A little late to the Mother's Day party

Another year goes by and it’s Mother’s Day again. But it's taken me days and weeks to process where I am this year. The retailers tell us that Mother’s Day is supposed to be filled to the brim with flowers, yummy meals and family time. Or, maybe relaxing alone time --- but that's not my personal preference. ;) For me this year, the day included church together followed by our traditional family picnic at the park and then a pedicure with Avery in the afternoon. We spent some family time outside then cooked dinner and watched a movie. It was a good day by any measure because I was with two of my greatest loves – Jeff and Avery.

Although I’m surrounded by love and dare-I-say admiration, I can’t help but think about the baby that is missing from my life. Lucy is not here. I know she’ll always be here in our hearts… but that’s not enough at times. As Avery told me one time, “I just want Lucy to get OUT of my heart!” Thinking she meant she didn’t want to talk about Lucy any more, I asked her why she would want Lucy out of her heart. She told me that she just wanted her to get out of our hearts and come back from heaven to be with us. Once again, Avery hit the nail on the head. Having her in our hearts just doesn’t cut it sometimes.

A special moment in my motherhood journey was captured in the above picture (the day before Lucy passed away).
 ~July 24th, 2011~

I have imagined what my life would be like raising two little girls for almost two years now. I stop and stare at families with two girls sometimes thinking to myself 'That should be me.' I’ve imagined my daughters relationship with one another and how it could and would be. I think about MY sisters and how they have influenced my life. I worry that Avery won’t have that same sister bond with hers.

Maybe it’s the current pregnancy that has me feeling self-conscious about motherhood in general. I’m sad when people mention “baby #2,” referencing the baby inside my belly. I’m sad because that automatically takes Lucy out of the picture. And it’s not just strangers. It’s happened with people I know that just don’t think about it (and likely mean no harm by it).

When I reconnect with old friends that may not know about Lucy, I feel like they can’t see the full picture. I am confused at how to portray myself as a 'mother of 2, almost 3' children when I don’t have a second child to show. How do I make myself look different? I feel so different and strive to include her. I talk about Lucy. And in my mind it’s awkward and totally weird sometimes because I don't always know what to say. I just hope she’s up there and can feel my love. I wonder if she feels my efforts to include her. I worry all the time about making Lucy proud since I don't have the opportunity to do it in person.

This year I spend Mother’s Day with my first child here beside me, my second child up in heaven and my third child growing and blossoming inside me. It’s strange how these siblings will always be connected -- yet they seem so far away from each other right at this moment.

A couple weeks ago I went in to pray over Avery as she slept one of her very last nights in her toddler bed. As I prayed for her, baby boy started kicking and moving inside me (a feeling that still surprises me and amazes me). And then, as true as anything I’ve ever experienced, a cool, crisp and very real presence was felt. I felt Lucy’s presence. Baby girl was with us. My children were all there with me in very different ways. God’s children that he entrusted to my care. I imagine I'll always be a bit mystified when I think about how He has gifted the role of mother to a girl like me. A girl who hid from Him at times in my life. A girl who ran desperately from Him at times. A girl who even doubted Him for moments, and used His name in vain, and denied Him once upon a time. I feel so unworthy at times.

I’ve shed plenty of tears through this journey of motherhood. I’ve had plenty of laughs, too. My heart has swelled so big that I think it’s full and then it expands again. I’ve felt the pain, heartache, worry, joy and love of motherhood.

I remember a conversation that I had with my mom early in my pregnancy with Lucy. I was worried about how I could love another child as much as I loved Avery. It just didn’t seem possible. My mom described it to me using an image from the animated Grinch movie I watched at Christmastime when I was a kid. She asked if I remembered the part where the Grinch’s heart grew – “In Whoville they say -- that the grinch’s small heart grew three sizes today.” She said – “Your heart just GROWS.”

