Three

I can still taste the longing.

The want tinged with bitterness.

The betrayal every. single. month.

I can still feel the peace.

The reluctant letting go.

The opening of my hands.

I can still remember the refusal to admit it.

The terror/awe/fear/delight.

The sheer joy.

And here she is, now, today. Three years old. Every inch of her a miracle-- just like every other child who has ever been conceived, no matter the circumstances.

But this miracle? This one is ours. This one was gifted to our family even after words failed and hearts were made whole again.

This one sits at my table and sings "Amazing Grace." This one is the pickiest dresser ever. This one dances all day, every day.

This one is Seven, and it's her birthday. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for bringing her to us. And thank you to every loyal reader who remembers the days of brokenness and prayer and who walked alongside me. Celebrate with us!

Held, four years later

Today--October 15th--is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.

In the past, I have sat alone and pondered the emptiness and loss with aching arms and a grieving soul. With shaky hands, I scrolled the archives of my blog until I found this post, which I read solemnly, quietly, waiting for more tears to come.

This year, there were tears, too-- but they were the tears of someone who has been given eyes to see. As I thought about the years of fruitlessness, I pressed my newborn daughter to my breast and breathed in the scent of her sweet baby head. Not my will, God ... but yours.


Nothing can take back the pain I have felt. No one--not even my beautiful little Seven-- can replace the little ones I never got to hold. But it's true: time, growth, and new blessings can ease some of the hurt.


I still remember. I still mourn. But I do so with new hope. I am, after all, still being held.

Known

My birthday gift, three weeks early: the fabulous, fancy, SLR camera I have been coveting for a year. I hold its heavy, boxy black body in my hand, caress the lens, fiddle with one of the countless switches and doodads that adorn its solid sides.

Seven is sleeping on my bed, her pink mouth drawn into a perfect bow, her little brow knit into a serious arch above her flitting baby eyes.

I tell Mr. Blandings thank you with my eyes and my words. I hug him as tightly as I can and kiss him with one of those just-for-married-folks kisses. It is a good feeling, this being loved beyond measure.

"I know it cost a fortune!" I say to him, pulling back and admiring, yet again, the camera of my dreams--the one I will take countless photos of my growing children with. The one I will lug on camping trips, to the zoo, on playdates, to swim lessons. The one that will capture and preserve the salad days of my life.

"You've waited a long time," he says, stroking my cheek.

"A year isn't that long," I smile, thinking of all of the "things" we have decided to wait on or let go. A year, really, is nothing. A camera ... even less.


"Not for the camera," he says then, and glances over his shoulder to where our baby is curled on her side, sleeping blissfully in her pink onesie, wrapped in her striped pink blanket.


A long time. Yes. Four years. Forty-eight months, many miscarriages, weeks upon weeks of ache. Many days, as I journeyed through infertility and loss, I felt alone. I felt abandoned, broken, and forgotten. No one, I was sure, could understand. No one saw the hurt. 


I was wrong.

Monsoon season

Mr. Blandings and Bee, whose visa is up for approval again.

For long, burning years, I lived in drought.

My heart yearned, my soul ached, and I suffered, daily, through a thirst that man could not satiate. Lord, please take this desire from me. Give me contentment with where I am. I have three children; who am I to ask for more? Take this burden from me, or give me relief, Jesus.

From the spring of 2004 until the spring of 2008, I anguished. There were periods of blessed respite, times when I felt strong enough to embrace other people's babies, to rejoice at the news of new arrivals in this world, to attend a baby shower without breaking down into tears. I lived for those times. But the rest of my days were punctuated by realizations, anew, of the grief that never quite left me and the God who would neither lift my longing nor fill the cup I extended.

Those were hard, lean years that honed my faith into something that I never could have achieved otherwise. I am thankful, in retrospect, for every tear I shed, every bitterness I had to overcome, and every moment I had to acknowledge that God was God ... and I, most certainly, was not.

And now, of course, I find myself in a different place. If those four long years were ones marked by the desperate, dry drought, well ... the past two and a half have been marked by a different gift altogether. Monsoon.

Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. --Luke 6:38

I can see clearly now why the Lord seemed to ignore my pleas for peace in matters of family size; His plan, farther reaching than I could imagine, had to have a firm root in my heart in order for me to truly lay down my own desires and follow His leading. God didn't want me to desire a baby. God wanted me to build a family. And there is no room for self-seeking fulfillment in the building of a family. It's not about "being pregnant". It's not about "giving birth." It's about more than that--the death of self and the love of what God has built for His own glory.

I entered this monsoon season completely unsure of what God would bring my way. With the addition of Oliver to our home, I hit my knees in gratitude. I sang like Hannah. I praised the Lord, who had taken notice of me and turned my tears into laughter. For all I knew, Oliver was the last little one I would ever hold, and you know ... I was fine with that. One was enough. One more little person showed me that my longing was from the Lord, that it was not a vain ambition, but it was something that God had blessed and ordained.

Then there was Mani. I was over-the-moon thrilled, unable to put my elation into words. Finally, one morning a few days after he had come to us, I was reading the story of David accompanying the ark and came to the line where David is said to "dance before the Lord with all his might." And for the first time, I understood that kind of joy. God had heard me, and blessed me twice. What a mighty God we serve!

Who was I to ask or expect anything more from God? I rejoiced in my gifts, gave thanks, and prepared to move into a new season of life.

But God was not finished pressing down the measure.

Mr. Blandings met Bee, and knew she was our daughter.

Then this woman, whose heart had finally accepted that her body was no longer a vessel for bringing life into the world, found out that God had placed His hand of protection over her and a new little one.

From three to seven. Monsoon.

This morning, we received joyful news. Not only am I now at the relatively "safe" 32 week point, at which Seven's little lungs will require so much less assistance were he or she to be born now, but, adding to our joy, is the fact that Bee's visa is up for consideration again. Her interview went very well. So well, in fat, that the embassy has asked her to come back again. There is hope! God is working on our behalf.

He always is, of course. We just often can't or won't see it. During the drought, I cried out to God countless times. Where are you? Why aren't you answering?

He was there. He was answering. Just not in the way I wanted to hear.

Maybe it is the Lord's plan that, as Seven is born, we will welcome Bee home as well. Wouldn't it be amazing to have that full measure poured into my lap all at once? Two adoptions, done. One birth, gifted to you. And a visa, yes. All in a few weeks--not even months--time!

If the definition of a monsoon is a sudden glut of much-needed water, then I am, happily, swimming in it. We know that many people look on in horror as we laugh yet again at God's abundance in this area of our life. Please don't ask us to disparage His timing, His generosity, or His plan. Because we were parched, and now we drink deeply. We asked, and we have received. The Lord has seen fit to pour out His blessings, and we, His humble servants accept them with gratitude!

Curls where once there were none

I discovered two days ago that despite growing up with stick-straight hair, despite having invested plenty of hours in styling chairs enduring perms and other such tortures in my earlier days ... I now have curly hair.

Yeah, you could have knocked me over with a feather, too. Come to find out my hormone-ravaged, infertile self has begun to manifest symptoms of said hormone ravaging in my hair, of all places.

I discovered this while at a salon, having my bi-annual "I want to be s@xy!" trim. The stylist who gave me my new, shorter 'do was nice enough to blow my hair out on Monday. She also added a little of hair serum this, and a touch of hair putty that before grabbing a wicked-looking flattening iron and smacking my suddenly sproing-y locks into submission. Since I walked in with relatively straight, long, stringy-ish hair (thanks to it's length, weight and the nice blow-drying I'd given it an hour before hand), I was fine with walking out with hair that was lovely, flat, bobbed and sleek.

What I wasn't prepared for was the morning after. Unsuspecting (despite having seen the corkscrews that had covered my head after the trim), I climbed into the shower, shampooed and stepped out. It was only after giving my head a vigorous toweling that I looked in the mirror and well ... I'll be honest ... I freaked.

Completely unsure as to what I should do with this head full of twists and loops, I grabbed the can of mousse that I use on my kids for AWANA Crazy Hair Night each year and rubbed some in to my wet hair. Then I grabbed my trusty blow dryer and went to work.

