The dirt about anger

I've been struggling with something ever since my miscarriage. I've hesitated talking about it, and I'm not sure why. I've come clean about all the details, so what's so different about this?

For starters, there's a lot of shame in it for me. And guilt. Immediate guilt. There's also sadness for my babies. And embarrassment, that I'm not the mom I want to be, or should be.

The deal is that hormones, or grief, or who knows what, is causing me to have a very short temper. Which means I am angry a lot. You know how there's usually a build-up to that boiling point where you explode? Mine is bubbling below the surface all the time. It just takes one thing - a small thing - to set me off. And even though I know I have a problem and desperately want to deal with it, it's hard. Really hard.

Two days ago it was particularly bad. I yelled at Clara and Luke all day. And I cried all night. How could I do this to them?

I vowed to get better. I would stop myself before I yelled. I would resist the urge, walk away. That was my plan.

And then, the next day, this happened.

Funny, God. Really funny.

You have to understand, the things that were setting me off in the weeks and days prior were things like Luke not looking at me when I spoke to him. Or Clara not picking up toys fast enough. I battled with Luke for 12 hours one day about taking a single bite of macaroni and cheese. We're not talking big things here.

So both of my kids, covered in mud, methodically plastering it on our swing set, was more than enough reason for me to yell.

And, I hate dirt.

But the thing is, I wasn't even that mad. I clearly thought it was funny enough to run and grab my camera, and climb the playground equipment to take all sorts of shots (it's "shooting from above" week in my photography group, in case you're wondering why every shot looks like I'm oddly hovering over top of them. And, yes, I am dumping them all here because a post about anger needs some levity).

But did that stop me from yelling? Of course not. They dirtied their clothes, they wiped mud all over their toys, they made SUCH A MESS FOR ME TO CLEAN UP. And I made sure they knew it.

And you know what I yelled most about? That they wouldn't look at my darn camera.

As it was happening, I even saw myself from the outside looking in. Or, rather, heard myself. I sounded like a crazy woman. Or, at least a very mean woman. I looked around at the neighboring yards, afraid someone might be witnessing this.

I did not want to be this person. She was ugly and out of control.

The guilt hit me like the mud that Clara had flung at me (accidentally?) a few minutes before. I knew I was wrong. I needed to reign it in. I had promised myself I'd work on it, fight whatever hormones were making me mad, not let the way I was reacting to grief negatively affect my children. And yet here I was, yelling once again. This was my chance to change things.

I went inside, put Essie down for a nap, and took a deep breath. They are kids. I technically never told them not to make mud and play in it. They weren't fighting. They were actually having the time of their lives.

In fact, it could even count as the day's homeschooling. They were out in nature, they created mud from water and dirt...that's science! And they were working together, and it was so cute. And they were playing, doing what kids do best and should be doing the most.

They were creating life-long memories.

There was no need for me to yell. I decided to not even calmly discipline them. And I apologized for losing my temper. I've been doing that a lot lately, apologizing. And losing my temper.

And the clean up? Ridiculously easy. I might even let them do it again.

I'm hoping things will get better. My hcg hadn't yet hit zero when I last had it checked two weeks ago (but it was really close), so that may be affecting things.

And grief. I've heard a lot lately about how grief can lead to anger. But it's not like I'm angry at God, or angry that I'm no longer pregnant, or angry that my baby died. I am just angry. And, I've started to notice, it seems to pop up a few hours after I happen upon reminders of what I lost, like pregnancy announcements from women due around the same time as I was. But instead of getting angry right then, it's like a little sneak attack, hitting me later and about seemingly nothing at all. It's just woven into the fabric of our everyday lives. I'm just mean.

But that's what gets me - I'm not mean. I'm not perfect, but I usually require the normal amount of provocation to lose it. And I can't help but think about the future, and how I don't want to look back and regret wasting a second of my kids' childhood. It really is an amazing time and I'm so, so incredibly happy...which makes me feel all the worse about my temper.

