It's no fairy tale.

Once upon a time, this blog space was used to write about, my daily mundane activities. Once upon a time I posted pictures with stories about how I gave the dog a flea bath, or how my back window is smugdy with fingerprints. (Google doesn't like the word smudgy. Oh google, you obviously don't have children...)

Then September of 2010, my blog grew a heavy heart. This became a place where I could share the story of my daughter, when the world barely got to know her. I hoped if anyone visited regularly, it'd be my family. So they might be able to understand what we were going through behind closed doors. That they might want to continue remembering Savannah with us. Along side us. And more than anything it was a place where I could write, and come back to, just so I could remember her. So I could remember her story. So I could feel her again and again and again. I wanted to shout from the highest mountain, and for people to not just hear me, but truly listen. "This is what a year without our baby was like." And quicker than I ever could have imagined, that year was gone. But incredibly, as a mother, as her mother, my grief did not stop there. Everyday is a new day. Everyday I am given reasons to smile. Everyday I wake to my beautiful children. The ones who wadded the storm with us, and the one whom followed our goodbye. Everyday is a reminder that God does love us. And everyday there is something out there that remind us of her.

The word "grief" will always hover. It will never be as suffocating as it was the first week, the first month, or the first year, but it will always be there. Because she very much does reside in our hearts. She will never ever go away. So you can think, that because I choose to still write about her, I have no hope. You can think that because her pictures still and will always hang in our home, that I need to let it go. You can worry about me, tire of me speaking her name, or smile awkwardly when I acknowledge my deceased daughter as my child. I am okay with that. But this is apart of my story, and you have never (or that I hope) walked in my shoes. You never kissed Savannah's tiny quarter sized hand. You never kissed her cold, yet still chubby cheeks. You did not carry her, deliver her, or love her anywhere near the way that I do.

I have never walked in any other mother's shoes. I don't know their grief. I know my own. And it will always be there. As long as I am her mother.

I received a junk email the other day. Asking me, "would you like to boost traffic to your blog?" It listed suggestions on how to do just that. Post everyday. Being my family, are usually the people who don't read my blog, no one really wants to hear that we went camping, were mauled by mosquitoes, and froze to death. And no one really wants to hear that my mothers day was spent mostly crying. -Post pictures in every blog. My blog is mainly about living life without Savannah. My pictures are limited. There will never be new pictures of her. I take a picture of her gravesite at every visit, but to others, one headstone picture is plenty.

A few days before mother's day, my mother-in-law finally got a chance to give us copies of the pictures she took of Savannah, when she came to see all three of us at UC Davis. I had never seen any of them. There were fifteen. The last "new" fifteen pictures I will ever see of my daughter in my life. So here you go junk email. A picture on my post. I really don't think it will boost my traffic though...

This mothers day was not easy for me. A week before I overheard a contest on the radio. I turned up the volume to listen.

"Call in and tell us YOUR perfect mother's day.

One lucky winner will get their dream day."

They then played an example "wish" from a caller. Not to be surprised, as mother's day is actually very superficial...

"You see, I truly love my two girls....

But I would love an evening with just my husband.

We would take a helicopter ride over the city,

and eat dinner at a restaurant we could never afford otherwise."

My husband asked, "what would your perfect mother's day be?"

I dunno I shrugged, and turned the radio down.

Obviously I didn't win. Because obviously I didn't call in. May 13th, I woke up and took a shower. Then proceeded to sob as I told my husband about why I was hurting so badly. I said, "that radio contest. They said to describe your perfect mothers day. If I called in all I would say would be, I just want my baby back. And you know what. I know they would never ever pick me as the winner."

Mother's Day is about being a mother. You are always acknowledged for the living children you have. Expectant mothers are even acknowledged. But mother's day is a painful reminder for mothers who are and always will be missing one. I am Savannah's mother too. And I will never have my perfect mothers day. Another example of how I will always carry this grief in my pocket. My mothers day, the mothers day for women who loved and lost, will never be perfect again. Because our lives? It's no fairy tale.  

 

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen, nor touched, 

but are felt in the heart" 

- Helen Keller

Rockin' my baby, cause babies don't keep.

I read a blog post tonight. About a woman staring at the front door as her seventeen year old breezed past on the way to work. About how she would give anything to have one more moment of rocking her now large boy to sleep. To nurse him, and nurture him one last time.

As my three month old, blue eyed, snoring little man lay swaddled next to me I realized something. I do not have a seventeen year old boy yet. I don't even have a seventeen year old girl yet. But I do have children. And three of my four children do not require me to rock them, nurse them, and nurture them to sleep.

I also have heard many different parenting philosophies. "Don't hold that baby so much, your teaching them bad habits." As if holding your child close is like picking a wedgie... "Doesn't that child have a bed?" As if cradling a sleeping infant in your arms is an inconvenience to others.... I even once, believe it or not, was scolded for bringing my daughter to the dinner table. My first baby, and in carrying her swing to the table so she could be apart of our family gathering, was told that "it was strange and the baby should be in the other room." As if she was an unruly pet...

For me personally, I think everyone is entitled to their own parenting styles, and preferences. With the exception for child abuse or child neglect. Those are the only times I believe someone should step in. When in actuality, it seems more taboo to confront those types of situations, than it is for grandparents, random strangers even, to solicit advice to parents because they "hold their child/ren too much."

Last year, when the kids were attending a charter school up the road from us, Sarah one day came home and told me a little boy in her class didn't have a lunch and was hungry. Being she has such a compassion for others, she shared her lunch with this fellow classmate. It wasn't for a bit until I learned this was a regular occurance. I began packing extra food in her lunch box, and proceeded to mention it to the teacher. She told me she wasn't aware, but she would look into it. A week or so later, when I asked Sarah she told me he still was still sharing lunches with the kids in her class. How can a child go hungry for an entire school year, unnoticed?

I'm not saying my children have never cried, whined, or had a "terrible-two-temper-tantrum." They have. I have a Brody. And Brody can cry (even now) if he hears the sky is blue. Okay maybe that is a little extreme, but you catch my drift. I'm not telling you that "your way is wrong and mine is right." (Insert frantic finger shaking) Because my way isn't perfect. There is no such thing. I can't stand hearing people standing on their soapboxes shouting "my ideas and opinions are right, and if you don't agree you are a bad parent." All I am saying is time is short. Rock your babies. Because in a few short years they won't be babies. They will be venturing off on their wobbly, unsteady legs, ready to explore the world on their own. And every step they take is one more step away from needing your arms to be their everything. Like this mother's blog I read tonight, in what only seems like a few short years from those teetering legs, you will be left with nothing but a front door... As they drive themselves to work...

I think I am going to wake up my Davis now, just so I can rock him back to sleep. You know, because I hold him too much anyways. Goodnight all. 

We do it with love.

Yesterday, and for the very first time in my life, I met a blogging friend. Face to face. Charis (pronounced Ka-Reese) over at, at the gate called beautiful, has been so kind and encouraging as I wrote about life with Savannah. Or life there after.

See, her and her husband, just welcomed their fifth addition into their family. Hosea. Oh he is beautiful. Truly perfect. (Go visit her page, and you will see just how adorable he is!) She is truly a woman after my own heart, having five precious little ones, and a marriage that is few and far between these days. By that I mean, a genuine, real, true love kind of thing.

She made Davis the sweetest little crocheted hat when he was born. She sent some of her own little hand me down clothes, and really made me feel that Davis was loved; Treasured; Adored.

Don't mind the yucky camera phone picture!

I know, I know. Isn't the hat adorable?! She took time from her own life... her own busy, pregnant, (at the time) mommy life, to make something, for my tiny (at the time) baby. 

So obviously I couldn't resist to do the exact same. I made sweet Hosea a teal, and brown blanket covered in wide eyed owls. (Owls are in. And owls are cute. Just so you know.) At first I wandered aimlessly up and down the isles of Joann fabrics, looking for something with giraffes. You know, because giraffes are Savannah's thing. I wanted to share a piece of what makes me think of Savannah, a deep seeded piece of my heart, with this loved, treasured, adored baby to be. But just as I have come to find, "giraffe" is not so easy to find in "boy." It is right now, a very popular "girl" attire. And I will be completely honest, it breaks my heart over and over again, when I see the giraffy print girly things...Outfits, blankets, towels, socks, pants, pacifiers, bottles, nursery decor... trust me when I say, the list goes on and on. 