Now, if you have had curly hair all of your life, you can go ahead and laugh and I will not hate you. If you have straight hair and know what happens, well ... just you remember: pride goeth before a fall. I guess I deserve the good mocking I'm going to get here, but---

The fact is, I had no idea what was about to happen. Within minutes, though, I saw my mistake. That funky, string-y look I'd been annoyed with for the past two years with my long hair was back, but in a shorter, frizzier version. And with more attitude.

I tried to straighten the end result with a cheap flattening iron I'd picked up at Target for $8. It was clearly not up to the task at hand. In desperation, I re-washed my hair, lightly toweled it and tucked the ends behind my ears. I walked around like this all day, occasionally spotting myself in a mirror and wondering who this curly-headed freak thought she was, wearing my new pink Old Navy shirt. The nerve on that girl!

I admit to obsessing over the whole thing yesterday. I called my mom--a lifelong hairdresser--and asked her opinion as to why it happened (confirmed via internet, see above) and how to handle it. I called my husband, whose hair is kinky curly. I called a good friend who has super-curly hair, as well as my cousin, whose curls I secretly coveted throughout childhood. Everyone had the same advice: embrace the curls. And for goodness sake, quit blow drying them!

This morning, acting on a tip from friend T., I skipped my morning shampoo and instead rubbed some de-frizzer into the ends of my hair before zapping them with the flat iron. While the effect is nowhere near as polished as the look my stylist whipped up on Monday, it's not bad. Time-wise, it evens out, I guess: I spent about ten minutes on my hair, which is about the length of a nice shower. That's doable.

I'm still trying to get used to the whole idea, though. To have spent your entire life knowing one thing about yourself, then suddenly having it changed, well ... it's an odd sensation. I guess it has me wondering what else I have missed.

Infertility is...

... no longer even having an inkling that you might, somehow, maybe, possibly be pregnant during those last two weeks of your cycle.

Infertility is...

Hating the phrase, "...and we weren't even trying!" even when you love the people that are saying it.

Infertility is...

... announcing someone else's good news to your husband, hearing a long pause, and then the dear man asking, "How are you, love?"

Asking

I don't know which is worse: the constant asking, or the inherent defeatism in not being asked.

I've realized lately that people have quit looking at me sideways every time I say my stomach is feeling funky or that I have to run to the restroom. I don't know if they've tired of asking or what. Chances are good they're just not hardy enough to keep hearing the answer. I know I wouldn't want to hear it over and over again.

In other words, no, I am not pregnant.

Eleven months. Sometime in early summer I quit keeping track of the months as they slipped by. I was all too aware that I was costing myself a shred of sanity every 32 days or so. It just didn't seem worthwhile.

And I'm o.k. that the Lord has closed my womb for this season. I'm o.k. knowing that this doesn't mean He won't give us a biological child down the road. And I'm o.k. knowing that He may never grant us that blessing again.

Well ... except when I'm not.

Pursuing adoption has been a bit of a salve. It's a separate but equal kind of thing--one doesn't outweigh the other and one isn't more on my heart than the other. But I will admit that it takes my eyes off my own belly and keeps them on the Lord.

So no, I'm not pregnant. And it's o.k. to ask. Or not. Whatever works for you.

Babies "r"n't Us

I went to Babies 'R' Us today. It was the first time I'd been there in years. I can remember haunting the place when I was expecting Jo; eyeing the adorable little crib sets I couldn't afford, dreaming about the perfect bassinet and wondering if the wee person growing in my belly would prefer the monitor that had sound and lights, or just sound. Somewhere around her first birthday, I found that it just wasn't very fun to take her there anymore. The baby of my dreams and the little soul entrusted to me by God didn't actually line up all that well, and I was beginning to see that that was precisely the point the Lord was trying to impress upon me. As it turns out, she didn't care which monitor we chose anymore that He did.

But I digress.

So, I went to Babies 'R' Us today. It was very much the same as it was a decade ago, when I was venturing into new motherhood. You can still buy wipe warmers and a frightening number of appliances meant to mimic the sensation of being in a mother's arms. There are things you actually need there, too. Like ... well ... diapers. Although, I admit I'm not as keen on disposables as I used to be. But again, I digress.

