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

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. ♥

Only a piece.

I have begun writing this post at least five times now. Its been so long, I almost feel as though I should re-introduce myself to you all. But I wont. So don't worry.
I'm laying on my bed, while my sweet, absolutely adorable three month old, naps in his bassinet next to me. Calm. Quiet. Surrender.

The past three months have gone by so quickly I feel as though I could possibly, and should probably still be pregnant. I am very much not pregnant, and his existence is very much real.

When I've sat down to write my thoughts and feelings, a piece of me struggled with what to say. I've been pushing through a writers block, that might be induced by absolute mental exhaustion, but I battled with the decision on whether or not I should return to the world of complete sentences, unfiltered thoughts, and on occasion misspelled words. (Cause I know I have those from time to time.)

When my blog really began reaching others, I was in the midst of the hardest trial, I'm sure one would ever face in a lifetime. The ones who could relate became my usual and regular readers. Not all mind you, but a vast majority. The death of a child. Those words look bleak even now as I write them. A few days shy of 20months...

I journeyed through my grief, and I overcame raw emotions as I anticipated and welcomed a little boy who will never be, nor could ever take the place of our Savannah.

It has almost been two years, since she left us. And though I'm sure we will always speak of her, and grasp onto the memories we have of her, I am not defined by her. I'm not just the face of infant loss. That is only a tiny pinprick of my story.  

The weather here has been gloomy for five weeks straight now. We are lucky to get a overcast day and reach fifty degree temperatures. I have been cooped inside with all four of my kids, who also are going stir crazy, and daydreaming about springtime romps. Last night in an effort to spring clean minus the "spring" I started shifting through the clutter that is in our garage. And there it sat. A tub full of tiny pink clothes. A tub that is now our once upon a time. I brought it in, and set it down next to my husband. "I think its time that we get rid of this stuff." I popped open the lid, and began sorting through item after item of baby things. Still tagged. Still packaged. My husband told me he was okay with getting rid of her items. We stared some more at the outfits that only held hopes and dreams. He started to say, "I wouldn't tell anyone where they came from," but we both began to cry.

See our life will never be completely "pain free." Because in the end we did loose experience the death of a child. But our life is not consumed with sadness and grief. There is still laughter, and blessings. There is still beauty, and there will always be heartache. And that is precisely as life is supposed to be. I stepped away from the cyber world to remember exactly that. Though I may not talk about Savannah as much, just know she was only a piece of my, "story unfolding." Death is never the end, it is only the beginning. And one day we will all be together again.

Until next time I will leave you in awe of sure cuteness...

Bundled up for our cold spring weather.
Our sweet Davis.

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...

It's not as easy as you think.

I've heard from time to time people have said "rainbow babies" are replacements. Now having my very own physical rainbow, I would like to clarify based on my own feelings. Davis is a replacement. He replaced the feeling of having motherhood stripped from my arms. He replaced an empty bassinet and an empty seat in the car. He replaced a void, yes. But at the same time, Davis is NOT a replacement. Rainbow babies do not and cannot replace the human being we as mothers will always long for.

I had children prior to my loss of Savannah. Though I always knew that I was grateful for each of them, I grew an understanding just how precious time can be. But it was different because they were the before. There was no after. The months of fantasizing about life with a new person never existed. I still had the before. Nothing had changed. Except the same life I was accustomed to had a gaping hole. Because all around my before were pictures reminding me of what we will always be missing.

Then the prospect of having a newborn fill that emptiness became reality. I became pregnant with Davis. I knew he would bring healing. Healing in the sense of replacing the emptiness. I would finally feel the drain of waking repeatedly throughout the night. I would finally have the extra person in tow where ever I had to go. I would finally have a weight in my arms.

