope is an interesting word. By definition it means “a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.” I find this interesting because I really don’t have a desire for a certain thing to happen.  I have a desire for us to get all the help that is needed for our son to progress as far as he possibly can. I have a desire for him to continue to smile and laugh as much as he does. I have a desire for my daughter to accomplish everything in life that she is meant to accomplish and for her to always make me laugh and smile. I have a desire for our family to continue to learn from all of this and be better from it. So, when I read the definition of hope, I have no certain thing that I want to happen, but a list of things that perhaps could happen. Really, I have learned, it is all in God’s hands.  If we find all the tools necessary for Joey to succeed, then perhaps he will, but also, perhaps he won’t as we once imagined. But it’s all going to be great. This is a journey that we are on. This trip isn’t drastically different from the journey we were on before, but now it is more focused. There are more gas stations and pit stops, maybe a detour here and there, but we will put a map together, follow it and re-route when needed.

The strange thing about this trip is that our map doesn’t have a final destination.  We know that wherever we end up, is the place where God wanted us to be. Along the way, we stop for food, play games, read, laugh, and love each other. When we get to where God wants us to go, we look back and smile at what an amazing trip it was. Filled with laughter, learning, love and just a great fun trip we all took together. The car is not just filled with the four of us, but all of you as well. It is filled with friends, family, professionals and everyone we love in this world. We are so blessed to be surrounded by so much love in our community, so many friends and family. We want everyone to come along for this ride…and enjoy it as much as we will.

DIY Costumes

I love this time of year. It's not Halloween itself, or all things scary, or even pumpkin lattes.

It's costume-making.

Oh, how I love it. I like everything about it. I like asking the kids what they want to be, which is always followed by disappointment when it's not what I envisioned, which quickly turns into my acceptance of the challenge (this year it was two ninja turtles and one Cinderella).

I like plotting out my plan for the craft store; just thinking about going gets me excited. Then I get to actually visit the craft store... this year - all by myself! I didn't even mind that I lost cell service and all access to lists and images of their characters. I was still on a high. Oh my goodness, walking around JoAnn's, shopping for costume fabric and various sundries is my happy place.

I love tackling the costumes - with no real plan to speak of. I don't use patterns; I make it up as I go. This is apparently how my mind works best. I thrive on figuring it out, which isn't always pretty.

I love finishing and presenting the costume to the child (or, this year, trying it on them every two minutes while they whined about the pins sticking out of it - kids these days!).

And, perhaps my favorite part? Seeing them wear them year 'round. At least when it's a costume I haven't deemed worthy of preserving in the attic and then end up throwing out when we move.

Now what you may not understand, is how perplexing all of this is. I am not someone who has ten craft projects going at all times. I don't need to be busy. Some days, I am so fatigued that it takes all my effort just to make everyone three meals.

But thanks to the magic of Autumn, I come alive in October. And if I'm lucky, it carries through to December and I bang out three birthdays that delight my kids.

Then I'm done. Until next October.

This year, Clara wanted to be Cinderella. Not Elsa or Anna, like every other four-year-old in America. She's a Cinderella girl. In the name of creativity, I tried very hard to convince her to be Cinderella "before the ball." Original, adorable, easy to throw together with some beige and brown fabric.

My sweet girl eventually even agreed to it, but I knew her heart wasn't in it. So I let her have her first choice, and tackled a ball gown.

I ordered the gloves, headband, choker (totally could have made that, but it was part of a package deal with the headband), and the pettiskirt she's wearing underneath. But the dress is all me. Who do I think I am making a dress? Well, clearly someone who doesn't know fabric very well. Because the darker blue material on her chest stains when it comes in contact with anything, even water. PERFECT fabric for a child.

Also, if you see her in person and look closely, you'll see green sharpie lines on her skirt from where I thought I was going to cut. Classy.

Aaaaand I left not one - but TWO - threaded needles attached to the dress for a while. I swear I just could NOT figure out where I put them!

And then I have my ninja turtles.

Luke was always going to be a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. And the costume was pretty easy to make (notice Essie's signature backwards jammies).

I even had a helper. Luke had some very specific plans for how he wanted his costume to look (he definitely takes after his mother). The "R" on the belt was his demand idea.