I know it grows, but I still worry about having enough love to go around. I often don’t feel worthy of the life I carry inside me – my son. I can sometimes convince myself that don’t deserve him and I worry I won’t be a good mother to him. Have I spent all my love? I haven’t, I’m sure, but I worry about it nonetheless.

I love being a mother in the greatest possible way. The job makes me thankful and happy and feel blessed beyond belief. Being a mother makes me feel alive in a whole new way and I have a deep hope for those who desire to be mothers that they may feel this one day. I will fail at certain things but I will not fail at love. I can do this "love thang" from near or far.

A Dream

I woke up Sunday morning to a beautiful, moving sky. Pops of pink clouds drifted through the bright blue sky - it looked like like cotton candy. I walked outside alone to take it in and was reminded of God’s smiling spirit and the beauty of His creation... great joy and appreciation fills my heart just thinking about it.

 That same day I had woken up with a dream on my mind that I had dreamt probably a year or so before...

I am rising, rising, up, up. Sights and sounds are indistinguishable. I have no idea what is going on or where I am, but I am feeling comfortable with the sensation. I am floating, light as a cloud. Content.

As I slow down I arrive in a very bright place, filled with light coming from all angles. I wonder how that’s possible. I am blinded by the light – it fills up every shadow, every fold of darkness. I am warm.  I am happy.

Then seemingly from nowhere I see her. She running toward me arms outstretched. A little girl, blonde with ribbons and dress swinging behind her. She runs confidently and surely at ME. As she reaches me with her embrace, I fall to my knees and into her arms. I embrace her back. We are inseparable. My angel, my Lucy, my daughter. I am with her. My heart is full. This is love.

And when I woke up from that dream I knew I had just gotten my first glimpse of what a heavenly reunion with my little girl will be like.

As we approach what I consider is another milestone in my grief process (Lucy would have been 18 months this week), I think back on this dream and seek comfort and peace. Today, Avery who is currently into Cinderella, asked when "her dreams would come true." When I asked her what her dream was she said, "That Lucy would come home with us." I have no idea how she senses these things, but it's like she just KNOWS what I am going through.

Despite the pain, I'm thanking God today for where I've been and where I'm going. I know I can continue to dream big dreams and have the highest of hopes. But most of all I know I am able to find satisfaction in a simple moment and peace in a plan and purpose that is greater than my own.

Lucy's Light & The Butterfly Release

Back on July 24th, I spoke over the phone with a nurse at Levine Children's Hospital, and she asked if I would be interested in speaking at the Butterfly Release this year. The Butterfly Release is an annual event that the NICU holds to honor and remember the babies that have been lost. Ironically, the nurse that called, Cindy, was the person who had advised us to stay with Lucy at the hospital that very night exactly one year before. That Sunday night with Lucy was our last night with her, and we have been forever grateful to have those final minutes and hours by our little angel's side.

When talking with Cindy this past July, I felt deeply grateful and started thinking about how I might be able to give back to others. I imagined that speaking would be one way to do that and also honor Lucy's life. The event was still several month away, so I agreed and thought, "I'll figure out what I'll say later." 

I have written a lot about Lucy and my grief process on the blog or in my journal, but realized quickly that writing to speak was going to be VERY different. I could't even bring myself to write much of anything until just days before. Here is what I wrote (edited slightly for blog):

8th Annual Butterfly Release

October 13, 2012

Lucy's Light

in memory of Lucy Isadore White

I’m here today to share with you the story of our little angel, Lucy.

The story starts with my 2^nd pregnancy. At our 18 week ultrasound we were shocked to find out that our 2^nd child was going to be born with a major cosmetic flaw – a cleft lip. In the weeks that followed we learned of several other concerns the doctors had, more medically-focused, but none seemingly life-threatening, so we decided against genetic testing. Throughout the entire second half of my pregnancy though I was in a very dark place. We remained hopeful, but I was very, very scared. I want to share with you a prayer I wrote in my journal at about 30 weeks, give or take.