What I didn't expect from these replacements, was the hurt it would also bring. Contradictory right? Healing and hurt.... But it is. Having a rainbow on the horizon does not guarantee life to be dandy and free from grief. Having a rainbow baby is all things wonderful first of all. But having a rainbow is also like tearing a scab. As mothers to deceased infants, we adapt to this lifestyle. We have no choice. We find delight in the friends we make as we travel the path of tiny caskets or palm sized urns, only wishing we didn't have to know any of them. We harden our hearts to the cruelty the world shows the best we can. Because we have to. We were given a lifestyle we had no hand in choosing. As we adapt to walking through life with a piece of our hearts missing, mustering smiles on the days when our hearts are crying, our skin toughens. Some of us, make the choice to try again. To have our "replacements" as some misunderstood people say... Let me share a few ways my Davis has replaced Savannah...

He makes her facial expressions. The way he crinkles the left side of his lip. I see her, and wish I could kiss her cheeks. His big toes have the same indent in the skin that she had. Every time I see them, I want to rub her toes across my face. He battled jaundice. People mentioned the yellow color of his skin. Still acknowledging that jaundice and be very serious if not treated appropriately, I would be thankful his skin wasn't purple, and remember the distinct color of a living person with lack of oxygen. I breastfeed and miss every moment not getting to cradle her against my skin. To feel her touch. His skin against my skin is so warm, and I remember what those same chubby cheeks felt like ice cold. I wake every morning in disbelief that he is still here. Alive. Because I live in the world where babies just die.

I am not trying to sound like a downer. Aside from all of these "Davis" things making Savannah real in a very distant way, I still cherish them as "Davis" things. I take in every moment I am given with this precious little boy. I dread the day when he does not smell of newborn baby anymore. I hate the thought of loosing that smell all over again, so I take in as much as I possibly can.

Davis is my after. And though it is so beautiful to see "the rainbow after the storm," it is not as easy as one might think. Now I have my before and after... but I will forever have only the memories of my memory.

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 love and be loved in return.

The other day, as my husband and I braved the crowds Christmas shopping, a woman with the "December frantic" look on her face, slammed her cart into mine as she rounded the corner. She was moving so rapidly, there was enough force to bump my shopping cart into my pregnant stomach. In my "accidents happen" reaction, I started to move the cart closer to the shelves trying to give the shopper more space to glide freely down the isle. Before I could courtiously do so, ignorantly expecting your typical polite reaction exchanged between two strangers, the woman scraped her cart down the side of mine too impatient and caught up in her own life to show decency to another human being. And when the pure shock lifted from me, my heart hurt.

As a Christian, I celebrate Christmas. I choose to believe that "for God so loved the world, he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life." (-John 3:16) I openly chose to, as some would say, put all my faith in something that cannot be seen. And however you feel about me based on my decisions I can live with that. If you would rather hear "Happy Holidays" over "Merry Christmas," that is just as much your prerogative as it is mine to choose Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior. But this blog post is not me defending my faith or religion. This post is not about my Christmas and your Holiday.

I don't know all there is to know about other religions. I don't know details about atheism, buddhism, muslim, or being jewish and celebrating hanukkah. Aside from the separations between my Christianity and any of the above preferences, I do not see why mankind is so incapable of love. Regardless of differences. Regardless of religion. Especially this time of year. No matter what we are choosing to celebrate.

I sat wrapping presents yesterday as my little ones sat watching "Mickey's Once Upon a Christmas." A child's cartoon teaches something so simple that most humans have lost sight of. Donald Duck gave his nephews a Christmas card that read,

"Christmas isn't about candy canes, holly, or lights all aglow,

its about the lives that we touch and the care that we show."

I have experienced it now. The unknown first year. We endured all of the traditional holidays. The first year through grief, for me, was not only about healing and growing, it was also about learning. As a mother burying her child, you have to learn to walk all over again. One baby step at a time. You have to learn how to go about your daily life with a permanent absence. You have to learn how to celebrate these holidays minus one. And you have to learn to accept the crulety in the world when they acknowledge the sweet life you cherish, in a dark and cynical manner.

A very strong and beautiful friend of mine today, once again, held her head high today as she defended her two sons. She proudly display's pictures of them on her desk at work. Both born premature, one little man in heaven, one special needs sweetheart here with her. A co-worker, also a new employee walked by her desk and one of the pictures caught the woman's eye. As if these pictures were the most offensive thing she would see all day, she asked in disgust, "Is THAT your baby? Oh my gosh, WHAT is wrong with him!"