And I know that, in the grand scheme of things, this likely won't be that big of a deal. I'll reflect on it as an understandable - even normal - reaction to a traumatic event, a reaction that hopefully lasted only a month or two. But I still well up with tears when I think about my babies and how my anger outbursts are affecting them, no matter how short-lived it may be.

The other night, after that long day of battling over a bite of food, Luke looked up at me from his sippy cup and asked if I still loved him. Wow. Really? Safe to say my heart broke right in two.

He's just an innocent little boy. Who doesn't always want to eat his dinner. And who likes to play in the dirt.

So I'm working on this anger thing. I know I can't walk around whispering like Michelle Duggar all day, but I also can't do nothing. I need to be myself, do my best every day, and use my children as inspiration - remembering how much I love these three babies and how they need a mommy who is calm, gentle and loving.

They don't deserve this, and if it means that I have to work twice as hard to overcome whatever it is that's causing me to behave this way, I'll do it. 

So there it is. I think you know everything now. And please, feel free to shower me with all your tips for dealing with grief, anger, and remaining calm with little ones. And I can share advice on cleaning up kids caked in mud, because I'm an expert now.

What they're really thinking

I have a confession to make.

You know all those photos I post of happy, smiling kids? Well, in reality, they're often not all that happy. At least in that moment. 

Often, they're downright annoyed with me bringing out my camera yet again. I know I am relentless. I know I ask a lot. I know they don't always see my vision. And sometimes those sweet little faces just can't hide it anymore.

This can't be happening. She can't seriously want me to act natural while I pretend to make hearts out of yarn. What does that even MEAN?

Sometimes they're confused. I mean, they really want to get this whole photo shoot the heck over with. Yet, they also want to make Mommy nuts.

This is what you wanted - my fingers stuck up my nostrils, right, Mommy? This won't delay things at all. Just take this picture.

They're also really good at playing to the camera, and really letting me see that sparkle in their eyes.

She said she wanted me to stare blankly so that my eyes look completely and utterly empty, right? Good. I've got this DOWN. I mean, seriously, is there an Olympic sport in this? Cause I'd get gold. 

And then there's Essie. She's at that age where she just wants to run out of every shot.

Hey, Mommy! Is this good? Get me running! And reeeeaaaally blurry!

That's where treats come into play. Aaaannnd sometimes they fall out of mouths.

What, Mommy? You didn't give me this treat so you could see me chewing it in the picture? Oops! There it goes! Did you get that??

They're always adorable, I don't have to worry about that. But sometimes that adorableness hits a whole new level...called HOT MESS.

I'm ready! And I ran my buttery hands through my hair just for you, Mommy.

Shots with all three are always loads of fun. Sometimes we have boycotts.

This is working. This is working. She's soooo mad right now. 

And other times they try to stare daggers right through me.

You are going to suffer for making me do this, lady. And Luke may still be smiling like a baby who's having gas, but you better believe when stuff goes down, he's with me. 

But at least it encourages sibling bonding.

Luke: Why, oh why is she humiliating us like this? Clara: I promise we'll get through this, Luke. Together.

They are seriously little troopers though. I can really get in their way. Always stopping them from something fun, just to get a shot.

Luke: Tell me again, why exactly does she want us to HUG in the snow? What does snow have to do with HUGS? Clara: Don't ask questions. Just smile. 

But they'll have their childhood documented, right? They'll be SET when it comes to Throw Back Thursdays in 2034. 

"Hanging with the Moms back in 2014! #tbt"

And sometimes, Mommy gets pictures of her babies that make her really happy. And maybe cry a little.

Because I still can't believe I have these three little subjects to bribe into posing. And I just want to capture every single moment with them. Okay, every moment might be too extreme. I promise I'm working on it.

Telling our kids

I've been asked a lot about how my kids are doing with everything going on with the miscarriage. Do they know? What did we tell them? How are they handling it?

Yes, they know. I had wanted to tell them I was pregnant immediately. I mean, could you imagine spending every day, all day, with three people with whom you can't discuss your pregnancy? And it was ALL I wanted to talk about. And it's not exactly like they are co-workers or acquaintances. They are my kids. They are closer to me than my right arm.