Hello sweet girl!

There are times that I do though, want to share what made Savannah, Savannah, with others. And Hosea's blanket was definitely one of those times. Yet again, and not much to my surprise anymore, there was not a single giraffe fabric, that could even be "gender neutral." We spent at least an hour, my four children and I that is, examining every last fabric for the potential snuggled recipient. On our last rounds, feeling very much like Goldie Locks," I found the owls. And the owls found me. The owls were Davis approved. And baby approved is like a five star rating in my book. ;)

As I drove that blanket over to her house last night, I was giddy. And a little nervous. Here I was about to meet a friend, one I felt like I knew already, yet I had never once been in her presence. We pulled onto her street, and I instantly saw her mini van parked in the garage. (Minivan families unite!) I got out of MY minivan, and of course unloaded Davis from his car seat. My heart smiled as I walked to the door and could hear the voices of numerous little boys. Did I neglect to mention, all five of her children are BOYS?! 

I. love. it!

We chatted for a bit, and I was thrilled to meet her family. I awed over the baby (*swoon*) and it felt just as normal in person, as it does from her computer screen to mine. 

Her life is (as I know from experience) busy and chaotic. She probably finds herself humbled and at a loss for words when people ask her "how do you do it all?!" And like me, she probably just does it. Naturally. With lots of hugs, kisses, noise, grace, faith, and love. 

Because that how mommies of five do it.

Congratulations Charis & Bill. ♥

Triggers or Sentiment?

I didn't grow up living in one house. My dad worked his way up through chain of commands through the California Highway Patrol, and each promotion typically meant change for our family. A new home. A new school. New friends. Life as a highway patrol daughter, for me, meant adjusting to change. For the most part, I never really looked at my life differently from anyone else's. It was my normal. I never once thought that life for the time being was unpredictable.

Now my own children have moved throughout their lives. And they have adjusted. Just in the same ways that I did. My father retired as captain shortly after Sarah was born. They have a permanent residence. Grandma and Grandpa's home, has become that predictable permanent place for the grand kids. I dream of eventually having that house my children and my grandchildren call home. Where they know mom and dad's, or grandma and grandpa's hearts will always be. Where our walls are warm with memories and laughter and love are only a visit away.

After Savannah passed away, I acknowledged that our home never actually got to be hers. But I could feel her all around me. One morning after Savannah was gone, the kids asked me to sit in the gym at thier school and watch them during morning stretch. My heart was still broken; frail; fragile in every sense of the words. I knew I had to be a supportive momma. I knew their hearts were still broken; frail; fragile. So I agreed. And I mustered up the smiles any mother who has lost a child knows all too well. Let me try to describe this smile. You smile, knowing you are one moment away from throat burning, lip quivering tears. You feel as though behind that smile you are carrying around ounces of warm salty tears, knowing you have to hide them from the world. It's the most difficult and heartbreaking smile.

I walked Michael and Sarah across the parking lot towards the gym. The nights were beginning to become cooler, and dew glistened on everything. The sky was blue and the morning sun was already hot on our backs ready to heat the brisk feeling in the air. Nothing about these mornings had changed from the weather that greeted us every morning we departed from our room back to the hospital anxious to see our Savannah after a long night away from her.

I sat on the bleachers and Brody nestled into my lap. All of the students and teachers began their day, stretching and exercising to upbeat music to charge their bodies and minds for the day ahead of them. I watched as other mothers laughed, encouraged, and stretched right along with their own little people. None of them had heartache in their eyes. Michael and Sarah smiled and waved at me. My heart shattered into a million pieces. I knew they deserved more. More than I could give them at that very moment. As they stood working their little arms in circular motions, their big brown eyes never far from my face, a song began playing and danced across every inch of that gymnasium. "The house that built me." By Miranda Lambert.

I am a listener. I can't help but dissect a song word for word. The song didn't really pertain to me. A girl going back to her childhood home, just for a small taste of what made her, well her. Just so she could collect all of those memories in her heart and heal whatever heartache she was experiencing at that moment. I looked around at thousands of happy, smiling, eyes. Filled with their childlike innocence. And that was the exact moment I knew I would never get to see Savannah dancing. I knew I would never see her stretch her little arms. I knew her little brown eyes would never scan for her mommy again. I knew Savannah would never just need to come home. Savannah never came home.

And my smile had faded. Brody and I got up, and walked slowly, hand in hand back to the car. And those warm salty tears glistened from my cheeks like the morning dew. I buckled my little man into his carseat. He stared at me in silence. Brody can be so good at acknowledging when no words are needed. I kissed him and climbed into the drivers seat. We sat there a little bit and I reminded myself that everything was alright.

I heard that song today. Almost eighteen months since she stared back into my eyes. It triggered that morning at the kids school. I thought of future Christmases. One day, my kids will bring their husband and wives to my home. We will talk about memories, and create new ones with our grandchildren and son-in-law or daughter-in-laws. But she won't be there. Her husband will be absent. Her beautiful children will be nothing but a dream I had for her, once upon a time. But I will always think of her. I will always think of who they might have been. Savannah has made her permanent residence in heaven. And one day we will reside there with her.

These triggers never seem to leave me. But it's also sentiment. Because for a moment... it brings her back home to me.  

Days, Weeks, Months, and Years.

Its always such a proud feeling. "How old is your baby?" Random strangers ask. It starts in days. Two days. Five days. Nine. As brand new mothers, we have a tendency to go by days. We don't say one week, we say seven days. Why is that I may ask? I think it is because days sound so brand new. Days sound so close to birth. Weeks? Now weeks sound like they have been here that much longer. Regardless one week or seven days, these little people have been here the same amount of time.

Davis has already passed the days stage. And as we pass into the months verses weeks timeline, now as mothers, I count by weeks. I feel as though time is against me. I remember before I ever became a mother, I used to roll my eyes hearing "moms" talk about how fast time speeds by when you have children. Time is just time, I'd think. The days are just as long when you have children.

Then Sarah was born. And Michael. Brody. Savannah came and went. Now Davis. Time does in fact swallow you whole. Almost in the most unforgiving ways. The last weeks of pregnancy tick by at what feels like a snails pace. Then the instant the brand new human being is placed in your arms, they are already a month old. Once you being to wrap your mind around the month idea, you are planning their first birthday. And from there you suddenly have a kindergartener, facing their own form of independence.

This summer, our oldest celebrates her eighth birthday. It seems like yesterday that she was Davis' size. Still adjusting to a new, confusing world. A time where I was adjusting to a new and confusing world too. We were learning together. There was no one else that needed my attention. All I had to wrap my mind around was one. I counted days, and weeks, and months. There were no other stresses. No other heart aches. I try to look back at my brief time, so it seems, before I knew what heart ache really was.

I watch the clocks more closely these days. One week from today marks eighteen months. I should have an eighteen month old as well as a five week old. I should have two children in diapers. But I don't. And because I don't it doesn't mean I have stopped thinking of her. No, it's not as fresh. There are times that I go without having her in the front of my mind. After all it has been eighteen months.

{After all it has been eighteen months.} 

But eighteen months really isn't that long. Savannah would still be adjusting to a new and confusing world. The quicker time goes by with my earthside children, the more I feel time fading from the one I try to remember. In more ways then one, I realize that time will always be unforgiving. I get caught up in everything I need to accomplish. So I am trying to reassure myself that as Davis reaches the five week milestone, Savannah spends her eighteenth month in heaven, Brody a fresh four year old, and Michael and Sarah approach seven and eight, that right now, this very second, routine is a four letter word. That dirty dishes, and dirty laundry never killed anyone. Time may be unforgiving, but at least I know my kids will forgive me when I can remember what these "days" felt like...

What I would give.

To my Davis Emmett, 

Though you have been apart of my world for a brief time, I want to take a moment to let you know everything you are to me. To try and let you know just how much I wanted you, love you, and would do for you. For now and always, but also for the entire time you were developing inside me. Because I never want to forget. And I never want to take for granted so many times during your pregnancy, we could have lost you. Someday when you think you know everything, you think I am unfair, or you just wish I would leave you alone, I will look to this letter and this exact moment when you are as big as my palm and reliant on me for everything; And I will know that you are my fighter. You have been stronger than me from the very get go. And I would do it all again just to have you. Even when I am "totally uncool" or "embarrassing."  