I now know mothers of loss. But I know mothers of special needs as well. They face the same disturbed reaction, that we who carry death around with us do. If not more. We can disclose the information. Our babies are always there, but not viewable to all.

And just in the same way people can bump into you and neglect to offer a simple apology, people can be judgmental, rude, and harsh. Mothers proudly take their special needs children with them everywhere. And I would do the exact same. Whether the world has lost sight of love and compassion or not.

A family member of mine, will not come around me. Not only are they angry of the death of Savannah, the life of Davis has only succeeded in making the bitterness worse. Since I lost one, this precious boy, is only viewed through death's eyes for this family member. I see women choose to have babies after the heartache of tragedy everyday. I know I will have to experience the first year all over again, yet in a different way. I will see the milestones. I will have the little one at the holidays. And all over again, I will have to experience this change, minus one. But that IS what Christmas, or "this holiday" means.

A love SO strong,

a parent would sacrifice everything. 

In the end, 

loving someone,

is the greatest gift of all. 

This pregnancy was literally flying by. Seems like one second we were jumping for joy with tears in our eyes over a test that costs way too much for what you do to it, and in the blink of an eye we were over half way to meeting our little man. I kept thinking to myself, if the third trimester goes as smoothly and quickly as the first and second, I wont have to go through the agonizing torture of the anxious waiting game most all expectant mother experience.

And then at twenty-seven weeks I found myself a one way ticket into the hospital. Now hopefully you are lucky enough to never have experienced hospital bed rest, but if you have, you know first hand that every day feels like an eternity. I literally found myself so bored I would stare out the window in event something in my view changed or became exciting.

Ever since I was released I feel as though the hospital time warp followed me home. It is surreal that five weeks have passed already, but the thought of another eight weeks has become the daily torture routine. Not so much physically. But emotionally the third trimester is draining. For thirty-two weeks now, I have daydreamed about the baby I have waited two long years for. I have fantasized about the moment he is born and he cries those sweet cries. The moment the nurses say "congratulations" and leave us alone in the room with our newborn. No oxygen masks. No NICU team. No neonatologists. Just a healthy baby boy, tuckered out from a journey into our lives and even further into our hearts.

I realized today, that over a year ago we fully expected our lives to change. Our family life would be different, and everything we did would have to be changed or altered in one way or another. And it did. Just not in the way we expected it to. We do have children prior to the life and death of Savannah. I acknowledge and would never pretend that I know what it is like to loose my first born. I do know what it is like to hold a newborn, and bring that healthy baby home. But I cannot wait to experience it all over, having had those sweet memories erased by the tragedy of infant death.

A baby band-aid is what our Davis will be. You cover the open wounds and it heals. But your skin will never be the same. Most likely there will be a scar. Sometimes not noticeable to the naked eye, but it's there. In anticipating my band-aid being laid on my heart, the days seems longer, and the seconds pass slower.

But as I look at my three living breathing children, I cannot help but only want this moment. Because here soon, for the second time, our lives will change forever.

The Heart of Christmas

Sometimes you just can't help it. There are those movies that just draw you in, without needing to be big blockbuster hits. Without needing to pay an obscene amount of money to watch it in the movie theater.

Let's go back a little bit. Last holiday season,  a song entered my life, but being we were still so numb from the loss we had literally just faced, it didn't hit me as hardly as it has this year. Literally one week ago, driving to my weekly doctors appointment the song jumped back into my memory. No reminder. No reason. I just began telling my husband about the song. He reminded me that I shared the song with him last Christmas. I honestly couldn't remember sharing it. I hardly remembered it myself. In that moment, whether he already had heard it or not, I needed to hear it again. Myself.

And for the first time I watched the official music video. The music video that shares glimpses into the journey a family faced as their son thirteen month old son battled Leukemia. As my husband drove down the freeway I tried my very hardest to hold back the tears I knew were unevitable.

Saturday evening in watching ABC Family's 25days of Christmas, a commercial came on the tv adverstising a movie premier on a completely different channel. A channel I had never even heard of. (Did you know they officially have a Christmas movie channel?) GMC. I set it up to record Sunday, December 4th, and had forgotten all about it until late last night.