If it were up to Luke, our entire family would be dressing up as all the turtles and their instructor guy. That was not to be, but he did get a Leonardo to go along with his Raphael.

As soon as Luke settled on a ninja turtle, I knew Essie would be the same. The only way my wild child would agree to dress up in something would be if it was the same as her brother.

The hand she's holding here, at the neighborhood Halloween parade last Saturday? Not her father. No, this would be a complete stranger. Don't worry, we were close by, although she sure didn't care.

They'll put them on again tomorrow, of course, for the big day (although I'm kicking myself for telling them that last weekend wasn't, actually, Halloween). Our plan is to visit the embassies, many of which are right out our doorstep, and who apparently open their doors to trick-or-treaters.

Hopefully these three don't cause an international incident.

Adventures in the city

I had big plans to document our little two-month adventure living in a high-rise apartment in the city, and then I remembered I am a combination of busy and lazy and that never ends well. But I have taken pictures with every intention of sharing them here, and we do have a little over a month left until we head out to the burbs, so there's still time. I'm going to get caught up tonight and then hopefully I can share quick little stories here and there in the days ahead.

Or I could post again sometime in 2015. It could honestly go either way.

I was also about to transfer about a gazillion iphone photos from my phone to my laptop to share with you all, and then I remembered that lazy thing. I also remembered they're already up on my instagram. No need to expend any extra time and energy doubling up on social media sharing. So check it out if you want to see our daily life in the District.

And that means you're stuck with the few images I've taken on my big camera. Like this one...

That's our hotel-like bedroom (but with our comforter). Seriously people, I could get used to this bedroom furniture thing. There's a dresser and two night stands!!! I feel so grown up here.

It is like a hotel. It is completely furnished, down to the towels and linens. Or are towels actually linens? I don't know, but you get the picture. There was toilet paper and dish soap and little shampoos and even tooth paste when we got here. There are plates and utensils and pots and pans. Although I did have to buy a whisk today. They aren't perfect.

The kids love it here. They enjoy looking in the windows of the building across the street (the "worker building," according to Luke) and run to the windows every time they hear a siren below. They get to ride in an elevator every day (who am I kidding... I never leave the house/apartment every day) and fight over who gets to the push the buttons. It's so cute.

Although they are slowly starting to become less than enthused about all the walking we do. For Ryan and me, the fact that everything is walkable is the best part. We're all about being city dwellers, walking to Mass, to dinner, to the Whole Foods (don't be fooled - it's our closest grocery store so we just make quick runs there while throwing our money away; and they have amazing apple fritters). But our double stroller only seats two and the odd man out (usually Clara, since she's my best walker), grows weary very quickly.

Like the day we walked to the White House.

It was hot, and five city blocks is longer than you think, for a kid. And they might have thought the park in front of Pennsylvania Avenue was going to have a playground. Which it did not.

But they were excited to see the much-talked-about president's home. Although Luke was perplexed as to why there needed to be two fences between us and it. I told him it was to keep the president safe, which he did not easily accept. What did he need to be kept safe from? Later on he and Clara together decided it was lions and tigers.

One place they're always up for walking to is the playground, which is just two blocks away.

That makes it sound like we go all the time. They, technically, are always up for a walk there, but due to a combination of my low energy and irrational fears of ebola, we've only been once. In my defense, though, watching three kids at a playground is hard. Right? You can't possibly see them all at all times and that means momentary freak-outs on my part. Not good for my adrenals.

We had some visitors last weekend, that we were all very excited about.

Clara took the move very hard. In fact, she was just sobbing once again tonight about leaving all her friends behind. So it was very cool that she got to spend an entire day with one of her best friends, who requested a visit to the city for his birthday. How cute is that? 

So, what else? Well, Ryan loves his new job. And I seriously cannot believe his hours. For the last seven years (and even more before that), he has worked afternoon until midnight. That's been our life, and I figured that would always be our life, with him working in TV news. But he now works days. Days, people! Bankers' hours! He also works some early mornings (like tomorrow, which is why I found time to blog since he's fast asleep next to me), and he'll be traveling a lot. Just as my good fortune at his amazing hours hasn't sunk in, neither has the realization that he'll be gone for days at a time. But we'll deal with that when it comes. And in the meantime, pray for no hurricanes.