It's not uncommon or unusual for a women to sacrifice so much emotionally and physically for even the slightest opportunity to be a mother. Over the past few years, it has been a pleasure to me to welcome many amazing women into my life through the death of your big sister. Many of these women lost children in many different ways than I, but in the end we all share the same common ground.  And they have been by my side as we welcomed you. I would never compare to my pregnancies to the uphill battles some of these women faced. 

Except with you little boy. And this is our journey. Just so you know, and I never forget.

May 23rd, 2011 we found out we were expecting you. Our hearts were filled with so much delight, excitement and worry. Almost before we blinked, two weeks later mommy started bleeding. We thought we were going to be saying goodbye to everything we had already dreamed for you. Daddy took me to the emergency room where we discovered another medical diagnosis we never would have known existed otherwise. There was a subchorionic hemorrhage between the uterine wall and the placenta, and the chance of miscarrying you went up greatly. Mommy was devastated and tried her hardest to remain optimistic. I scheduled a doctors appointment right afterwards, and found out my doctor was leaving her practice of thirty years. She recommended the hospitals maternity center for my obstetric care, for the amount of high risk prenatal care available to me there. 

I began having weekly ultrasounds to check your heart beat, growth and size of the hemorrhage. Also at every ultrasound appointment, I had my blood drawn to check my hormone levels. Each week they were going up exactly as they were supposed to. I was on moderate bed rest, and Dr. Perry told me every week that until I was thirteen weeks along, you were not out of the woods yet... No matter how good everything looked. I laid on the couch everyday overcome with worry that your heart would no longer be beating, a strong 170 beats per minute, at my next appointment. I was so afraid I was becoming too attatched to you and you were going to leave us before you ever really "were."

The doctor made plans for us to see the perinatologist from UC Davis Medical Center. She laid out our prenatal plans for everyone else to follow. Due to the blood clot I endured with Michael's pregnancy, she ordered a blood thinner injection.  

Subcutaneous Lovenox Injections 40mg-1xdaily

At 16weeks pregnant, I was to begin progesterone shots in concern for my history of 36week  deliveries, early dilation, and preterm contractions. I began contracting during your pregnancy at 14 weeks. And so as ordered, at 16weeks I began getting weekly injections of progesterone, hoping you would stay put.

Things continued fairly smoothly after we reached the 13week mark, and the hemorrhage absorbed back into my body. Dr. Boe the perinatologist put in an order for a level II ultrasound to be performed also at UC Davis when I was 18 weeks pregnant. My worry and anxiousness finally lifted from the subchorionic hemorrhage to the thought that you could have some kind of congenital abnormality. 

September 6th, 2011 daddy and I drove to Sacramento to see who you were. To see if you were okay. We honestly thought we would driving home, knowing the little girl inside me. Much to our surprise, you were definitely not a little girl. You were a the most perfectly formed little boy, with very healthy organs. A handsome little profile. And ten fingers and ten toes. I longed for a little girl. A little girl to fill the void of the little girl who left so soon. 

Davis you are so much more than a little girl could have ever lived up to. Savannah had your fighting spirit. I see it everyday that I look into your eyes. That same determination for life. Savannah fought for her life on the outside. You fought for yours on the inside. A strength obviously only a boy could obtain.

November 8th, 2011, 27weeks 2days pregnant, after our weekly routine doctors appointment, we were admitted to Mercy Medical Center. Premature rupture of membranes. A nitrazine strip had tested positive, as well as a microscope slide showing ferning for amniotic fluid. I was put on permanent hospital bed rest, meaning no privledges in getting out of bed what so ever. We were given two stereiod shots each given 24hours apart to speed up lung development. We met with one of the NICU nurses in preparation for life with a 27week preemie. But they were taking every measure into their hands to make sure that did not happen. For the next 72hours I was given intravenous fluids and magnesium sulfate. 

Fluids and Magnesium Sulfate

It was and is not any ones idea of a fun medicine to be put on. I slurred when I talked, had lack of control of my eye muscles, felt like my body was burning, and found myself quite flushed and sweaty.

72hours of Magnesium Sulfate.

Grandma took care of your big brothers and sister while we stayed in the hospital. Daddy had to go back to work, since they were doing everything they could to make sure you were not coming. I no longer experienced any leaking, and they could not prove again that my water had broken. It was you and I alone in our little hospital room. In the silence of being alone after everyone would leave, and everything I knew was at stake I'd find myself desperate to be home. To walk away from the medically sustained infant idea, that was all to real and raw. I remembered vividly, the feeling of wanting to open my eyes to only what you hope for as a bad dream. 

After the first 72hours, and for the next week, the nurses brought me 20mg of Nifedipine. (Also commonly referred to as Procardia.) It is more used for cardiac patients as it works to relax all blood vessels so the heart does not have to pump as hard. People with high blood pressure, or chest pains for example. It was not ideal considering mommy struggled more during the pregnancy with low blood pressure. So I was given many side effects to watch for, and during our hospital stayed they monitored my blood pressure regularly. 

We were also given three ultrasounds to check the amount of fluids surrounding you. The first time, the doctors were concerned that the amount of amniotic fluid surrounding you was too high. They began running more tests. They told me that high amounts of fluids can sometimes signify congenital defects. In a instant every fear I had during the pregnancy was a possible reality. I didn't understand how a congenital defect was even remotely possible since we had a level II ultrasound. They also began blood work testing for the human Parvo virus. The test came back negative, and the following two ultrasounds showed normal fluid results. As did all possible congenital abnormalities that they double checked. You were still perfect in every possible aspect.


We finally were sent home, and the premature rupture of membranes were diagnosed as sealed over. Light activity and pelvic rest were ordered until "full term" was reached. Mommy was so happy to walk away from the hospital with her tiny 27week baby still growing and thriving inside. I was happy at the thought of getting to hold you in your first few moments of birth. Getting to take you home, all together. To not see you hooked up to monitors and wires. To not be a "visitor" of the neonatal intensive care unit. To spend Thanksgiving, and Christmas at home with all four of my babies. 

250mg Hydroxyprogesterone Injection 1weekly
10mg Nifedipine, every 4hours

I was discharged with a prescription of the Nifedipine, and was instructed I could take them as needed for any contractions every four hours. One pill consisted of 10mg. If the contractions weren't to be stopped with one pill, I could take up to two. And in the beginning I only occasionally needed the pills. I carried them with me at all times. It was almost like a drug addiction. They stayed in my purse if I left the house. They came to Christmas parties, and always sat perched next to the bed while I slept. I knew that if I needed them, they needed to be right there. Right then. I was determined to keep you inside as long as you needed to be there. And they worked. Every single time. Calming my stomach muscles. Washing away all trace of contractions.

Being released from the hospital also meant I was required biweekly Non Stress Tests. Where I had to go into the hospital and we monitored your heart rate, movement, and contractions. Since we lived an hour away from my doctor, I was able to transfer doctors and go into the local hospital for the monitoring. Each test you passed with flying colors. The nurses became accustomed to the mild regular contractions as a "normal" aspect of our weekly visits. 

Things continued smoothly until 34weeks. The contractions were much stronger and a very regular. The nifedipine was not working this time. They gave me a shot of terbutaline to stop the contractions. And they did, for about 45 minutes before they were back the same as when they left. They gave me another shot. Same thing, only this time it lasted 30minutes. Though the doctor really didn't want to, a magnesium sulfate drip was ordered. This time, they brought in a fan and pointed it directly on me taking away the burning feeling, and keeping me quite comfortable. But the magnesium sulfate was working in the opposite as it was supposed to. The contractions were worsening and beginning to feel like true labor. They stopped the IV drip, and gave me another shot of terbutaline. I had dilated 2cm since I was first admitted that morning. And because the hospital I was in did not have a NICU, I was required to have an ambulance transport back to Redding. Every 30 minutes from then, until the ambulance arrived, and we made the hour trip south, the nurse gave me another injection of terbutaline. 