A touching yet heartbreaking story of a family who fights with all of their might to keep their son alive, yet when they reach the point of "letting go" realize that sweet little boy, Dax, isn't going to live to see "one last Christmas." A community follows by example when Dax's daddy goes out of his way to make sure Dax got to see, his very last Christmas.

It was an overwhelming story. But I sobbed uncontrollably through the entire movie. That of which I have never, ever, done before. But it was so real. The Locke family were blessed with more time with Dax, than we were given with Savannah, but the story of their stay at St. Jude's Children's Hospital, was exactly, in almost every detail if you were to replace a toddler with a newborn, what our experience was like at UC Davis. And every moment spent watching this family put their lives on hold to be there fighting for their son, took me back to every moment spent fighting for our daughter.

When the doctors had tried everything they possibly could to help save Dax, they sent the family home to spend their final weeks with him. And like I already mentioned, October 2009, Dax got to see Christmas with the childhood delight we either remember from our own childhood, or have witnessed in our own children.

All so badly, with our very Christmas tree illuminated and decorated in the living room, it brought me to a heavy heart. How I wish so badly, Savannah could have witnessed for a second the magic of Christmas. Whether it have been in December or in her eight day visit in August. But before family and friends even had a moment to wrap their minds around what was happening, Savannah was gone.

There are so many amazing families out there. Who have fought so hard and selflessly for their babies.

Since Dax passed, his mommy and daddy have welcomed their own rainbow baby into their lives.  And continue to raise 1.7million dollars to fund St. Judes Children's Hospital for an entire day. In honor of the baby boy that left their lives too soon.

This Christmas, if your heart calls you to do so, or you are looking for a way to make a difference, please consider making even the smallest donation to St. Judes. Because I know, as a mother, what it feels like for a hospital to give their everything to someone who means more to you than they will ever possibly know.

::Donate for Dax::

Recklessly Loving.

When I was pregnant with Sarah, I was barely twenty weeks when my mother threw me my very first baby shower. So young, I didn't once stop to think that the daughter I had just found out I was carrying could surprise us all and come out needing blue ensembles rather than all of the pink that was received. I never once thought that the daughter inside me could leave us all before we really had a chance to say hello. All of the baby gifts instantly came out of their perfectly boxed packaging. Furniture was assembled. Tags were removed. No hesitation; no questioning. 

I was a bit obsessive with the motherly need to prepare for our sweet Sarah. I washed and folded. If something even got bumped in the slightest I would wash them again. I am probably the only expectant mother in the world that can go through more bottles of Dreft than a new mother uses in six months. Koady claims even that her treasured pink clothes were fading by the time we welcomed her into our lives.

With Michael and Brody the need to prepare, nest, and wash their clothes was still there, just not as neurotic as the first time around. And as badly as I wanted it to be there, it was non existent for Savannah. I did like a clean house. I did feel that things couldn't be "clean" enough. But her things? I never could bring myself to submerge myself in the heavenly pink outfits I had longed years to see again. 

Now any honest women would admit that baby boy clothes are just never going to be as cute as the girly outfits available in department stores today. And though I wanted so bad for Davis to be the little girl I hoped he would be, I want to dive into his clothes and just live there for awhile. I want to nuzzle his blankets, and snuggle his stuffed friends. His room has become my absolute favorite place in the world. 

But... that fear in the back of my mind haunts me. We have been assured our Davis is healthy as can be, and realistically there is no reason to believe anything could go wrong based on what happened with Savannah. It took me quite awhile to assure my heart that this little boy, is going to be just fine. I was finally feeling ready. Ready to throw boxes and packaging away. Ready to clip tags. Ready to become a Dreft consumer once more.

After being admitted for the hospital for an entire week from ruptured membranes, being given excessive amounts of magnesium sulfate and antibiotics that I am pretty sure could have cured a small country, I was discharged. Originally they wanted to keep me until I delivered. I couldn't see any point of that, since they could not confirm that my water had broken after I was sentenced admitted. They deemed it up to a leak that sealed itself over, and I was sent home on pelvic rest, and with instructions to put my feet up as much as possible. 