Oh, and I can't leave out house-hunting, which takes up most of my time lately. This has got to be one of the worst places to look for a home in the world. Of course, the commutes are ridiculous here, and expensive doesn't even begin to describe it. But we're plugging along, going to see homes for rent, and praying that St. Joseph comes through.

Now I'm all caught up, and I will be back. I'm not sure if that's a promise or a threat. I'll leave that up to you.

I'm back, with some changes ahead

I decided to temporarily make my blog private last month and I thought absolutely no one would notice. I thought I'd simply change the setting, disappear for a few weeks, and pop back up with a new post, and no one would be any wiser. After all, I've only posted once since May. May! Not to mention that blogs have been pretty much dying a quick death thanks to the demise of Google Reader (which I never used myself, but have heard was pretty popular).

But, it turns out, I was wrong. Lo and behold, people do still actually read this little blog of mine. You emailed, texted and facebook messaged me, asking where it went and if you could read it. You made me feel so loved!

The truth is, no one had access to my blog while it was private except for me. And I didn't post anything (I don't post while it's public, so...). And now it's public again. And maybe I'll even post on a somewhat regular basis. I just hope I didn't lose all the readers I had left by getting rid of my blog for the past month.

So while I'm here, I guess I'll share some news. My husband has accepted a new job and we are moving in a couple weeks. It's an amazing opportunity. A huge answer to prayer. He'll be a national correspondent for one of the cable news channels. He'll be working for their feed service, which means you may see him pop up on one of your local channels reporting on national news. And you may see him on the actual network at times too. (As I re-read this, I sound all calm and collected. But imagine me doing a little jig and jumping up and down and that's more like how we feel about this dream situation, okay?)

We'll be living in corporate housing for a month or two, so I'll hopefully be posting about our adventures in the city. And then we'll be moving to the suburbs, which will be an adventure all its own. I'm excited and nervous and slightly overwhelmed. But mostly just thankful for this opportunity. And super proud of my hard-working husband, who is so good at what he does.

You know, being a dad. But he's pretty exceptional at the reporter thing too.

Full arms

Yesterday was supposed to be my due date.

If things had gone according to my plan, I'd have a baby in my arms right now (probably would have had a scheduled section sometime last week) as I sit in a chair in our living room watching a football game on TV. I'd be nursing, or holding a sleeping baby, or nursing a sleeping baby if she (or he) was anything like Luke.

But things didn't go according to my plan. 

So I sit not with a baby but a laptop on my lap, as my husband excitedly watches the game, while my stubborn three-year-old sleeps with his head on the kitchen table where we left him during a dinner-(take-a-bite-of-chicken-or-else)-standoff, and my two girls dance around the living room in giggles.

And I feel very content.

After my miscarriage, my womb felt empty. I had gained some weight, yet there was no baby inside. My stomach should have been growing, yet it was painfully flat (at least in the not-pregnant sense). I watched those who were as far along as I should have been with wonder and it stung. In me, there was nothing where there should have been something.

And I feared the empty arms that I had heard mentioned as well. I wondered if they would become obvious as my due date neared.

But they never did.

My arms are blessedly full. And for that I am so thankful.

I know not everyone has other babies to help ease their pain, and my heart breaks for them. And I also know no one replaces a little one lost. They are unique and the pain of their absence can last a lifetime.

I still mourn Catherine Gerard and often cry at the mere mention of her. But I am embracing the good - literally. And it is most definitely good that I have three sweet kids to keep my arms and lap and home and heart full. 

A letter to birth moms, as Mother's Day approaches

My husband, Ryan, emailed me this letter yesterday out of the blue. I happen to think it's pretty incredible, so I wanted to share it with all of you. I'm embarrassed to admit I hadn't given even a passing thought to how our daughters' birth mothers may feel on Mother's Day this year, so I am very thankful for the reminder. Our adoptions are both closed, although we were blessed to meet Essie's birth mom, and I'd like to think that maybe she may find this letter here. It's really for all birth moms, though. A truly special class of mother whom I will be thinking about this Sunday.

Dear Birth Moms,

Mother’s Day is just a few days away and, for some reason, along with all the other amazing mothers in my life, I keep thinking about both of you.

I am not sure why.