So ... I went to Babies 'R' Us today.

Oh, come on! Aren't you going to ask what I was doing in Babies 'R' Us?!?!

I was there with my best friend, J. She is the proud momma of three of the cutest boys I've ever seen that don't live under my roof. We were there to look for a shower gift for a friend of hers. And to see if they had any adoption-themed baby books.

For my family, of course.

Yep. After walking away from a disasterous Russian adoption proccess nearly two years ago, we have decided to quit putting our hands over our ears when God talks to us about adding to our family through adoption. We attended a retreat about foster/adopt last weekend and are going ahead with the process. God willing, sometimes in 2007, our family will expand by a little one or two.

So I went to Babies 'R' Us today. And for the first time in a long time, I was an expectant mommy, too. ;-) And while I don't see myself springing for the Guaranteed-To-Soothe-Your-Cranky with Brain-Enhancing Music and Stimulating Colors Deluxe swing ... it was kind of fun to look.

Avoiding

O.k., enough with the emails. ;-) I am fine. Just been avoiding my blog because I associate it with Gloria ... and the due date was Tuesday ... and I don't have a little baby girl in my arms ...

Rollercoaster

I'm riding a rollercoaster. I don't want to be on it. In fact, I promised myself I wouldn't even get on it. And yet here I am ... buckled in, bracing for the break-neck speed and the stomach-churning drop.

I'm talking about trying to conceive. Honestly, I'm not good at trying. And really, I don't want to be trying. I want to be "Let Go And Let God" ... but it isn't working.

My first child was actually conceived while I was on the pill. When she turned 2, it felt like it was time for another, so we stopped using bc. Boom! Pregnant. Number three was conceived while trying to avoid pregnancy. So really ... I haven't ever tried. Babies have always just come ... with or without my consent.

Well, now the Lord has gotten my full consent. I'm not resigned to more children---I long for them. But I want them to be His gifts, in His time. I want to wait patiently on Him. I want to be an open vessel. I want to be the good, godly woman. I want to be the obedient servant.

But I just can't manage it.

Ever since losing Gloria, I have found myself plotting, counting, calculating and figuring. If we try on *this* day ... Maybe *today* ... Is this????

Ugh. It's a terrible feeling, and I don't want it. Stop the ride ... I wanna get off!

But I just can't. I'm in the thick of it again right now. I can't remove the biological information from my brain. I knew the dates, we ...uh .... tried to conceive. And now I am stuck waiting, and wondering. Second guessing every twinge, every bubble, every possible symptom.

Again.

I did this last month. And the month before. I'm starting to get good at the anxiety. Hey, I don't even need the on-line calculators anymore!

If anyone's been here and managed to jump from the moving train, let me know. It just doesn't feel like waiting on God. It feels more like whining at Him. And I just don't want to be here.

Sadness

Well, I made quite a fool out of myself Saturday evening. My husband says I pulled it off pretty well, but I still say I made a fool out of myself. At a friend's house, I ended up in a perfectly normal conversation about nursing. The conversation actually centered on the less-desirable aspects of breastfeeding--namely, biting. One second I was explaining that I'd never really experienced anything beyond the accidental bite from my three ... The next minute, I felt a huge wave of sorrow. Before I knew it, my lip was quivering, and I was just unable to talk. I managed to fight it down, but I knew that I couldn't hold back the flood forever. I HAD to get out of there and have the breakdown that was coming! I manged to find my DH and tell him I had to leave. This was news to him, since we were supposed to stay late and play games while the kids bedded down in sleeping bags in an extra room. This was news to our hostess, too ... who I couldn't even explain my sudden change of plans to without the fear of falling to pieces. I went home and cried in my bathroom while DH put the kids to bed. I had to be alone ... couldn't even flush all the emotions with my precious husband. It had to be just me. I cleaned up the mess of my breakdown--talking to DH, calling my friend the next mornings, etc. And honestly, I feel better. I was even approached by three people at church on Sunday with much-belated congrats on our pregnancy and shared the news of the loss without too much heartbreak. I guess this is something that will just continue to pass over me in waves.