“Dear Lord,

I pray that you continue to unveil your plan and purpose in our lives. Please prepare us for what is to come. Help us to support one another and focus on our blessings. Let us remain faithful even when it feels like hope is failing us.

This child is yours, God, and I pray that you use [her] for your work. Should I have the opportunity, I promise to raise [her] teaching and sharing your word. Should I not have the opportunity, I pray that this baby feel our family’s unconditional love regardless of the time we get to spend together.

Please remind us of the miracles that are possible when we remain faithful. I will continue to follow if, Lord, you promise to show me the way. Amen”

It’s amazing looking back now on that handwritten prayer, knowing how terrified I was, yet hearing the hope in my words.

Two weeks before my due date I was induced to deliver our baby. Our little angel arrived on July 19^th, and she did amazing. She even fooled the doctors at first by being such a fighter she was sent to the regular nursery. However, Lucy’s health steadily declined and we learned on day three that Lucy would not be with us long. She had a life-threatening genetic disorder called Trisomy 13 that would claim her life. I finally knew for certain what I had had nightmares about for months. The odds of this disorder are one in 10,000 – looking at a statistic like that you just never think you could possibly be the “ONE.” Trisomy 13 is described as “incompatible with life,” yet it was so hard to believe when here was this little miracle living and breathing before our eyes.

Lucy’s name means “light.” She truly was radiant. She lit up a room like a little ray of hope, a reminder of God’s love.  We are blessed to say that we got 5 ½ days with our daughter. And in those days with Lucy, God showed us the true power of love. We were able to spend time as a family of 4 – to show both of our daughters what unconditional love was and is. It’s a love so strong and so impassioned that it truly knows no bounds. An unconditional and uninhibited love. A love like there is no tomorrow.

I came across this quote from Beth Moore: “True love is not at all blind. When we are vessels of agape, our spiritual eyes will be open like never before, because only true love can really see… right into the heart of God.”

I don’t know if that speaks to you, but it sure speaks to me. The very miracle of Lucy has opened my eyes, given me purpose and given me hope. Do I understand why I lost her? No. Do I wish she was here in my arms? Of course. Have I wished that she was born without the disorder that took her life? Absolutely. But I also know that without it, well, frankly, she wouldn’t be my Lucy. She wouldn’t be my little Lucy that had the strength to ignite an absolute love fest of Godly proportions.

I still think every day about how I want people to see Lucy’s light in me. Because Lucy’s light is truly one lit by the love of God. Amidst the fear, the cold, the darkness, confusion and deep agony, we learned to love like no other. I want to share that love and that hope with others. Before I ever knew what Lucy’s fate would be, during pregnancy with her, I had said that prayer. I had promised to continue to follow God if He promised to show me the way. While the way hasn’t always been 100% clear at times, the path is surely lit with His love.

This coming Monday, October 15^th is Infant Loss Remembrance Day. At 7 pm around the world people will be lighting candles in honor of their babies that have been lost – it will be a wave of light. We’ll be lighting our candle for Lucy, and I encourage you all to light a candle in honor of your sweet little one. As we remember our babies, may we also take a moment to consider how we can let their memory shine through us. We have a chance to give back, to love in uninhibited ways, and to walk with purpose. I always think of the song, “this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.” 

I want to SHINE.

Thank you Lucy for being my daughter… you are a light in the darkness that will never go out. We love you so much. For living such a short little life here on this earth, you sure have an amazing purpose.

Your big sister Avery asked me if we could go on an airplane ride and come see you the other day. When I explained to her that it wasn’t that easy she thought for a minute and said, “How about a rocket ship?” Though we can’t take a plane or a rocket ship to heaven, we’ll send a butterfly into the sky in honor of you today.  I miss you so much and I can’t wait to see your face again one day.