Once we had arrived the staff informed us that their NICU was closed, so they really didn't want to deliver because then you would have to be transferred elsewhere. I was angry, and couldn't believe they hadn't told us before we had be transported and admitted. They gave me more Nifedipine, which still wasn't stopping the contractions, just slowing them slightly. The pain was overwhelming, and it was becoming overwhelming being I had contracted all day long, and I knew it was to have no prevail. They gave me Nubain, and I warned them of my high intolerance to IV pain medications. As she began administering the drug the room instantly began spinning. She assured me "I was supposed to feel like that." And I spent the rest of the evening throwing up. But the pain medication did manage to stop contractions at a dead halt. 

New years eve, we were discharged only with instructions to take two Nifedipine every four hours. No longer "as needed." I was told that at 36 weeks I could finally stop taking them all together. And so I did. And so you became. 36weeks and 3days. And it was over. The twice a week non stress tests. The every four hour pill taking. The many many injection sites. We had made it through all odds against us...

I tell you this Davis, more for my sake. So I will remember every detail of how far my love for you began. So I will never forget that before I ever saw you, I would have sacrificed everything for you. One day you will probably drive me crazy. One day you will probably color on my walls, stomp on my flowers, come home late, or selectivly listen to my motherly advice. But I write this so you know, that even when you make mistakes, even when you really don't "like me," I would do it all over again. I would endure the heartache, the emotional stress, and the physical pains just to have you in my life. Through the good times and the bad, I love you. It's a love that you will never fully understand. I would give you my life. And I promise to give you all of my heart. Thank you for showing me strength. A strength I lacked during your pregnancy at times. You will always be my fighter, and I know because of that you are going to do very big things. I will support you, encourage you, and guide you. You have already made me so proud. Your pregnancy was only the beginning. The beginning of what I would give for you. I love you little one... With every beat of my broken heart.

-Mommy

We've waited so long. {Written January 19th,2012}

He is officially here. 

Safe, healthy, and more handsome than my mind ever could have imagined. Today he is eight days old. And tonight, I am having a hard time with that. Eight days old. I look at him, this tiny helpless little person and remember what it was like to have to say goodbye after only eight short days. I cannot imagine telling him, how much I love him, and that I promise I will see him again. How did I do that once before? How was I ever able to let go of a little person I loved and still love so very much?

I want a pause button. These past eight days have gone more quickly than I remember Savannah's time with us going. Maybe that was a gift to us? Feeling like time was suspended during those eight days so we felt like we were given a lot longer. I don't want my time to go so quickly. I already know I am not ready. I was not ready for him to be a week old. I am not ready for him to be one month old. I want nothing more than an opportunity just to push pause. I want to cherish this moment of him being so tiny and fresh to my world as I process everything he is and everything he means to me.

He does not look much like Savannah. And I am perfectly fine with that. He does though, look like his older brother Brody. The night he was born and filled his perfectly formed lungs with beautiful scream worthy air, I knew that it wasn't just Davis. A piece of Savannah came back with him. Now I don't ever want to sound like Davis will always live in the shadows of his big sister. Because he won't. And he isn't. He is loved for just who he is. But he is much more than that. He was the first, and only person who fit right in the empty wounded spots of my arms.

I anticipated January 9th, for my little one's birthday. My body naturally desires to give birth at 36weeks, and I didn't expect any different from the way this pregnancy seemed to go. January 9th, not only marked 36weeks, it was also the full moon (say what you want) and it was my birthday! I fully expected to have the best gift for my birthday! That morning I had my weekly non stress test at the hospital. The night before the contractions were fairly regular but not painful enough to where I felt the needed to go in. Now if you know me, regular contractions are not cause for alarm in my case, and even the ob nurses knew that was the case. I went to bed that night, knowing I had an appointment first thing in the morning and I would wait it out until then.

Once I got to the hospital the following morning, and was hooked up to the monitors, sure enough the contractions were regular, every four minutes. The nurses all laughed being I had bonded with many of them, and knowing that I had predicted a birthday baby. After the 20minutes of monitoring, and making me drink a sugary drink to get Davis to move and groove like he usually did, the nurse called the on call doctor. My doctor was out of town for the holidays all the way in Europe. The on call doctor, also the doctor who delivered my Michael, said that being I was 36weeks, he would not give me anything to speed labor along, but suggested I walk. The nurse assumed it was getting close since Davis, our usual A+ non stress test achiever, had slowed down a lot.

By the time I made it home, the contractions were stronger and getting closer together. My mom brought over my birthday gifts, and took me to the park for a walk. Considering we took her one year old terrier, it was more like a slow jog. And by the time we made it back to the car, I could hardly sit down.My husband had dinner and a movie plans for my birthday, and in not wanting to ruin the few and far between chances to be alone with all of his attention, we proceeded with the plans. I indulged with a vanilla Italian soda, at a quaint Italian restaurant, where the contractions stayed close by. Afterwards we went back to the park in hopes that another walk would be just what was needed, but the contractions remained the same so we drove over to the movie theater. With not much of a selection, and knowing my husband was interested, we sat down to see "War Horse." Before the previews even had a chance to begin, I said, "maybe we should go." Because just in sitting down to watch a movie the contractions got much more intense. My husband, said "lets just wait and if you need to go we will." Me being cheap "frugal," I hated the thought of watching 15minutes of a movie only to have to leave and not be refunded our money. Haha! So knowing my husband really didn't want to leave, I endured all 146minutes in pain.

YES, 

I AM THAT LABORING PREGNANT PERSON IN THE MOVIES.

As we walked out the doors I said, "okay time to call the hospital." And we went straight there. I was checked only to find that I was dilated to two centimeters. Exactly what I had been dilated to, two weeks prior. The contractions were two to four minutes apart, so they planned on monitoring me for an hour, and check me again... 

One hour later: 2cm. No change.
I was being sent home... In pain.

On the way home, I cried. So much had taken place during this pregnancy, and it seemed like hospital stays and hospital visits were a permanent part of my future. (Pregnancy has a tendency to be a little irrational.) I tried my best to sleep through the contractions, but by six in the morning, I sat up mulling over the fact that I could very possibly continue contracting for another four weeks. At eight, when I heard my husbands alarm go off, I was discouraged to find out he had every intention on still going to work. After he left, I continued to clean up the house before I headed to my mom's to pick up the kids. (They had stayed there the night before.) My mom suggested we go on another walk, and I was all for it if there was even the slightest possibility real labor would be imminent.

We walked around her subdivision, which was what felt like a ten mile hike, since it consisted of a pregnant waddling whale, a hyper puppy, and three kids on bicycles. By the time we made it home, Koady was back from work already, and the kids went to Zumba on the WII. I figured I'd go home and talk to Koady and probably call the hospital back. It just didn't seem normal for someone to be in that much pain, and not be "in labor." I walked through the door and told him he should probably submit his paperwork for the day, just in case they told us to come back in to labor and delivery. Not too long afterwards, there was a tell tale sign that we needed to get to the hospital to be checked out. (I'll spare the gory details.) On the drive there, I knew I had to be in labor. Heck, if you saw how I ever so slowly waddled my way into the hospital, you would have known I was in labor too.

4-5cm. I was admitted. 

We we're finally going to meet our little boy.

The night nurse came on, and was so supportive to my desire to have a natural birth. It was 4:45pm January 10th, and I guessed I would have him before 10:00pm. Koady guessed 2:17am. The nurse brought in a birthing ball, which is more commonly known as an exercise ball. I walked, bounced, rocked, stood, and laughed. Yes, you can ask the doctor who sat on the edge of my bed, I was still smiling up until I pushed him out! (With no pain meds what so ever! Yay me!) We laughed hysterically after I referred to "pushing" as "the burning ring of fire." And as I bounced on the ball, my husband put on Johnny Cash's "burning ring of fire." We were creating enough of a commotion to bring the nurse in to see what was so funny. (For anyone who has experienced natural childbirth, the song is quite ironic, and dedicated to you.)

Not too long after being dilated to 4-5, I was dilated to 6cm. And I was six.... And six.... And six again.... No matter what I tried I was stuck at six. And since the doctor still wouldn't help anything along, it was up to me. In the beginning he said that if my labor did for some reason just stop (because I guess that can happen) he would probably send me home. As the night continued and we passed by my 10:00 prediction, by 1:30am, I was beginning to become discouraged. The birthing ball seemed to be calming my contractions. Still 6cm dilated, my contractions were beginning to span to 6-7minutes apart, and everyone was tired and falling asleep on me. I began to cry. "They just need to discharge me. They need to send me home. I'm stuck at 6cm, and my contractions are going away. All of this pain is for nothing. I just want to go home!" (Didn't you know that pitty parties are all the rage during labor? Especially pitty parties wanting to be sent home?)