If I am being honest, I rarely if ever think about the fact that our two wonderful daughters are adopted. They both so seamlessly entered our lives in such natural ways that it is never an issue. We have three kids. Three wonderful, beautiful, healthy kids. The fact that two were adopted and one was not never makes much of a difference.

But as we get closer to Mother’s Day, I’ve been thinking about both of you.

I think part of the reason why is because, for our family, there was a pretty big chunk of time where Mother’s Day was anything but a happy occasion. I would dread the week leading up to that Sunday, knowing it would be so hard on my wife and knowing there wasn’t much I could do to take away her pain.

As I thought about how much different Mother’s Day is for us now (maybe the best weekend of the year) I started to wonder how Mother’s Day might be for you and it occurred that maybe it isn’t such a happy day.

So I decided I would write you a little note to let you know how much I appreciate you and how even though you might not be here every day, you will always be a part of the lives of the young ladies you designated to our care.

Karey and I often talk about how you are both our heroes. We know that the situations that led to the births of our daughters were difficult and even heart-wrenching times. But during that time you made the decision not to think of yourself, but to think of that precious child. You wanted the best for her and despite it being anything but easy, you fought to make sure they would be taken care of forever and in the best way possible.

And let me tell you.. they are both amazing.

Clara came to us when she was only five weeks old and a remarkable five pounds. This was after being born early and a lengthy stay in the NICU. Today she is perfectly healthy. There is not a visible hint of her premature birth and she is smart as a whip. She remembers small details we often forget, sings on tune like a perfect angel, is a constant defender of her little brother and is becoming a pretty talented artist.

In fact, despite only being four years old (although she claims she is five), she is already writing her name and a few words. Let’s just say I find it appropriate that the first word she learned how to write all by herself was “love." And she writes it everywhere she gets a chance.

Esther is a special girl as well.

At almost a year-and-a-half, she is all over the place. She never stops smiling, gets into everything and runs whatever room she is in. Despite being pint sized and without the most extensive vocabulary, she finds a way to get her point across. She almost always gets her way. It is to the point now where we have coined the phrase “Don’t Mess With Ess” to describe her.

I want you to know what amazing little people they are because none of that is possible without you. You hold a special, irreplaceable position in their lives. We never hide that from them. They know where they came from. They know their unique story and they know you are the ones that deserve the credit.

You made a tough decision to place your most precious possession in our care and I can tell you confidently it was a wise one. Primarily because of the woman you let your children call “mom.”

This weekend we will celebrate my amazing wife, who prayed her entire life toward only one goal. To be a mother. Despite that desire, God saw it fit to withhold that gift for five years, for a reason we, at the time, never understood. But all that pain went away the day we got a call that Clara was in need of our care. From that moment Karey’s central focus in this world is to give your babies all the love and care that you could have ever hoped for. There is literally nothing that shakes her from that mission. She does it with grace, with compassion and she does it in honor of the gift you gave us both.

I told you at the start of this letter that I don’t think that often about the fact that Clara and Essie are adopted and that is not 100-percent true.

From time to time there are these moments. They usually start with a big hug that includes an incredible squeeze (both of them are pretty solid squeezers).

In that moment I can’t express my love for both of them enough. It gushes out of me. I feel this need to thank someone, anyone, for the honor of being able to hold this incredible creature so close. I almost always thank God, but lately I found myself quietly thanking you. Thank you for honoring me with the responsibility of their fatherhood. Thank you for this gift.

Obviously there is no way I could ever repay this gift. So all I can do is make you this eternal promise: I will take care of these two girls with every single fiber in my being. I will protect them, I will defend them, I will make sure no harm will ever come to them. But most importantly, I will love them. I will love them every single second of every single day and I will make sure they know you love them as well.

So if Sunday rolls around and the idea of Mother’s Day puts a small pit in your stomach, I hope the knowledge that your babies are as happy and as healthy as they could possibly be makes things a little bit easier.

I am sure it won’t take away all of the pain…. But please find some small comfort in the knowledge that we couldn't possibly love these girls more, and we will never take the incredible responsibility you have given us for granted.

Happy Mother’s Day,
Ryan

Time keeps ticking

It seems that a bunch of weeks have passed without me blogging. And some of you have even checked up on me! Thank you! I assume no one even notices, or cares, so I appreciate it.

I'm okay. We're okay. Really, nothing eventful has happened at all.