As I stood staring at his precious blue outfits awaiting his arrival patiently, the fear creeped up on me once again. A week prior I was being prepped for life with a baby in the NICU. A baby with a head the size of a "tomato." A baby who would be far to neurologically sensitive to rub, but I could gently place my hand on his teeny tiny body. As I assured the nurse I had in fact been in their NICU and was familiar with the "medically sustained infant," her interest was heightened. I then told her about Savannah. She put her hand to her chest, "I was there that night. I was one of the nurses that took care of your baby girl. That was a very rough night." I then proceeded to tell her that she lived for eight days on the ECMO machine, but she had passed away. She nodded. "Yes, we heard." She reached out and grabbed my leg. Tears welled up in her eyes as she said again, "that was such a rough night." An overwhelming wave of emotion came over me as I really remembered what that night was like. I began to cry as well, when that NICU nurse took my in her arms and held me as we cried together. I sobbed, "I am so glad you will be there to take care of this baby." 

No matter who is caring for my unborn son, I don't and didn't want him to face that road. To be so tiny and helpless, fighting a fight they may or may not be ready for. Once again, I was reminded that in a second, Davis could not be safe and sound doing baby aerobics in his mommies tummy. And the packages, the teeny outfits, and the beautiful blue color I have grown to love so so much, would once more sit. But as I have made it from twenty seven weeks, to thirty and a half since then, recently I removed tags. No not all of them. Hardly. But I have a diaper bag packed. I have outfits, socks, mittens, and blankets picked out. Because it's love. Love can be reckless sometimes, but that's what makes it so intense. Not knowing what may or may not happen, my Davis deserves every bit of my love. And until he is here, full term, and I can smother his face in kisses to let him know, right now I show him by washing his bundles of blue. By folding repeatedly. By sniffing the sweet smell of baby detergent. By sitting in his bedroom taking in everything about his presence. Tags are a big step. But an even bigger deal. Because I recklessly love him. For now. For always.

 

30 days of Thankful {Day Three}

Today I am so thankful for Mercy Maternity Center. When I found out that my obstetrician who delivered Savannah was leaving her practice after thirty years of delivering babies, I'll have to admit, I found myself crying hysterically in the parking lot of the Mercy Maternity Center after being told "they would take good care of me."

Any mother-to-be is usually nervous at the idea of deciding on the doctor they entrust not only their well being in, but that of their unborn child's. Savannah's condition, no secret here, was completely undiscovered even through prenatal care, and numerous ultrasounds. I did not hold that against my doctor. I do not believe that eight years of medical universities can make a human being, capable of performing miracles. Healing all. I just don't. Because they are, and always will be, only human. Do I think people are capable of careless mistakes? Of course. But I will not hold Savannah's diaphragmatic hernia against anyone. Had it been discovered, all I manage to see is months of agony and heartache spent, wondering, worrying, living day to day life broken hearted. There was nothing that could have been done to that little body inside my womb to help her. And through God's grace, "Savannah's frame was not hidden from Him. When she was made in secret." {Psalm 139:15} This scripture, used on behalf of so many babies growing and thriving in their mother's tummy. It spoke to me much deeper. Koady and I used it at her funeral. As much as this world offered us during my pregnancy, countless times, Savannah's body, her frame, was hidden. But not from God. Only from us. The Lord, most definitely kept her makes a secret. And His secret, became our blessing. We got to live with Savannah for nine months, just as she was. "Fearfully and wonderfully made." {Psalm 139:14} That was all we knew. We were not scared for the future. We got to live in the moment.

And lastly, the piece of the scripture that fit our little girl so perfectly. "Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed." {Psalm 139:16} People argued with me as I spoke of this scripture; I was told I was reading into those simple words way too much. But it says UNformed. So easily, could it make more sense to say, formed; Created; Established. After all, this is God. He isn't making all babies unformed. But my Savannah was most definitely UNFORMED.  Yes every baby, every being, starts out unformed. That being the sole purpose behind the mother's womb. In our tragedy, this scripture was speaking of my little one.  No amount of time would have ever made Savannah whole. No doctor in the world could have saved her.