Almost as soon as my sobbing stopped, wham! Three contractions in a row, that we're unbearable. Thinking I was going to be laboring for the next 24weeks, I said, "go get the nurse I think I need an epidural!" My mom went out into the hall, and said she knew something was happening because she could hear me breathing outside of my room. I don't even know how you can hear someone breathing, and I honestly don't have any idea what I sounded like, just as long as I didn't sound like the dying moose in the room next to us. The nurse came in and asked, "you want an epidural?... I think I need to check you." I was 7-8cm, and she went to call the doctor. As she came back she informed me that I needed to go through an entire bag of saline drip before they could give me an epidural. (I hadn't been on an IV at all.) My exact words were, "I guess its worth a shot." Not too long after they started the IV, the doctor came in. He was half asleep and literally must have rolled out of bed and come to the hospital because he had the ever glamorous bed hair! :)

The nurse asked him, "does she have time for an epidural?" He looked at me like I had lost my marbles and said, "AT EIGHT CENTIMETERS? NO! You still have thirty minutes for your IV, 15minutes for him to get here, and 15minutes for him to give it to you. Your looking at 3am!" I sadly acknowledged my fate, and the doctor got his scrubs on while the nurses set up the room. In between contractions I muttered, "oh I'm so scared of crowning!" But the nurse was still so encouraging. "You're almost done, your baby will be here so soon." The contractions at this point were about five minutes apart, which they said was very good for relaxation of me and the baby. I said, "everyone take note, my pain is at a ten and I am still smiling." During some of the last few contractions I remember grabbing the handrails and yelling, "stupid epidural guy!" His ears probably burned that night; wherever he was...

The doctor sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the fully dilated mark, nodding off during contractions. He checked me once more and I told him, "I don't know what hurts worse the contractions or your fingers!!" I was 9cm, and the doctor told me I could probably push through the last centimeter. He told me, "with the next contraction, go ahead and push." I replied, "WITH YOUR FINGERS IN THERE!?" Still dozing, he gave a slight nod, with a easy going, "yes." I gave a good push, and we decided to wait until I was fully dilated. So as we sat anxiously waiting, the doctor held his gooey gloved fingers over his pants with his eyes closed. Koady and my mom watched as his fingers dripped onto his pants, yet no one wanted to disturb his slumbers to point out the mess that was dribbling onto his scrubs. He cracked his eyes open enough finally to very casually flick the next glop back around his fingers.My mom, casually laughed and said, "looks like brass knuckles!" And finally it was time to push. One. Baby moved down, head right there. Two. Head out, sharp scream. Three, shoulders and baby came out, and I lunged back on the bed, smacking my head into the head board that I was COMPLETELY unaware hospital beds had until that very moment. The nurse said, "op, we've got a jumper!" And in three pushes he was out.

They had asked me if I wanted him laid on my chest. I said yes, only if it was okay to do so. In his first moments he squeaked. That same tiny squeak Savannah made. The only sound she made. And though it was only a moment, it felt like minutes went by before he cried. The most beautiful cry I ever remember hearing after giving birth. A cry I've waited a very long time to hear. And they laid him into the crook of my arm, and I stared at him. Speechless. Everyone began talking about him. But it was literally as though someone took away my ability to talk. I couldn't process "what he looked like," or "how long his fingers and toes were." All I could process was my overwhelming love for him in just those first few minutes. All I could think about was my little girl who I missed out on all of those glorious traditional milestones with. And then, they whisked him away to the warmer to be checked. I could not see him, but I studied the looks on the respiratory therapist, and the nurses face, for any signs that "he was not okay." I watched for any look of concern. Stress. Uncertainty. I held my breath every time they held the tiny stethoscope up to his chest.

And then something amazing happened. They gave him back to me. There was no reason they couldn't. His temperature was a little low, and for that they laid him on my chest, where I was told he needed to stay all night. There wasn't any place in the world I would rather him stay.

We didn't wait nine months for Davis to become a part of our lives. We waited nine months for Savannah. We waited another eight months to conceive. Finally a very tragic and long 26months became a reality, as he stared back into my eyes. And now, I want nothing more than to savor every blessed moment I have with him. This little boy has been healing. Yet he has pulled greatly at my heartstrings over and over again. I cannot begin to explain the love you feel for children once you have lost one. But it is one of the most overwhelming, and breath taking emotions a mother could ever experience. I cannot imagine my life without this baby boy in only eight short days, just as I can't imagine life without Savannah in only her eight short days...

Davis Emmett

January 11th, 2012

2:33am

6lbs 2oz.

19.7inches

To whom it may concern,

To whom it may concern,

Let me just get it out in the open. You did notice correctly as I walked passed with my three children in tow. I do have another on the way, my belly sure doesn't lie to you these days. Ultimately, if I did the math correctly that does in deed make four children. Socially speaking that is. What my belly and my row of ducklings do not announce to the naked eye, is actually, counting the child I carry in my heart, I do in fact have five children.

So, though I will always be polite, smile and respond to your questions or comments, I will never fully understand why society, strangers, friends and family, really care to know, if this is our last. Or to remind me, in case I was just a mental case for, heaven forbid wanting all of my children, that I must be "pretty busy." (Insert wide eyes here.)

So let me explain a little about my family. Since you, dear stranger in the grocery store, care so much to know if we are going to have any more...

My husband is not a doctor. He is not a lawyer, dentist, surgeon, or business executive. He is though, what a vast majority of American's are not these days. He is a full time, hard working, employee. He has gotten up five days a week, and promoted through chains of command, for years, and through each of the five children we have. One income mind you. Yes, that is correct. I am also a stay at home mother. I provide all of the daily care. All of the nurturing, discipline, compassion, and self-sacrificing love that I could pay obscene amounts of money to receive from a complete stranger.

I spend twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, with my four, (to your naked eye) children. So thank you for reminding me how busy I am. If you don't mind, I would like to remind you of something,

Children are a choice. They are a gift. They do not come with a paycheck, nor should you receive a paycheck for having them. They are joyful and delightful. They are not an obligation. They are not a reason to cringe if you see more than two in the grocery store. They can be stripped from us at any given moment. They are fragile lives, and fragile spirits. They require one hundred percent of our love and devotion or they will always feel like society sees them as "one more."  But they are not one more. They are human beings. They are a decision and a desire from one mothers womb to the world. They hold the future in the palm of their tiny hands. They are miracles. They transform from literally nothing into living, breathing, souls. Noisey, messy, chaotic, and as you wont let me forget, busy souls.

So even though my barefoot and pregnant lifestyle may not appeal to you, I like it. No, I love it. And since the question will probably never evade me... no right now we do not plan on having anymore. And I apologize if we should have stopped after we buried our last. If years down the road we do happen to discuss that option, please let me take down your number so I can get your consult on the matter.

If you don't mind me asking, since we are being so open, you didn't have children did you? Because I can tell how much you cherish each and every one...

Sincerely,
Mother of Five.

The month of thankfuls.

Just a week ago, my husband and I stood in our kitchen. We talked about how perfectly everything in our life was going right in that moment. No not in a conceded, boasting kind of way. Just in a "love this moment," and very grateful kind of way.
I do not believe my life has to be perfect to only find things to be thankful for. As we all know, in the midst of life's hardest tragedies, I've tried to see the beauty through it all. Standing in the kitchen, only a mere week ago, I said, "I am just prepared for things to go not so perfectly."

It really sounds negative right? Possibly. More than anything I don't feel an entitlement to some kind of happily ever after. God took my baby. There is nothing I can do to change the outcome of his plan. He does not owe me some kind of repayment, perfection, or greatness due to my loss. With beauty always comes pain. In this life, there will always be pain.