Ryan wanted to wait. I got it. But I couldn't resist. So I would talk around it with them. Kids, would you want Mommy to have a baby in her belly? What would you want to name it? So, would you rather it be a brother or a sister??? All purely hypothetical questions, of course.

On the day of our first ultrasound, we left the girls with a friend and brought Luke (I didn't want to burden her with all three of my crazies). Clearly not as clueless as we might have pegged him to be, he listened intently and soon realized we were looking at a baby in Mommy's tummy on the black and white screen.

And then we got bad news. He saw me cry in the dimly-lit room. He, and his sisters, saw me cry once back at home. I looked at Ryan as I laid on the couch and said I wanted to tell them. He didn't stop me.

So we told them there was a baby in Mommy's tummy and that we all needed to pray that the baby grows. That was pounded into their heads so much over the next few weeks that, post-miscarriage, Clara was still hung up on it. "But the baby's going to grow, Mommy," she'd assured me. "We need to pray."

In the weeks that followed that ultrasound, I sucked up any sadness I had and tried to maintain some normalcy. We rejoiced in Baby #4's life. We all prayed for our newest family member before meals (so much so that it was hard to get out of the habit later). We talked about babies and they kissed my belly.

And then they were by my side, quite literally, when I first realized I was most likely miscarrying. It was just me and the three kids home that night, with Ryan away for work. Clara was sitting in the same chair as me when I first noticed the blood. (On a side note, I keep trying to remember what I did when I got up. Did I toss her aside? Did she fall out of the chair? Did she just sit there, stunned? It's really the only thing I can't remember from the whole ordeal.)

They heard me call my mom. They heard me yell, "this is it....this is it" into the phone. I vaguely remember them standing at the bathroom door.

Later when I gathered them together and told them that a friend would be coming over to put them to bed, I also told them that the baby might not be okay. How could I not? Once again it was just me and them. They saw my tears, they were probably afraid. I had to say something. Luke's response: "Mommy, did you see red coming from your crotch?" Oh my gosh. He heard me frantically telling that to two people on the phone over the course of the chaotic night, and apparently I had used the word "crotch". At least hearing my son say that word over and over brought a little comic relief to a terrible moment. And reminded me to watch what I said around them, as much as I could.

The next day, after the ultrasound that confirmed things, I told the older two that the baby had gone to be with Jesus. Luke immediately started crying. Touched, and concerned, I asked him what was wrong, thinking my deep little boy really got it. Turns out he was scared that my newly unoccupied womb meant he would "get small and go back in my tummy." Ya, that's about right for a three-year-old.

They quickly embraced the went-to-be-with-Jesus concept, and talked about it a lot. But, as kids will, they sometimes forgot. And Clara's (very understandable) confusion quickly came to light. She still talked about the baby in the same way she had before, she just tacked on "...in Heaven with Jesus" to the end of whatever statement she made.  An example:

Clara: I'm going to save some fishies for Catherine.
Me: Honey, Catherine is in Heaven with Jesus.
Clara: But she might want some fishies.
Me: That's very nice of you, but she's in Heaven with Jesus.
Clara: Well she might want some fishies...in Heaven with Jesus.

Then there was the time I returned home from Essie's 12-month check-up. Luke asked what the doctor said, and I told him, "Great! She's healthy!" To which he replied, "so the baby's coming back?" With all of my doctor's appointments lately, he misunderstood who this one was for.  Broke my heart right there.

Before the burial, Clara drew a picture to include in the baby's tiny casket. As she drew, she whispered to herself, saying, "Her heart wasn't beating. It froze. And her eyes didn't open because they were filled with gunk." I can't explain the "gunk" part, but I'm thinking she got the frozen heart stuff from the movie Frozen, which she had seen three times at that point.

The poor things saw a lot. I was in no state to entirely hide my emotions, and they listened closely to anything said within ear-shot. So confusion was setting in. And it's not like I had a chance to research what to do and say. That's not really my style even under the best circumstances; I tend to shoot from the hip. And this was definitely not the best of circumstances.