We went to the beach. It was super fun, but chilly.

We're in a holding pattern for a possible move. I'm praying like crazy and anxiously awaiting God to show us what's in store. And if you have a second, and have prayed for, like, everything else in the Universe already, I wouldn't stop you from asking God to bless us in that department.

We're doing a lot of playing outside. Some preschool. But mostly playing.

Essie is keeping us EXTREMELY busy. Can I stress the "extremely"? More than the all-caps is already doing? Our crazy girl deserves her own post. Look for that coming soon.

Oh, and we have a superhero among us now. I feel safer than ever. Although I'm busy washing his cape and jammies every single day.

 
I'm not sure why I've been gone so long without coming here. Part of it, I think, is because all I wanted to blog about after the miscarriage was... the miscarriage. But who wants to hear about that every day?

And part of it is that by the time the kids go to bed at night all I'm able to do is stare blankly at the TV. And edit photos. Okay, so if we're being honest I pick editing photos over this blog. There. I said it.

But editing photos is so much more relaxing than confronting my emotions and putting them out there for everyone to see.

So, about that miscarriage. It's been particularly hard lately hearing about a) all the people due just before me who are about to pop, and b) hearing all the pregnancy announcements for, say, December. Really? Ugh. I'd be SO far along right now. I'd probably have stopped being nervous a while ago. But I'd still be counting each week as it comes, thankful for every single one. And yet time just keeps on ticking. People who weren't even pregnant yet when I miscarried know their baby's gender. 

I don't know why that depresses me, but it just does.

And then the guilt sets in. I'm so lucky! I'm so blessed! How can I feel this way?

That's a rhetorical question. At least it is tonight because I have no answer.

I'm already up too late (darn blogging!) so I must go. Hopefully I'll be back before June. 

To those in the thick of it

I found myself searching my blog for something the other night and couldn't help but skim several old posts. Wow. I came away with one feeling. And it wasn't what you may be thinking, that so many amazing things were on the horizon for me back then. Just hold on! Good things are coming your way!

No, it wasn't that at all. It was something quite different. My thoughts were more along the lines of, Woah, girl. This is some serious stuff you're dealing with. Emotionally, spiritually, physically. My head is spinning just thinking about it. I give you loads of credit. I don't think I have it in me.

Of course, funny thing, it was me. But I can't even imagine being that person now. And it's not because I'm a mom. Heck no. It's because she was strong and driven and motivated and tireless (even though I was tired all the time, at least according to my old posts).

Cuddling with my baby, circa 2009

Now I think I've got it bad if I haven't gotten out of the house in a few days or if I don't get to sit down by lunch time. Those things have got nothing on the feeling of your heart being crushed right inside of you as you mourn the loss of babies who have never existed, all while trying to keep straight your myriad medical problems as you recover from a surgery or two or three.

My mom and I, venturing out for the first time after my third surgery, annoying abdominal-wrap-thing under my dress.

 
Infertility is some serious business.

I thought it was fresh in my memory. I could have sworn it was never far off, that it was like a muscle memory my body will always know. It's been four years this month since I conceived Luke, so secondary infertility (and now pregnancy loss) has brought up similar, albeit much more muted, emotions.

But I was wrong. Yes, the pain is memorable - that feeling like I couldn't breathe, the jealousy that I could feel eating away at my insides, the despair that I wondered if anyone could ever pull me out of. That, I remember.

It's the day-to-day effort, the sheer strength that was required, that I have forgotten. What went into taking that next breath, driving to doctor appointment after doctor appointment, keeping track of all my medications and levels and what needs to be tested next, charting, temping, researching adoption agencies, avoiding baby showers, attending baby showers, crying in bed, attempting to make sense of it all every second of every day, begging God endlessly to have mercy on me and make my husband a father; that's the stuff that I don't find myself thinking about anymore.

Those parts of infertility are like the labor - painful and necessary to reach the desired end (whether it be children or health, or both) but so overwhelming that my mind neatly tucks it away in its far recesses, like old blog posts that are forgotten until you search for them.