Starting over with a new doctor, I was unsure if they would connect to my story. My history. Would they treat me with the compassion I was so desperate for in this pregnancy. Would they accept that I lost my daughter, and sacrifice all they have to see to it I don't loose another?

The doctors, specialists, and nurses have exceeded my expectations in every way imaginable. They have grown to know my story. They know Savannah's name, and are not afraid to speak it. As most medical professionals try to avoid it, the ones overseeing my care have not held back any attachment to my baby boy. They are fighting for him. Every appointment. Every recommendation. Every referral. As I said, I do not blame Savannah's doctor for anything, but I feel blessed to have changed doctors. I feel like I could not be receiving better medical care anywhere else, other than one Medical Center that has stolen and will forever carry a piece of my heart. A piece of my soul...

Today, I'm thankful for Mercy Maternity Center. Like the entire Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at UC Davis, they truly are my fighting angels...

Perspective.

I remember way back when I was pregnant with Sarah. Every milestone was new, exciting, foreign. With each passing pregnancy, things were still exciting; but they were no longer foreign.

I cannot speak for every mother, but my own views are sometimes different than others on this journey of loss, or as I like to call it now, life after loss. Which I feel is okay. I am only one person and by no means is grief of a child something that can or should be judged or dictated by someone else.

For me though, this pregnancy is far different that the rest. All over again, I feel like I am a first time mother. Not in the sense my Sarah, my Michael, or my Brody are now insignificant or are no longer deemed "my children," but a first time mother because my Savannah brought forth her own set of new and foreign experiences.

I'm not sure if you'd call it grief. I'm not sure if you'd call it uncertainty. I'm just plain and simple not sure what it is, but I'm not sure how to be a mother to an infant again...

Today marks the twenty fifth week of this pregnancy. With only fifteen weeks until we meet Davis in person, I wonder to myself, "where did this pregnancy go?" I've been the pregnant mother who complains about being uncomfortable. Wishing the baby would just "hurry up and get here." And though I may complain about the temperature, or whine mention that my pelvic bone pops with each and every step, the thought of the next fifteen weeks passing as quickly as the twenty five in our rear view mirror, is enough to bring me to tears. Because right here in this moment, Davis is at home. Davis is safe. These moments are how I got to mother a different child. After this moment? This is what I cannot remember.

We are now the proud owners of our very first mini van. With thanks to my dad for searching it out, we, once more, have an automobile that fits our family. Now having moved into our new house, and buying the not so "mini" family "van," I couldn't help but hit a brick wall.

"What will it be like to bring a baby to their new home? What will it be like to buckle the car seat into those extra seats bought just for their anticipation? What will those final moments in labor and delivery feel like?" The upcoming emotions, I have tried running through my head again and again.

Fear.

Facing my Fear.

Yesterday I let Sarah and Michael watch a movie I found to be deeply inspiring. "Soul Surfer." Here at the Fraser's I try my hardest to monitor what my kids watch on tv realizing the impact the littlest things can have on young hearts. "But Megan, isn't Soul Surfer about a young girl getting her arm bitten off by a shark?!"

YES!!

But the story is so much more than that. When I watched the movie prior to allowing the kids, it really hit home for me. I knew aside from the slightly gory shark attack, my kids could really learn something from the story offered. 

An example given in this movie; when you are really close to something it is hard to see the overall perspective.

Sarah and Michael watched the entire movie and I was delighted with the flow of questions afterwards...

Michael asked, "why did God let the shark take her arm?" Without thinking I said, "as terrible as it was, she learned in the end that God could use her to inspire people through her tragedy and though she has to live with this handicap she didn't let that stop her from doing what she loved. It's like how God took Savannah. That was a terrible thing, but if we lived in fear from experience we would have missed out on getting to have Davis."

And stepping back from perspective, I paused and thought for a moment while four brown eyes stared back at me. Again I said, as if I was speaking to myself, "we would have missed out on a really great thing."

Michael chimed in once more, "well... I still think she is just as beautiful."

In the eyes of a six year old, he still sees the beauty in what others can only see as tragedy, or mistake.

