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.

Be still my heart

Manolin stole my heart from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Keeping in mind that our first "meeting" was in the form of my being handed a studio portrait of him as a three month-old dressed in a little brown monkey costume, I think you can tell the power this little man has over me.

Those big brown eyes ...

 The thumb-sucking ...

The passionate attachment to his ratty ni-ni blanket ...

The all-encompassing joy that lights up his entire face ...

 The pseudo-shy, flirty little boy love that he uses to charm the dickens out of everyone who crosses his path ...

Manolin is nothing short of the epitome of toddlerhood. Unbridled energy, unfettered courage, curiosity in spades, and an appetite for everything the world has to offer. 


People always tell adoptive parents how "lucky" our kids are that they found homes. Take another look at these pictures of Mani ... and tell me--who's the lucky one?

Classic Books and Bairns

Since I'm not posting quite regularly (it's a lot harder to type one-handed than I remember!), I thought I'd link to this classic MG rant. It's an oldie, yes ... but it still makes me laugh to remember the night in question!

All I want for Christmas is my dignity, circa 2007.

Hello, my name is Mary Grace ...

... and I'm addicted to cloth diapers.


Who knew that something so simple would create such an obsession? Who knew that something designed to catch youknowwhat could be so much fun?


Having a new baby--a baby girl, might I add--in the house has made this obsession all the more virulent. Turns out that no, I am not above forking out money for pink diaper covers that would be rendered completely useless on a male child. Gender neutral? Yes, please. But can you throw something pink or frilly in there, too?

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.

Newborn pics

When Jo was born, we were desperately poor. Twenty dollars a week for groceries poor. You have no business having a baby poor. Clearly, we made it. But no, there was no room in the budget for anything extra. Heck, there was no room in the budget for half of the essentials.


I went through that amazing, God-sent pregnancy regretting so many things that I would have loved to experience. I listened to people talk about their little babymoon getaways, and plan out their elaborate nurseries, and pick up sweet little outfits, and my heart ached. I felt like somehow, I was missing out. Then Jo was born, and I realized that I could have been in a mud hut with nothing but a straw mat to sleep on and my husband by my side, my baby in my arms ... and I would have still been blissfully happy.


The only thing I walked away feeling like I would have liked to have done differently was the photographs of that time. Thirteen years ago, most of the public was still shooting film. It was the age of the awful point-and-shoot. Stand four feet from your subject, hope the focus is right, and hit the button. Sometimes you got the shot. Sometimes you didn't. You had no idea until the photos came back from the drug store--or, if you were poor like me, you had no idea until the relatives sent you their cast-offs ... and those slightly out of focus or badly lit images are what your memories are made of to this day.

This was a special tragedy to me because in college, photography was one of my favorite hobbies. I lugged my cheap, clunky Pentax with me everywhere. I spent hours in cramped darkrooms. I even entertained going to photography school for a while, but followed the advice of a dear friend who said, "Becoming a photographer was the best way to kill my love of taking good pictures."


Being dirt poor, however, meant no money to buy decent film. No access to processing chemicals. Nothing. Because folks, photography is a pricey hobby.


Things were better--both financially and photographically--with Atticus and Logan. I could buy our own film for our little point and shoot, and sometimes, I even got it processed. We got our very first digital camera when Logan was seven months old, and from there, things were, well--a lot clearer. From the moment we were placed with Oli and Mani, we've had decent shots. Eight years of digital. Woo-hoo!


But still, the newborn days were gone. And you know, I've been saddened by that on many an occasion. Mr. Blandings doesn't understand this pang, but maybe some other mothers will. The window of time when your babies are sweet, sleeping little peanuts is so short. You can never get it back. But, if you're blessed, you can at least look back on proof that the time existed. 

This time, I told myself that I would have the proof.


I started shopping for a photographer mid-way through my pregnancy with Seven. There are so many styles, so many approaches, so much to choose from. I decided that I wanted shots of just my baby, despite the obvious beauty of the lovely Momma and Baby themes, or even the Family and Baby approach. Along the way, I fell in love with Renee Bergeron's work. And, generously, she worked with me to preserve my memories of this beautiful, fleeting time with Seven.


Renee has posted a sampling of some of the shots on her photo blog, and I'm delighted to share them with you. I'm also happy to pass on a hearty endorsement of her as a photographer. Not only is her work incredible, but she's just a neat person all around--someone you want to sip coffee with and get to know better. If you're in the market for a professional photographer, drop her a line.


Trust me, you'll be glad you did. Memories are precious. But the photos to back up those once-in-a-lifetime mental images are just as priceless.

13

On Sunday, Jo will cross the line that separates girls from young ladies. She will, officially, be 13.



I keep shaking my head in wonder, awed at the fact that the little girl who once refused to wear anything but Snow White costume to the grocery store is suddenly borrowing my t-shirts, loaning me hair bands, and asking if she can make brownies for dessert since she has nothing else to do.

There's a certain sense of the surreal, too, with a newborn baby girl in the house just as Jo teeters on the  edge of growing up. Seven is a very real reminder of all that we've already walked through with Jo, from the late night feedings to the obsession with horses, from the trimming of tiny fingernails to the countless rounds of "Chutes and Ladders." 

Jo and Atticus at Fair

I can't believe it's all in the past, that that part of parenting my very first little girl has already slipped by me. And how is it that the knowledge that I was there for all of it somehow make it seem all the more bittersweet? I listened as she learned to read. I taught her to knit. I held her hand at the orthodontist's office. I have been a constant in her life. And yet, the balance of time she has left when she will define herself as someone's daughter first and foremost is shifting. Our relationship is changing. 


She doesn't need me any less. I have to keep reminding myself of this as I see her balance so much more than I ever expected at this age. The peculiar thing about many homeschooled children is that they mature in terms of responsibility so much faster that their traditionally schooled peers, even as they lag behind in some of the more worldly aspects of life. Jo is clueless about most popular music and flavor-of-the-moment icons of her generation. It would never occur to her to ask for a cell phone or to "hang out" at a mall. But she runs a small, profitable rabbitry with a clear head and sets personal goals better than most adults I know. She is trustworthy, honest to a fault, and kind. These, I think, are the worthier things for a teen to pursue.


But yes, she needs me. My job is nowhere near done. Now is the time for coaching, encouraging, mentoring, refining. This is the season where I get to engage on a whole new level with the young lady my daughter is becoming. My Jo is turning 13. What a wonderful gift to celebrate!