Avery and her butterfly

Lucy's brick in the Our Children's Memorial Walkway

Me and Avery by Lucy's brick

More than a diagnosis

This past Sunday I reflected on where we were one year ago... that day might have been (officially?) the worst day of my life. After a stressful couple of days, we got Lucy's diagnosis of Trisomy 13 and very quickly learned that her condition was "not compatible with life" (even as she still lived and breathed before us). It slowly sank in that I could have lost her at any moment I was pregnant with her. I've said it before, and I'll say it again... I'm SO thankful God let me meet and know her. 

Sunday was a rough, rough day for me emotionally. I had prepared & braced myself for Lucy's birthday last week but I had not thought a lot about the diagnosis day. And it hurt. I just kept thinking "I'm so sorry, Lucy. I'm so sorry there was nothing I could do."

I found an article yesterday that I want to share. It is written by Dr. Keith Barrington, a Neonatal Doctor who has some advice for doctors & medical staff handling these kinds of Trisomy 13 or 18 diagnoses. We were so thankful to have the care that we did... a doctor who prayed with us and provided comfort, nurses who cared for our little girl and smiled genuine (yet pained) smiles when they saw us. Those people made it clear that our daughter mattered. Many families with trisomy children have NOT gotten this kind of care and love from the medical professionals they have encountered, and it's disturbing to me. They have even had people refer to their baby as a "T-13" baby and not use the baby's name. I'm thankful for Dr. Barrington (who wrote this article, "Our children are not a diagnosis") and I think he delivers sound advice to other Neonatal doctors and caretakers.

These Trisomy babies are absolute blessings to their families, and I am here to say that I wouldn't trade my "T-13" baby for any other baby in the whole wide world. The love that Lucy has taught us is helping us to impact others.

Yesterday was of course an emotional day, too. Exactly one year ago, Lucy went to be with Jesus. Yet, I think back and remember that it was a surprisingly peaceful moment in my life. Time stood completely still, and the world was perfectly quiet.

We held her, we bathed her, we made her foot imprints and snuggled her "one last time" before we left the hospital. I remember looking at her body and thinking, "She's not there anymore. She's somewhere better." I'll never forget walking out of the hospital the morning that Lucy died into the sticky July heat. I felt like the air was closing in around us, suffocating us. We drove home during morning traffic. I saw the people on their way to grab coffee, or heading into work and thought, "For these people it's just another day." For me, everything looked different. Everything felt significantly different. The day was sunny, muggy, sweaty and hot. I suppose I will never forget how it felt. I feel the intense heat sometimes, and that day comes back to me clearly.

There have been so many memories swirling around in my head lately and I've had a tough time expressing what I'm feeling. It seems like I have second- and third-guessed everything I have done. I know this is another piece of the grief process, and I'm just trying to heal like I need to. Thankful I have connected with other mothers who have been through this too, and I know it will continue to get easier.

The day before Lucy

One year ago I was 38 weeks pregnant. I walked into my high-risk OB’s office and sat through what felt like “just another ultrasound”– I had been getting them so frequently they were just feeling like routine at this point. They would check the baby and from time to time tell me something I didn’t want to hear… then they would say “see you in a couple weeks” and I’d leave. But this ultrasound/sonogram took too long. And the doctor and the tech were quiet – too quiet. They seemed to be communicating without saying a word and I remember screaming in my head, “Will somebody TELL ME SOMETHING?!” Instead, I asked some nervous questions that probably made no sense at all and tried to keep the mood light. Then the doctor grabbed my hand and said “I’m recommending induction to deliver…”

‘Oh, okay,' I thought… 'When do we want to schedule it…? I’m 38 weeks, so maybe next week?’ I stared, searching her eyes, ‘This week?’

Before I could offer MY suggestions she continued, “…TODAY. You’ll be induced today. I’m going to make a call to your OB right now and see how soon we can get you in.”