Bethany Hamilton's story is far from tragedy. Her story is yet another example of God's divine purpose for everyone. I may face my own future of uncertainties, but I know that facing my fears is only just the beginning. 

I cannot wait to see His plans for Davis.

From Savannah's story,

I know they must be pretty great.

Time.

There comes a point in time that we all move forward. No matter where we've been, or where our destination might be. Our lives are always a forward motion. And this forward motion is the same for mommy's who have lost little ones near and dear to their soul. One year ago tomorrow marks the day, I sat down to tell Savannah's story. That I put everything we had witness, that we had watched, into perspective. Little did I know her little life would go on to touch many. And I knew the year ahead of me would be like one I would never had experienced before. It wasn't. There were good days and bad days. There were nights where her presence was all around, and days where her memory wasn't in the front of my mind. I dedicated a year to my grief. To try and describe my journey through infant loss. Through heartache. Most days, when I sat to write I didn't actually believe that someone out there was reading. But there are those of you who did. And who have commented. And who have left deep footprints in my heart.

The year came and passed, quicker than Savannah's short visit into our lives. I have a hard time believing it has really been that long. That four seasons have changed since we last saw her pretty face. But though it seems like yesterday, our days are not as centered around the missing piece to our family puzzle, and I know that Fraser life has continued in its very own, forward motion.

For almost a month now, all three of the kids have been working their little brains learning; growing; thriving. As I've mentioned before, we are homeschooling this year. There was a lot of talking, discussing, and praying that went into this decision. But ultimately, Koady and I both felt it was right, and that we were called to do it. So far I would say, three weeks into it, I myself, am still trying to get into the swing of things. With adding "teacher" to my ever growing titles, I wonder to myself, where time to breathe might appear. As I see each of my friends drying teary eyes, and tucking lunches into character decorated backpacks, I can't help but question my sanity. Maybe it is because I yet to know personally, other mothers who have taken the full fledged dive into homeschooling. But despite those moments of "what ever was I thinking," I still feel that the decision to educate my children is best for our family.

I am hoping to start including our school time into my "life unfolding," but we will save that for a time where I am feeling a teensy weensy bit more organized. Which is not right now, considering the clock is ticking closer and closer to 10pm as we speak...

Which if you think I am one crazy brave lady to dedicate my time to homeschool, {and cleaning, raising, budgeting, errand running, cooking, and washing...} then don't forget this is all wrapped around my fifth pregnancy and weekly doctors appointments. Hmm... when am I finding time to breathe??

A Story Unfolding will be undergoing some changes in the near future... As we move forward.

Thank you all for continuing on this journey with us.

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."

The Final Day.

Today was it. It was the last. The final. Savannah's very last day with "hope" on earth. It was the very last day that we prayed for her in "that" way. We prayed that if it was her time, that she go peacefully. That our hearts we're filled with peace. I never truly knew what "peace" actually meant until I experienced it. Peace in the sense, prayers around the world were silently spoken to God for me and my husbands hearts. I have never experienced grace as I have by the comfort we recieved after her death. Prayer does work!

But as I sit here tonight I think back to this time last year. I've thought of it a lot this past week. What we were doing this time in 2010. And I want to go back. I want to relive that week with our Savannah again and again and again. But I know I can't. All I have is the sweet memories I will always cherish of our girl.

This morning, I received a phone call. It was a dear family friend. My mom's best friend you might say. All she wanted to say to me was that she loved us. That she was thinking of us. Not just tomorrow, but today. Because she knew that it's not always just the day of, but the days and moments leading up to that moment. That simple phone call, meant more than she will ever know.

It's a reminder that through this first year anniversary, there are some people who are thinking of us. Not oftheir pain, or memories, just Savannah's mommy and daddy. In these final days, we are the ones that really lost something. No matter what the connection was to anyone else, her mommy and her daddy are the ones who have thought of her every moment over the past year. We are the ones who hold an overwhelming love for the little person we met for a brief moment in our hearts. And one simple phone call assured me, that there are people who care enough to acknowledge that.

So on the evening before Savannah's death, I wanted to share her story with you all, once more...

Gone but never forgotten. 

~Savannah Victoria~

{Please pause playlist on the right!}

Blessings amungst Pain.