Some much-needed respite from the throes of infertility, with those who understood

And that's why I must say this: Infertility is incredibly hard. To those who are in the thick of it right now, I'm not going to tell you it'll all be okay because you very well know that no one can tell you that. But I can tell you that you are courageous simply because you are hanging on and living and breathing through every single moment, whether it hurts or not. And some of you, unlike myself on most days back then, are even managing to be joyful and hopeful through it all. And living your lives to the fullest. But if you struggle to do that too, don't worry. You are doing the very best you can. You are fighting the good fight for your family, no matter how that family ends up looking. I have to believe you are pleasing God.

Maybe you won't even see this (I know I didn't read blogs filled with smiling toddlers when I was suffering through infertility). And maybe you don't care what this mom-of-three who has "crossed over" has to say about it in the first place. But I know you. I was you. And I know you could probably use a pick-me-up. So please accept this virtual hug and high-five. Keep carrying that cross and inspiring those around you (because you are, even though you probably have no idea). I'm praying for you always.

You were real

Sometimes I look down at my (relatively flat) stomach and think, it wasn't real.

After five-and-a-half years of failed cycles the first go-around, and two-and-a-half years of no luck during secondary infertility, you start to believe your body is just not capable of making another human being.

And sometimes it's hard to imagine that it's even how any of us are designed. 

It was extremely difficult to wrap my mind around the idea that I was pregnant with Luke. For a long, long time after he was born, I'd just look at him and think, in utter disbelief, how did this happen?

It seemed like a dream.

So if a pregnancy that ended in a living, breathing child felt surreal to this sub-fertile woman, then you can begin to imagine what a miscarriage does to my very confused brain.

It's all so hazy now - the positive test on Thanksgiving morning, telling our families, the first appointment and seeing our doctor again (she was so happy for us). Not eating deli meat or egg yolks, not working out even though I could have. Looking at baby name websites against my better judgment. Falling asleep at night knowing I had two guardian angels with me. 

Sometimes the memories are so far away that I question if they ever really happened.

But then there are the reminders I see every day.

There are the ones I keep around on purpose, like the St. Catherine website that I keep open on my phone's browser, which I referred to for prayers during my pregnancy and now can't bring myself to close. Or the date on our bulletin board we use for school, which still reads December 11, the day before my first OB appointment.

There are the reminders I see when I'm not trying to remember, like the bright white hand towels used on the day of my miscarriage. Or catching a glimpse of the tag that reads "maternity" on my pajama pants that are too comfy to give up.

And there is the reminder I can go to when I'm in the mood, or when I worry none of it actually happened. It's a little white box that lives under my bed, filled with everything we have that has anything to do with the pregnancy and loss. Sympathy cards, letters, the program from the memorial service and a little stuffed green frog they gave out to all the grieving mothers that day. And a tiny blanket, knitted by my mother, which uses yarn from each of the three blankets she made for Clara, Luke and Esther.

There's the positive test - one piece of indisputable evidence that it was all very real. One of only two pregnancy tests of mine that have ever been positive.

And there's the other indisputable proof - the photographs. They stay on our fridge, sometimes hidden, sometimes not. They are prized possessions.

Of course, I'd rather be reminded tonight by little kicks. And a five-month-pregnant belly. And an updated photo on our fridge of a cute little profile, or one with an arrow announcing the gender surprise.

But that is not our story. Not this time. So I have my box, and my treasures, and my memories. And for all of that, I am thankful.

God has provided for us abundantly. And while the memories are painful at times, I rejoice in the little soul who is forever part of our family. Who waits for us in Heaven.

It may seen hazy, it may seem surreal, it may seem all like a dream. But you were real. And we love you.


"I believe though I do not comprehend, and I hold by faith what I cannot grasp with the mind." - St. Bernard

Birth-year buddies, I'm looking at you

Sometimes I think there must have been a drop in births the year I was born.

Kids were on leashes way back in 1977. For reals.

When you don't get married young (at least by Catholic/Christian standards, i.e. in, or just out of, college), and then it takes you five-and-a-half years to become a mother, you find that everyone around you is younger than you. 

Like, way younger.

People are usually shocked when they discover how old I am. Which, on one hand, is a good thing, I guess. At least I don't look over the hill. But it's also clear from their reaction (jaws dropping to the floor) that they think I am really, really old.

I'm so old my parents had to take a picture of the TV when I was on (middle, front)

And the weirdest part - no one is EVER the same age.