It hit me… something was wrong. And I didn’t know what to ask and I didn’t know what to say. She told me something about how the blood flow between baby and placenta was very low and the baby had stopped growing… and, well, they needed to deliver baby. She came back in after calling the regular OB on duty and told me to be back at the hospital in 4 hours to start the induction process. GULP. The baby would be delivered the following day.

Within an hour my parents had jumped in the car to make the 8-hour drive to be with Avery as we prepared a bag and got ready to spend the night at the hospital. Jeff was to pick Avery up and stay with her until they got there.

I despised the thought of being induced and was scared. But after I got used to the idea of the induction process, I became quite excited too. I remember thinking ‘I finally get to meet my baby! And dang it, my baby is going to prove you all wrong. My baby is going to be just perfect, you all just wait and see!’ We spent the evening being nervously excited, but there was a looming fear. We were told that an entire team from the Neonatal staff would be in the delivery room to check the baby when he or she arrived.

I think back and it’s surreal. That was the final day of my life before meeting Lucy. We joked, we read books and watched TV. We prayed. We were worried, but everything still felt “normal.” It was a perfect balance between hope and fear. I had to trust God – I had no other option.

Sometimes I wish I could have kept Lucy safe in my belly forever. Yet, I’m so grateful that they chose to induce me that day. It may have made the difference of how much time I got to spend with her. And, well, if 5 ½ days seemed like too little, then less time would have been even more heart-wrenching.

Last night I got to have dinner with my sister-in-law Jeanne (I picked up the Lucy Love Project blankets and will have more on that soon!). It always amazes me to hear others talk about when Lucy was born and describe how things were once she passed away. There is a sense of clarity to others’ experiences that was not there in my own experience, so I appreciate hearing it from someone else’s perspective. I want to know everything that was happening on and around her birth, and I want to hear how others processed what happened with her, with us. Because the moment Lucy was born, everything as we knew it changed.

I’m missing my baby girl today, but feeling blessed for the renewed hope and the focus on purpose that has been restored in my life through this journey. I don’t know how I would have slept a wink that night in the hospital (the night before Lucy’s birth) if I would have known just how her story, our story, would unfold. But I slept… peacefully, comfortably and secure in God’s loving embrace. And in the morning, I rose to meet the day that I would bring a very special little girl into the world. And even though the story wasn’t what I expected, she did prove them wrong. She was perfect.

I’m still resting and waiting for You, Lord. My heart still feels so broken, but I will use this brokenness to make a difference in the world.

“Why don’t you break my heart til it moves my hands and feet?” – Lyrics from the song “Love Come To Life” by Big Daddy Weave

The music of ACCEPTANCE

Ever find yourself just singing because it feels GOOD? You just feel comfortable and at ease in a moment and can sing out loud happily?

I used to be that person who sings all the time. While I'm in the shower, or tasking about the house... in my car, and in my head. In high school I was in chorus and show choir, performing on stage in front of people. I loved to be in the spotlight. My family used to sing on road trips. I've pretty much been surrounded by music my entire life and it always has come very easy to me.

I recently realized that after Lucy's death last summer I stopped listening to music as much, and I stopped singing. I especially stopped the mindless, happy singing. Even the humming had ceased. You know what made me realize that? Listening to my daughter sing her heart out. She does the "happy sing" thing that I LOVE. She just hums and bobs her head all the time, no matter what she is doing. If you say the word "nobody" in conversation, she will instantaneously bust out the Avett Brothers "Nobody knows what lies behind... the days before the day we die..." lyrics. Appropriate lyrics for an almost-three-year-old? Probably not. But I find it intriguing that she knows these lyrics and seems to sing them when I need them.