I've been concerned for our little boy since the very beginning and we found out he was being graced into our lives. I worried for congenital defects. I worried for so many anomalies that I learned about through so many beautiful mothers who said goodbye to their own precious beings.
In the beginning we prepared ourselves to say goodbye, once again. From the second our hearts locked with his, this pregnancy has thrown us curve balls so to speak. "Subchorionic Hemorrhage." What did that mean? What risks and hurdles did we face for our little one? With all odds against us, we fought. I subjected myself to tiring, emotional draining, and not even promised to "save him" bed rest. And Davis sailed through. Our fighter. Our champion. As a mother, even when I failed to provide the strength, hope, and courage for our rainbow baby, there he was, willing his heart to keep beating. With such a purpose. Such a small understanding of what he needs to do. A soul so brand new, had more focus and drive than his mother could and tried to provide through the uncertainties of life.

Tonight, as I still count my handful of thankfuls, I really haven't neglected this month when so many people really pull forward everything they have to be grateful for.
In the middle of the night, November 8th, I woke up in the middle of the night to a cold wet feeling. I knew I had a doctors appointment early the very following morning, and I couldn't bring myself to believe it was anything more than typical lovely pregnancy side effects. As I mentioned and described the events to my doctor the following morning, she as well, wasn't convinced it was anything alarming. She of course ran a strip test just to be certain. To set my mind her mind at ease. Instantly the paper turned green. Which is a measurement of pH levels determining whether or not your amniotic fluid was leaking. Green is not the color you want to be seeing at 27weeks, 3days pregnant. They swabbed me to be sure my water had broken by running a slide under the microscope. The slide revealed "ferning." ::""A fern like crystal indicating the fluid is in deed ruptured membranes.

More doctors filled the small exam room to break the bad news. Instantly I was sent up to labor and delivery. Where I have been admitted. For how long though, no one seems to know.
And here I am. Uncertain. Feeling a little broken. Surrounded by so many people being thankful out there in the real world. And the brokenness that is inside, makes me feel worse. For three days now, Davis is fighting. He has shown no signs as to being ready or prepared to make this fight for life in this, real world.
There has been no more leaking. The contractions, with the help of a magnesium sulfate IV drip, have become next to non existant. But I am still here. For they cannot send me home with such at stake.

I cannot help but feel awful for the situation. For I have to sacrifice myself completely for Davis to continue growing and thriving. But at the same time, I have to sacrifice my three other children completely for unseen circumstances. How can I work through the guilt of feeling like I am sitting at the hospital while everyone else is stuck having to pick up the pieces. All because I am not there. And no one asked for this.

I most certainly did not. I read so many stories of friends near and dear to me, continuing with their pregnancies so smoothly. How can I choose between my three living children and my husband, and all of the family members who most definitely didn't want this burden, over an unborn child? That is like living between a rock and a hard spot.

Today I am thankful for so much. The opportunity to hold Davis, full term. The feeling of hope when I thought for sure, I would be limited to only touch once more. For days, weeks, possibly months. I still have a chance for a healthy baby boy, that leaves with us. Not before us. I'm thankful for the meticulous care the hospital has given me since I first arrived Tuesday afternoon. I am thankful for an awnry baby boy who refuses to stay put so we can closely monitor his rapidly beating heart. I am thankful for medical technology that stopped an arrival no one was prepared for, most of all my precious son, and for the medical technology that could and can save his life had he been set on his own timing schedule. I'm thankful for my mother, who will drive from vacation all night to pick up my children in life's most delicate moments. I am thankful for her complete sacrifice to help care for my family while I am unable to do so myself regardless of her own schedules and to-do's. I am thankful for my husband who still gets up and goes to work, though I am sure this causes great stress to him as well. I am thankful for family and friends who have sent flowers that really do brighten my little hospital room. I am thankful for so much this November, I really am.

I will be even more thankful if I get a second chance to live out the remainder of this pregnancy at home with my family. And with Davis, safe and sound inside mommies tummy for another good three months...

I'm no super mom.

This Sunday afternoon I found myself wrapped up in a blanket indulging my girly desires with a movie. Now in my household, my husband being a movie buff and lets face it, a guy, usually has control over the television. Not to say, he doesn't succumb to my "chick flick" selections every now and again. {And secretly likes those movies...} But more often than not, the choices are testosterone filled.

Any of you women out there I am sure have sat and watched the movie, Julie and Julia with Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. As I sat watching it this afternoon, filled with cooking and delicious looking food, I couldn't help but begin critiquing my own time spent in the kitchen.

I'm still trying to find my common ground with my day's spent homeschooling. I enjoy having my kids with me during the day and founding their education for the adults they will become. But as my first year of schooling two {three partially including the preschool work I include to keep Brody involved} I assure you, this is not something that can be organized or structured overnight. Maybe and hopefully as the years progress and we become used to the idea of school days being formatted into life, but as rookies here? We have a ways to go.

I want nothing more than to be super mom. I want homemade cookies baking while I am teaching fractions. I want my toilets to glisten, and my hair {and the hair on three almost four tiny tots} to be neatly in place every second of the day. I want to be the women who can mop her floors in high heels. And in watching this movie, I want to serve my family a homemade extravagant meal each and every night as though Julia Child stopped by to play grandma.

And here is what I am learning. I am not super mom. {Sad face.} As mothers I think we create this image of what super mom actually is. It stresses me out. Trying to live up to these false, unobtainable, ideas of perfection. To feel as though no matter what I do, it isn't good enough. The thing you see, about Julia Child, is she was an optimist. She never looked at the glass half empty. She always found the bright side of things. That is what I need more of to become my ideal super mom. "Yeah but Megan, Julia had such a blissful life, of course she sees the glass half full." The movie was obviously about the blogger, Julie Powell cooking her way through Julia Child's cookbook. There was only brief memories inserted through out the movie to introduce you Julia and the history of her love of food and cooking. But it does braise the fact that Julia could not have children. She wanted a baby of her own so badly, and it was never something she got to experience. To live my entire life with such a desire, would bring forth it's own set of heartaches. Just as we faced with loosing Savannah. But we must choose to be optimistic. For ourselves.

I want to slow down, and realize that perfection is only what I am going to make of the situation. I am going to understand that I may not get to cleaning the bathroom today. That our school days may be organized chaos, or for a little while longer "unorganized chaos." But my kids are still learning. That everyday leads to opportunities. And that my homecooked meals may not always be lobster fresh from France, but they are made with love, and my family will be fed and together at the end of everyday. I am no super mom. I am no Julia Child. I may not be everyone's idea of perfection. But I trust that I am perfect to someone just the way I am...

If I am chosen.

Today, I found myself staring down at my round, but not too big belly. And a wave of emotion flushed over me. As I watched the tiny little movements, suddenly, I felt ignorance again. Here I am, 18weeks 1day pregnant, and I have fallen head over heels in love with my fifth unborn child. Motherly instinct. And why wouldn't I? Regardless of a life or death situation with each one of my children, I am going to love them with all of my heart if they live or if they are destined to die.

But here I was, ignorant to the fact that in less than a day {tomorrow afternoon to be exact} we will know for sure if everything is okay. We've been given the inclinations that sure we have a healthy little baby. With a strong, fully formed diaphragm. But haven't we heard this once before from "regular ultrasounds." From everyday technicians? This is where I became aware. I feel an overwhelming sense {quite different from the overwhelming sense that I had with Savannah} that everything will be just fine. But here is what I've learned from just fine...

Just fine can mean, healthy baby staying here with us, or just fine can mean we as humans can weather any storm. That God will hold our hands through the toughest of times. That if a baby has a defect, and if they pass, in the end they will be just fine.

I am not going to sit here and tell you the thought of staring down another dark resting place, doesn't terrify me. Because if I did I would be lying. I remember what it was like to be overcome with nothing but excitement when the midpoint ultrasound came along. There is too much to bear in those moments leading up to our future though. Our fate. Our babies fate. I am thankful for my level two ultrasound. For the time, care, and extensive detail that will go into every last piece of our baby's body. But as of this moment, while my belly dances once more as I type this, only God holds the answer to what lies within me tonight. For one more day, our baby's development is a complete secret, between them, and their maker.

The other night, driving down the freeway after dark I started talking to my mom about the results that await us. She said, "in this situation, it all comes down to faith." I told her, "I understand that. And this concern doesn't effect the faith I have at all. All it means is I never thought it would happen to me once. I do have faith that God is in control. But he has chose me once, who am I to say that the only faith I have, is faith that he wouldn't choose me again?"