So I bought them a children's book about Heaven. It's about a little boy who visits Heaven with his guardian angel. He sees how amazing it is and flies around to see all that is there (except God), including many things that appeal to children, like ferris wheels and dinosaurs. They loved it. And then a couple days later Luke tells me, out of the blue, that he didn't want to leave me and go to see the dinosaurs. Oh, boy.

The good news (or bad news, depending on how you look at it) is I mentioned his comments to our pediatrician at an appointment a couple days later and she said that type of thinking doesn't usually start until around age seven, so he's advanced. Advanced in anxiety? Yup, he got my genes.

One of my favorite parts of the entire experience (yes, I have favorite parts of a miscarriage) was Luke going through a very big Crucifixion obsession at the same time. It was perfect for me, and no doubt God's hand. Over and over, he asked me to read to him from his children's Bible book, the scourging through Jesus' death. He was focused on the mocking, on the soldiers, on Mary's sadness, and on Jesus on the cross. Every time I got to it, he would fill in the line, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" It was balm to my grieving soul to read those sorrowful mysteries, written for a child, to a child, time and time again. And the reminder that Mary watched her Son die was just what I needed as I grieved my own loss of a child. God knew it was a time when His message needed to be very obvious and very direct.

As things have settled back down, they don't mention Catherine or Heaven really at all anymore. They're kids. They deal in the moment. They move on. But I'm not so naive as to think this may not stay with them for a long time. They're both very sensitive, with great memories. But I think they needed to experience this very real part of life, even at their ages. I just hope I handled it appropriately, in a way that won't cause them any harm. Molding and shaping kids is hard.

And I do hug them all a little tighter lately. And if they want to cuddle when I'm busy, I try to stop and savor the moment. I do it for them, to be present for them after being distracted last month. And I do it for their sibling, who I won't get those same chances to snuggle.

One of these things is not like the others

I took the kids to story time at the library today. It was an unusually tame trip, except for accidentally locking my children in the van with the keys and having to wait for Ryan to come save us. But before all that, as I was paying my late-book fine and checking out - Essie in my arms and the older two somewhere within eyeshot - the nice woman behind the counter asked if they were all mine. 

"Yup!" I answered.

"Well, where did that red hair come from?" she asked, as she looked from kid to kid.

Odd man out

I can't tell you how often I'm asked that. It's brought up more than Clara's tan complexion, or Essie's blue eyes. It's not our children who we adopted who are noticeably different, but the only one who actually shares our genetics. 

Ironically, it's Luke who sticks out, like a beautiful red-headed sore thumb. 

"Look, Mommy! Clara has red hair just like me!"

When it comes to our kids' looks, we've heard every comment you could imagine. Clara and Luke have the same eyes...the girls have my hair...Essie and Luke share that pale skin...Essie got her blue eyes from her daddy...Clara and Luke just must be twins.

It's the eyes, for sure.

Someone even spoke Spanish to me once after Ryan told him that Clara was half Mexican. He just assumed it must come from her mother. (Yes, I got excited that I could pass for Mexican. And no, whatever you're thinking, I wasn't outside in the pitch-black dark of night. Okay, maybe I was).

Don't you see the resemblance?

I've come to the conclusion that people see what they want to see. And it made me realize that when someone remarks about how I look like my sister, or my mother, they just might be making conversation. People assume Clara is my biological daughter so their mind draws the necessary conclusions. And they also might think my darker-skinned husband is waiting at home. Or, it may be our matching shirts.

What about here?

Generally, I tend to believe no one is really thinking about us all that much anyway. And, if they happen to, I don't mind because I'm sure it's just innocent curiosity. And, if they ask, I'll happily tell them about adoption.

I just love their differences.

Or, I might not. Like today. It wasn't necessary, so I didn't go into it. Yes, they are all mine. And where did that red hair come from? You know, we're not exactly sure!

They must be related :)

But we think we'll keep him.