Over lunch with friends one day, Avery started singing "Lucy in the Sky" and one of the girls sitting near by (who didn't know about Lucy) said - "How cute, she's singing 'Lucy in the Sky!'" I just had to tell her about our Lucy - that song means so much to us, and it's more than just lyrics. I wanted Avery to know it's ok to talk about Lucy - even with people we don't know so well. The psychedelic daze of "Lucy in the Sky" kind of describes what portions of the last year have felt like in a way, too. Thinking back to even a couple months ago can be so trippy. Of course, Avery has the habit of inserting other words into songs when she wants, and I have overheard her singing "Lucy in the Sky... with angels." She just sings, she has no idea how these things affect me. I worry about what others will think sometimes, but from here on out, we will just be... different. And different can be special. I'm finally at a place where I find being different a more welcome commodity.

One of the things I loved to do with Avery when she was teeny was to dance around our family holding her and singing. I'm sad I was never able to do that with Lucy. One night a couple weeks ago, I was driving at night and I just felt Lucy's presence. And I just started SINGING. I sang out loud to Lucy hoping she could hear me. I wanted to just hold her, but I couldn't. I wanted to rock her to sleep, but I couldn't... so I just sang. And then an (albeit sad) sense of acceptance washed over me. I know she is safe. I know she is fine. It's just tough... me here on earth missing her.

I talk to Lucy all day long, in my mind and in my heart. It's actually kind of comforting knowing that I not only have my Jesus to talk to at every moment of every day, but I have my Lucy too. I sometimes even feel that I have an unspoken confidence I wear because of her constant presence in my life. I want to make both of my little girls proud.

I never knew I could do what I've done in the last year... If someone told me a year ago that I would lose my baby, I would have looked at them and said "I WILL NOT MAKE IT THROUGH." Now I've not only lost a baby, but I've reached a point where I can be "ok" with the sadness that lingers. I never want anyone else ever to go through what we have gone through. The grief, the pain - no, no one should ever have to go through it. But they will. I'm sure I've mentioned it before... the emotional impact of going back to Lucy's grave and seeing a new gravesite near her headstone is wrenching. To know that those parents are where we were months ago is just so sad. All they want to do is close the curtain and hide away for a bit, but there is a spotlight shining on them.

Remember that spotlight that I loved so much in high school? Well, when Lucy died I was thrust into a different kind of spotlight, and it was against my will. At the time, a client of mine who had been through something similar told me that people would be looking to me to see how I handled things - that people would just naturally look to me to see what I was made of.  I started realizing that people were talking about our family (even in nice ways), and I was SCARED. I didn't want to be in the spotlight and I guess I had a serious case of stage fright. I opened my mouth to "sing" and nothing came out. I had to dig very, very deep. I still have to.

I don't know what others see in me. Some say they want my kind of faith, and to those people I say, "you can have it - it's always available." It doesn't have to take a sad and traumatic event to get you there. This experience has allowed me to sit back and let God take the reigns a lot more than I ever have before, but that doesn't mean it's easy. I don't think it's supposed to be easy. Without the challenges life brings us we may not feel as much need for God, and we wouldn't have to rely on our faith.

As I get to a point of acceptance in my life, I've been trying to add that music back in. Music allows tears, and it allows unabashed happiness, too. It allows you to express yourself. I think I've been frightened of the emotions that come with putting all that back in my life. I've been suppressing the pain, or been feeling guilty of the smiles. In the car, 9 times out of 10 I was listening to pure silence. If I flipped on the radio, there was a chance I'd lose it. A word or tune could release the emotional floodgates. Or, even the "normalcy" I could hear would enrage me. Yet I'm finding that when I let my emotions go a little bit, even when it surprises or embarrasses me, there is healing.

Singing takes some effort now. It's not something that comes so naturally for me anymore, and I can be self-conscious. But, I've found myself humming tunes aloud, and it feels warm and familiar. I will allow myself to sing. I will allow myself to heal. And maybe, in a way, my writing has served as a way for me to pull back that dusty curtain back and give the performance of a lifetime... by simply sharing a piece of my soul with you. It just wasn't the final performance I set out for in the beginning.