Tomorrow we will know. We will drive in faith once more to Sacramento, California. This time, we have hope that everything will be okay. Last time we had faith that God would take care of our girl. This evening I live in ignorance once more. And I like it. Because tomorrrow? Tomorrow could possibly change our lives forever... All over again.

One other thing I need to sit here and say, since I am feeling the deep seeded need to spill all of my overwhelming emotions to my readers; I want a girl. After the first need for this baby to be healthy, I hope in my heart God see's my desire for a girl.

"How selfish." I can sense so many of you thinking. And maybe it is. But let me explain. I thought and wanted my sweet Sarah to be a boy. I was ever delighted to find out she was definitely not. When we found out we were expecting our second, that of which is only eleven months apart from his sister, I hoped my second would be a girl. So close in age, my "girls" would be able to grow together, share together, and build a bond I could never begin to imagine. Michael most certainly was not a girl. Then I convinced my husband it was time for number three. I knew in my heart I would finally recieve the girl I had been hoping for for three years. My husband knew it was a boy. I doubted him. The ultrasound technician announced we were in fact having another boy. I remained quiet until we got into the car. My husband said, "I told you we were having a boy." Tears streamed down my face. It felt as though it was hopeless the sight of another girl. My sister-in-laws each have all boys. Between me and them, there are a whopping SEVEN boys vs. ONE girl. Will my Sarah not even have a cousin to bond with doing girly things? A cousin her age? A first cousin? I cannot procreate a sister, but having no girl cousins?! Family members have grasped onto the fact that Sarah, by some Grace had been the only girl in the family. "She was meant to be our only princess." "I think it is special that Sarah is the only girl in a family with all boys."

But this only added to the saddness, {not in replacement of my boys, because I LOVE my boys} but the saddness that I had yet to see the girl I longed for.

The day of Savannah's ultrasound {and I hold a lot of guilt for this... A LOT} I kneeled down on the side of my bed, folded my hands, and prayed outloud. "Dear Lord, Please let this baby be a girl. PLEASE." God indeed answered my prayer that day. But selfishly I prayed for a baby girl. I never once stopped to pray that the baby girl I longed for, that I needed, to be healthy of all things...

My girl, came into this world and never once tasted sweet life. The baby girl that God gracously answered my prayer with died in my arms. I had to bury all of the hopes and dreams I had created for her in the few short months I planned for her. I realized two nights ago, that a lot of things go when you loose a daughter. Mother, daughter bonds. Sister bonds. Meeting the wonderful man that chooses our daugher as his wife. Helping her plan her wedding. Holding back tears as she wears her wedding dress. Talking on the phone everyday. {Or many many many times a day.} Feeling your daughters belly, as your grandchildren kick from the inside. Crying as you watch your daughter deliver her first baby, and remembering the day they laid her on your chest. I want daughters. Daughters that can have the same relationship I have with my mother. {And yes, I do acknowledge sometimes its a love hate kinda thing. Hehe.} But no matter what, I have my mom, and she has me...

Savannah will never get to see those things. And I will never get to experience them with her. I have one daughter I will cherish every one of these moments with. But her baby sister won't get to be there with us either. I long for a girl. One that can stay.

"Dear Lord, Please let this be a healthy baby girl. PLEASE.

I need this not only for my heart, but for Sarah's heart too...

If our Victoria, happens to be a Davis...

I promise to love him just the same.

-Amen."

A different life.

Let me tell you a story. A story from only one year ago on this day. There was a pregnant young women, expecting a healthy baby. She sat surrounded by family and friends at a baby shower. She was ignorant. She was naive. She believed when a doctor tells you everything is just fine, everything was fool proof.
She took pictures of her big thirty six week belly. She is smiling in all of these pictures. But what you cannot see in those pictures is pain behind that smile. Because this was a time before there was a sorrow in every smile. Captured in every picture. This was a time that babies didn't just die. One year ago today, this women lived in a better world. A world that infant death, and birth defects were cliche. A world before this became her world.
This women in those last twenty four hours, never dreamed she would and could plan a funeral. She never dreamed of delivering that baby, that she would never hold in her arms, unless cradled one last time on a pillow. It was her very last day, in the real world. Before she entered a new world. A world separate from everyone else.
Separate from the people without heartache behind their smiles. Separate from the unknowing nature of everyone who doesn't "get it." Separate from the ones who give grief a time limit. And although we are separated from the ones who keep their babies, there are many of us here. Through the past year, my husband and I realize that though we have to go through this alone, we are never truly alone. There will always be those like us. That having been down this dark journey, our grief, our loss, is important. As the weeks followed today one year ago, some in "the other world" went back to their daily lives. They got busy. They couldn't find time to call, or come by. They showed that they really didn't care. And why would they?
Such as sad situation. The death of anyone, let alone an infant. A mere eight days old. But it wasn't theirs. So when the clouds lifted and she was placed in the ground, I can't help but think people must think the clouds have lifted from the parents as well.
At first, as a new comer to this new place, I was hurt. But then as I ventured out and met other lovely women who also have the stories of life before and life after I realized that those are the women who don't put a expiration date on grief. Those are the ladies who will remember and speak our Savannah's name long after she is gone. They are the ones who will forever say, "how are you?" They are the women who see past the smiles in the pictures and know when you are filling up with tears. I hope I can always return the favor to each of you. When those days arise, which I know they always do, and you feel like no one cares, I can say, "Thinking of you and your angel."
Though a year ago today, I was a different person, I have found wonderment in this new place we call home. That is the mommies who walk this path with me, and their babies and the stories they have left on my heart.
Two nights ago, I planned something else I never dreamed I would be doing one year ago today. Celebrating Savannah's first birthday in Heaven. It was small, but intimate and beautiful. I am sure she looked down on us with her heart full of love and many friends at her own birthday celebration. We love you Savannah. One more day, and you will be One...

 {Her Beautiful Cake.}

Leaving yesterday.

Well it wasn't as easy as it has been in the past. Moving that is, but we did it. As we drove down the road after locking the doors to our house one last time, there was that burning feeling in my throat. Any women reading this, knows the feeling I'm referring to. It's called the, "I am not going to cry" reflex. In turn it burns your throat. You hope you don't actually have to speak a word in this moment, because then all it is, is a quivery shaking sound.

Okay, I am probably the most horrible crier in the world. Anyone who knows me would tell you, and that is just because I do not wear my heart on my sleeve and put on a "I can carry the weight of the world all on my own thanks," attitude. When in all actuality I am very sensitive. {Where the blog writing comes in handy.} When I DO cry though, I'd probably describe it as a high pitched air raid siren to alert people of a crisis. :) Most people cannot even make sense of what I am saying when I am crying, which sends people into a state of panic. See the air raid siren and I have a lot in common.

As our house sat empty, not surrounded by the sounds of chaos and life's mess, I stood in her room one final time. It was quiet. I thought back to my pregnancy when we first moved in. I stood in the same spot picturing where her nursery furniture would be placed, and I sat in the middle of the freshly laid beige carpet. The smell of new fabric was overwhelming, and I touched my belly imagining sitting in that very spot with a wiggly baby laying in the carpet before me.

That image never became reality, and now sitting in that spot I was only reminded of her short time with us. The feeling of wanting so badly to be awake all night in that room. I must say, I do not appreciate the new mothers who make comments about how hard it is having a baby who doesn't sleep much at night. Or who cries all the time. Who has colic. Not trying to sound like your typical mom who lost a baby, because I DO know how tiring other children can be, but I would wake up in the mornings after Savannah died HATING that I slept through the night. I would have given anything to be with her all night long. To hold her in my arms for the rest of my life if that is what it took to have her here.

This morning, I sat showing my mother "The Moby Wrap." It is a safer "sling" that allows you to cradle your baby close to your chest however often you'd like so you can still manage everyday tasks. I've had the cheaper version of baby carriers from the stores but was not impressed enough to use them regularly. Especially being the last one I had with Brody ended up on recall after he was a year old. But I love the sense of closeness the Moby Wrap offers. "Baby wearing" is what they call it. Well, I can assure you Moby Wrap or no Moby Wrap, you won't find me without baby wearing.