My theory is this: My peers are, generally, moms to much older children. If they do have young ones like me, they also have a few older kids too, which means they're too seasoned, or too busy with the older kids, to do all those newer mom things that newer moms do. So they run in different circles. Don't attend Moms Group anymore. Are busy picking their kids up from school. Hang with the parents of kids their kids' ages. 

But that's just my theory. It could be that no one was actually born the same year as me.

The dress. The hair. The eyebrows. Someone out there must remember the 90's.

When I need a reminder that there are, in fact, people born in 1977, I look at this list and revel in all the beautiful, youthful stars who aren't 24, 29 or 32, like everyone else I know. They're 37 like me! They do exist! (Okay, I don't really look at that list, but Ryan and I are always playing the age game with whomever we're watching on TV and we're obnoxiously happy when someone is our age or older).

One year later, out with the puffy sleeves and in with the hooker dress. The '90's were funny like that.

I'm not complaining. Really, I'm not. Everyone you know being younger than you is a small price to pay for finally becoming a mother after all those years wondering if it would ever happen. It's just that they're all so fertile. And pregnant. And yes, I may be keeping up with my three kids. But their three kids is just the beginning, because they have so many, many, many, many years of fertileness left. 

I, on the other hand, am nearing the close of my fertile window. A window that only cracked open twice in my whole life. A window that, just as I was starting to get accustomed to breathing in the fresh air, is about to be closed forever. I could go on with this analogy all night, but I'll spare you.

Seriously, though. I am not just of advanced maternal age, but have been for a couple years now. Menopause is on the horizon. 

Don't get me wrong, I have a ton in common with all those younger girls. My closest friends are younger girls. And, truly, age is just a number once you're an adult. But I still would like to bump into someone born the same year as I was.

So where my 1977 peeps at? 

(Yes, I really just said "peeps." Remember, my teenage years were spent in the '90s). 

I'll take 76'ers too. I live with one, and would have been one myself if not for two days. So hit me up.

Without infertility

You know how sometimes people who have been divorced will say they wish they'd never met their ex, except then they wouldn't have their children so... well, they can't really regret it ever happening?

I have decided that's how I feel about infertility.

I really hate infertility. Despise it. I didn't like a second of it while it was happening, and I don't like looking back on it now. It makes me angry when I find out other women I know are going through it and my heart breaks for those who know the pain of it firsthand.

But, for me, without it - without that annoying, manipulating, demoralizing, cruel, soul-crushing monster (did I go too far?) - I wouldn't have my babies.

So I can't really wish it never happened.

In fact, I have to embrace it with open arms and even thank God for it.

I'd love to say we would have adopted even if I hadn't been infertile. But I'm going to be honest. I just don't see us conceiving every couple of years, working to feed all those mouths, trying (and probably failing) to save a buck or two for college, a bigger home, savings...and then, on top of it all, saying, "Hey, I know a great use for those tens of thousands of dollars we don't have - let's adopt!"

I know us, and I know we would have thought we couldn't afford it. We wouldn't have had a reason to take a risk and trust that God would provide.

And even if we had adopted, who knows if we would have done it at exactly the time necessary to adopt Clara and Esther?

I can't even think about that for too long.

And, if I had been fertile, who knows if everything would have led up to me conceiving Luke exactly when I did? That timeline probably would have been thrown way off by other pregnancies.

So I thank God (and infertility) that it worked out just so, leading us to know these precious souls, who were always coming into the world right when they did. And that we were there, ready and willing, to catch them upon entry.

Infertility also brought me closer to God, strengthened my marriage and toughened me up. And I know I was supposed to find joy in suffering, but I don't know if I ever got quite that far.

Joy aside, it did teach me more than I ever hoped to know about suffering. And crying. And jealousy. And confession. And redemption. And grace. And miracles. And God's ability - and desire - to make all things new.

All of our stories lead us to today. And, in our case, it's a sad chapter that is forever a part of us, that made us who we are, that allowed God to fashion our family just so.

We wouldn't be here without infertility. Not here, at least. Not with these three kids who we adore beyond all imagination asleep in their rooms, with a baby gate shutting off the kitchen, number flashcards hanging from our mantel.

So, like that divorcee, I can't wish a second of it away.

Darn you, infertility. I really wanted to wish we'd never met.