Ah, motherhood

I’ve always known I wanted to be a mother. Little did I know what becoming a mom would do to me as a person. It has changed me in ways I never knew possible. I ache for those that are struggling with becoming pregnant for I know it doesn’t always come “easy.” I have been truly blessed with two little angels (one here on earth and one in heaven) that have made me a mother.

From the first positive pregnancy test each time… to the feeling of the first official kicks in my belly… to the meeting of each of my daughters face to face… My journey of motherhood has been a beautiful process full of hope, yearning, fear, dreaming and loving.

Nothing truly prepares you for motherhood. No person can give you all the advice or foresight. No book will tell you everything you need to know or do. You just figure it out when you get there, step by step. I have so enjoyed the learning experience and the life-lessons that my daughters have taught me.

Motherhood is a great gift. And now that I know what it means to love and lose a child, it’s holds even greater value in my heart.

Motherhood means giving like there is no tomorrow.

It means taking time to stop and enjoy the simple things.

It means kissing and hugging in immeasurable amounts.

It means always striving to be the best and “messing up” from time to time.

It means taking on tasks that may not always be pleasant & that you don’t always get a “thank you” for.

It means doubting yourself and your methods.

It means leaning on other mothers to help.

It means worrying about irrational things.

It means having to think fast.

It means being able take pride in a little person who looks up to you.

It means speaking with respect and setting the best example.

It means having patience.

It means protecting and also being able to let go.

It means embracing unconditional love.

It’s amazing to me thinking about my mom doing all of this for me as a child, but yet I realize she is still doing it today. A couple years ago, as I struggled getting back to work after having Avery, I told her in an email that I didn’t want her worrying about me. She replied: “Don’t worry about me worrying – as you will learn, that’s just what mothers do and it’s a long term contract!”

As Avery gets to each stage in her life, I always think “how was I as a child at that age?” Today she is wearing a pair of overalls that I wore as a little girl and it’s so weird to think about me being that size now that I’m all “grown up.” It’s hard to imagine MY little girl all grown up! I wonder what kind of person will she be? That leads me to ponder the tremendous responsibility we have to instill in her all the right things from the get-go.

I must also say that thinking about all of this also makes me incredibly sad that I’m not getting to see Lucy go through all of the stages of being a baby, a child, and beyond. As we will all get older, she will always be a baby here on earth. My arms feel so empty without her.

Yet, I can’t help but be thankful. Jeff and Avery are amazing and keep me going. God is faithful and provides the peace I need. I can find joy in everyday things. Just the fact that Avery has started calling me “Mama” melts my heart. It sounds sweet like honey coming out of her lips. I don’t know when she stopped calling me “Mommy” and started saying “Mama” but I find it so endearing. She also has a habit of asking, “You wanna cuddle up?” when we read or watch a show together. I’m pretty sure you can guess my answer every time. J

I am so glad to have signed that long term contract for a job titled “mother.” No single thing prepared me for it. Nobody gave me all the advice I’d need. No book told me what I needed to know or do. I knew the instant that I met both Avery and Lucy that I’d do everything possible to be the best mother I could be.

With Avery - 6/10/2009

With Lucy - 7/19/2011

In the moment when I met each of my girls, I just stretched out my arms, held them tight and promised them I’d love them forever. THAT is a promise this mama can keep.

Life unexpected...

I wanted to share the below blog post written by a mother whose daughter was born with Down Syndrome. I originally found her blog last year when I was pregnant with Lucy, and reading it I was an emotional train wreck (if you follow the blog link, be warned - you will need a box of tissues on hand).

http://www.kellehampton.com/2010/01/nella-cordelia-birth-story.html

I went back to re-read this blog post about her daughter's birth story last night when I heard the author, Kelle Hampton, had also just released a book, called Bloom.

I appreciate the honesty & raw emotion that Hampton shows through her writing. We just never know what tomorrow holds, do we? I look forward to hopefully reading her book soon.