Yesterday was not hard at all. Believe it or not. There was a brief moment of overwhelming tears, but I describe them as "happy tears" rather than sad ones. We recieved our "Savannah Bear," made by "Molly Bears." I have mentioned Molly Bears once already in my blog, but let me refresh your memory. After recieving my bear, I can assure you they are worth a second introduction. SO worth it. It is a group of amazing women who make weighted bears for the baby whom passed away. Its a chance for mother's to get to feel their babies weight in their arms. -Sigh-
Let me tell you, it isn't the fact that every bear they make is the one and only, or that they include little memories of your baby on the bears. It's the weight. I cut through the box yesterday and the purple fur peeked back at me. My bear was smiling. Oh how I had wished that I would recieve a smiling bear. And then I lifted all 6lbs. 2oz. out of that box. And a wave of emotion blasted through me. Wow. Had she really felt this heavy? I asked my mom if she wanted to hold her. As I laid the bear in my mom's arms instant tears overcame her as well, and she buried her face in the neck of our Savannah Bear.

So yes,

it's the weight.

We spent time yesterday afternoon at her gravesite. Making it as special as can be for we know Savannah looks down from heaven and see's the people who care enough to visit her grave. Without saying a word, Koady's heart was crying the same things mine was. There I was knees buried into the grass, as I brushed away dry grass that had blown onto her headstone from the weed eater. 

Here we were. Yet again, probably our millionth time at her burial site, on her birthday, and we were the first and only visitors to her site. Her blue granite, dusty and deserted, was finally gleaming back it's beauty because her mommy, daddy, brothers, sister, and grandma, were the only ones who cared enough to go. We left Savannah's earthly resting place far from dusty and deserted. 

We were thought of all day yesterday, as people remembered our girl. I've grown so much through the past year, and have learned that even one year later, there will still be things people say that hurt. That people don't stop to think about how we may percieve them. And I am finally capable of saying "that's okay." Yes it may still hurt. Yes they still make me cry. But it's okay. Because no matter the things people say to comfort themselves, I know that Savannah is Koady's... And Savannah is mine. And people can believe what they want to believe, for it isn't going to change who she really belongs to. And till Koady and I can be with her again, she belongs to God. She always has. And she will remain in HIS arms, until she can be placed in the only arms she rightfully belongs in...

Yesterday morning, I had the pleasure of having a doctors appointment scheduled. On the day we remembered Savannah's arrival for her short visit, I got to hear the beautiful sound of our new babies heartbeat. Still in the 170's, and as quickly as his or her heartbeat was galloping, mine was beating just as fast. It was just what I needed yesterday. A reminder that though Savannah is no longer here with us, we are still awaiting yet another treasure in our lives. Our Hope.

And on that note, have I mentioned we have a new girls name? It is much more fitting...

Victoria Hope

Boy's name? Yeah we are in the process of changing that too! And all we've got for now?

Davis

{First name.}

I suggested Koady for the middle name, but the other Koady, doesn't like that too much. So readers, what do YOU think, his middle name should be?

Annnd, do you guess PINK or do you guess BLUE?

{Enter your guess in the poll on the top right side!!!}

Another blogger did this comparison and I thought

it was a great idea...

:::So here is what you have to go off of:::

SARAH:

Carried: High

Craved: Lemons

Heartbeat: 160-170bpm

Didn't look FAT at all.

MICHAEL:

Carried LOOOW

Craved: Ribs and Corn on the Cob

(EVERY night!)

Heartbeat: 120-130 bpm

Looked FAT FAT FAT.

BRODY:

Carried: LOOOW

Craved: Apples

Heartbeat: 130-140 bpm

LOOKED FAT FAT FAT.

SAVANNAH:

Carried: High

Craved: Sour Punch Straws and Cherry Slurpies

{Not the best choices huh?}

Heartbeat: 160-175 bpm

Didn't look too FAT.

 BABY TO BE:

Craving: Lemons.

{I actually sqeezed lemons on my stuffed shells last night.}

Heartbeat: 170 bpm

Can't judge my fatness or how I am carrying yet.

Hmmm...