I've heard a lot, "you will spoil your baby." Can someone classify this to a mother like me please? Spoil your baby in the sense they will want to be held all the time and will demand too much of your attention? Spoiled in the sense they cry because they desire the touch of their mommy? That bonding experience? If that is spoiling them, I think I will take those chances. I have a baby that I carried for nine months I was not able to hold. I held a baby as she passed away. My baby never got to cry for me, and I've spent too much time crying for her. I was never disturbed to feed, change, or love on them.

Now when I see a baby, or infant longing for their mother's arms I have a hard time seeing them turned away to their independence. These unknowing bystanders are clueless to the effect it has on my heart. Socially acceptable. This is a word I must remind myself of. It is not "socially acceptable" to yell through tears, "please hold your crying baby, I never got to hold mine and I would give anything for that opportunity again." Not socially acceptable.

Now have I turned into a Saint of a mother? Ha, hardly. There is no such thing. Even in the event you loose a thousand children. {And Heaven forbid.} Children are difficult. They are loud, can be slightly obnoxious at times, nagging, tattling, bickering, mess making, and down right frustrating. For someone to not say any of those things have been in their list of descriptions would be lyyyyyying. They will draw on your walls. YES, THEY WILL. Even if you stare at them. {Add sorcerers, to that list.} They will break your favorite decorative figures. {My ceramic little girl that was given to us after the funeral to represent Savannah in heaven.} She will now always remind me, that Savannah was not perfect, but we LOVED her anyways. Children will sometimes even lie to your face. Even if you saw them commit the "crime." More so my beloved three year old, but again it is all apart of the learning process of life. If you do not ever find any of these things irritating, I would have to wonder if you were possibly in a coma. {I pray someone is protecting your oxygen from the small children in your house as well. And if anything your tank will probably be drawn on.}

So no, I'm not a perfect mom.

My hair is not always perfectly neat. I do not make homemade cookies everyday. I do not have boys that don't try and pumble each other at any given opportunity. I have on occasion thought bedtime was the most beautiful part of my day. {Oh I ADORE the sight of peaceful, quiet, sleeping children.} I get upset when long tentacle beetles are brought in to say "hello mommy." I don't understand why the floor under my table looks worse than the aftermath of Pearl Harbor after every meal. I've considered taking every one of my children in for hearing tests because of their incompetence in listening. I sometimes forget that my children are only seven, six, and three. I admit there are times that I have expected too much from them. I've lacked patience at times, when I shouldn't have. I've raised my voice.

But...I've questioned every decision and reaction I've ever had. I've wished I could start bad days all over. I've said my fair share of sorry's. {Mommy's can and should be sorry too.} I've said no, and yes. I've given punishment when due and praise where deserved. I've slowed it down. I've experienced the feeling of life if any of them were no longer with me. I miss them the second they are away from me, and would live in constant missing them if their life slipped away. {Even the constant questioning.}

Loosing a child doesn't make motherhood any less frustrating. It doesn't make it "easier." It just reminds you of what is really important. The things you don't want to take for granted. The things you would miss. In a sense maybe it makes it harder. Being a parent to a child in Heaven and children on earth, there is always a hidden fear. A fear that you cannot protect the ones here from everything. The fear you didn't protect the ones gone, enough. A constant reminder that we are not guaranteed a tomorrow. It makes the "hard" days harder I think.

Just don't ask me if the baby keeps me up at night. If I'm lucky I'll answer, "thankfully yes."

Don't "suggest" that I hold my baby too much. Because only if I'm feeling socially acceptable, I'll refrain from saying,

"your right, I should have just held my dead one longer." 

When the care leaves "I'm Sorry."

I know I am not the first person to ever write about what you shouldn't say to a angel mommy. Over the past year though there has been a lot of mental processing. Mental processing over the death and burial of Savannah. When you first begin the journey, you are in a state of "foggy reality." The week after Savannah passed. I felt like my mind was always hovering over my body, observing everything I was doing, I just wasn't capable of thinking of the decisions I was making. It was an automatic response. Thankfully, we had my mother there to help us with every funeral process, but during my past year of mental processing, looking back I feel I didn't make the decisions in the same way I could now if I was given the chance again.

I remember two nights before Savannah's funeral. We were sitting at the Olive Garden, after Koady's mom had flown into town. It was probably the most overwhelming out of body experience I have ever had. Everyone sat around me talking, and I literally couldn't feel my body. I was light headed and didn't feel like I was the person sitting in the chair at the restaurant. My mind began screaming. "What are you doing here? Days ago your baby died, and you are sitting waiting for your food. Every second in this casual life you pretend to lead is another second that your baby lays across town in a freezer." Those were my very exact thoughts. In my mind, I could picture myself standing and walking outside." I didn't want to sit in the air conditioning anymore because it was a cold reminder of the blue lips and fingers that now consumed my Savannah. But for every step I took in my mind, desperate for the hot air to clench the skin on my face, my physical being got heavier and heavier. I was mentally paralysed from getting up and leaving the reality that would from here on out never abandon me.

I searched inside my soul for the same "I'm fine" smile, and "I didn't just hold my baby as she died" conversations. But again this goes right along with the mental processing, I've been doing.

That same smile, those casual conversations, go hand in hand with the "It's okay" I had to muster up over two million times.

Oh, the I'm Sorry's. The absolute worst part about the after math of a deceased child. So my number one thing, that I would say don't ever say to a mother that just lost her baby?

"I'm sorry."

Any form of sorry.

I know that sounds very heartless. But think about what you are really saying, and what we are really hearing.

"I don't know what else to say."

"I am putting YOU in even more of an awkward

position because what are YOU supposed to say."

"What am I really sorry for if I think about it?"

"I don't know what else to say."

 Maybe they were just sorry they had to be there, I don't know?

Do you know how awful it made me feel to give the generic response to your generic I'm sorry, every time?

"It's okay."

{Mental Processing}

{What I was really thinking/saying.}

"Yeah sure, your sorry. Me too.

But It's okay. Why would I make it more

awkward for you, by responding with anything but."

"I'm telling you it's okay that my child is dead

I'm a bad mother."

"I appreciate that you really can't think of 

ANYTHING real to say, I wish you would have

not said anything at all..."

More than anything, a year later,

after a million "I'm Sorry's"

There's ONLY a HANDFUL of people

who I believed were really sorry.

Sorry for our loss.

Not sorry for Savannah.

She is fine.

But sorry for her mother and father

who will forever live without her. 

 Through this life lesson in I'm sorry, I've learned that statement is like a promise. You shouldn't make promises you can't keep. You shouldn't say sorry if your heart isn't fully understanding what the sorry is for. What you really mean when you say it. Following through requires effort. Actions speak louder than words. Words are useless to a mother and father who's baby's heart no longer beats. 

I started this blog a few years before Savannah was born. Then September 13th, 2010, only five days after we saw her face for the very last time, I deleted everything up until that moment. I dedicated one year to my journey through grief. A new season in a mother's life. A season we never wish to weather. I wanted to share with people that, God's love can still shine after a final breath. That you can grow and have strength through the hardest trials. That it is okay to find acceptance, and it's okay to cry. Crying, being sad, and dealing with raw, confusing emotions does not make you less of a mother. It does not make you any better or worse than other mother's in the world saddened by the death of a child. At the beginning, I sent this link to everyone on my friend's list. Family. Friends. People who were "sorry" for the death of Savannah. Most everyone took my hand and held on tight. They followed along. I knew it would be hard for some to read. I know that this life is a "tragic life." But, here is my cry. Regardless of how tragic it may seem, this is MY life. I cannot run. I cannot hide. I will not wake tomorrow and wash the death off of my hands. So for those of you, our family, who denied and ignored my asking for you to show your support...

A year is too long to feel this ache in my heart. My Savannah knows who has showed her mommy and daddy love and compassion. And those are the ones she knows love her. 

I forgive you.

I do.

I will thank God everyday, that it isn't your life. 

That you didn't get a child stripped from your presence.

But I hope one day you will take your sorry back.

And I ask that you never say to me again, 

that things remind you of our girl...

Because you never took the time, to know who she was.

Cause her mommy and daddy are the only ones who knew her.

And her life. Her stories were written here. 

We have a very strong supporter behind us.
We don't need your words to get us through.