Eight Months

You are coming into your own, Celia Joy.  You are still full of smiles, but new skills and opinions are surfacing every day.

On vacation last week, I rocked you to sleep one afternoon, your damp forehead nestled against my shoulder.  I looked at you in the mirror and saw suddenly how big you have become, how your face has matured, how your frame has stretched.  Your babyhood is fleeting Celia, slipping away from us daily, and it is both sad and exciting.

You're on the edge of mobility.  You've been sitting without support for weeks now.  You can roll and scoot your way backwards across the floor.  Every day, your ability to stand while holding on to the ottoman or play table increases.  You can even pull yourself from sitting to standing in your crib and take wobbly steps across the floor when I hold on to both of your pudgy little hands.

But you want more.  I can see it in your searching eyes, hear it in your frustrated cries.  You want to be able to do it all yourself, and I see in you echoes of your big sister's determination, her all-consuming desire to "go-go."

You're eating more solid foods now.  You love applesauce, sweet potatoes, and avocado and can pop frozen peas and sweet potato puffs into your mouth with ease.  You love gulping water from the sippy cup you can hold yourself.

You can clap and wave, and you're playing with sounds.  You especially love saying "da-da," and I think you might know what it means.  I've only heard you say "ma-ma" once, which makes me a bit sad, until you are in your crib at 5:30 a.m. saying "da-da" and I get to roll over and tell your Daddy you are calling for him.

Your demeanor is still pleasant, characterized by joy, but you are no longer passively watching the world go by.  You are finding your voice, pulling and grabbing your way into the world, into the little universe of our family.  We will miss your sweet, snuggly days, but we look forward to knowing more of you, to the ways our family will grow through the gift of your emerging personality.

Three Plus Two Months

"What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you?  

Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you?  You desire and do not have, so you murder.   You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel."  -James 4:1-2

For months, everyone's been telling me that three is a harder age than two.  Still, the intensity with which you are willing to battle over the smallest of things continues to surprise me.  This morning, it was the long-sleeve Ravens shirt you were determined to wear, even though it's supposed to approach 90 degrees this afternoon.

"I want to be cold," you wailed, even after I suggested a compromise:  you could put the long-sleeve shirt on top of a short-sleeve one until you got too hot.

A few times recently, at the height of your distress over losing a battle of the wills, you've stubbornly declared, "I want God to take the whole world apart," as if to say that if you can't have your way, the entirety of creation might as well be destroyed.

It's made me smile to hear you say that, even in the midst of my frustration and, yes, anger with your outbursts.  It's an apt way to describe it, that desperate desire for control we all feel from time to time.  Sometimes, it really does seem like if we can't have things our way, the world should just come to an end.

I'm trying to remember this Ellie-girl, when our battles arise, that though it feels like you and I are at odds, like I simply need to win, the truth is that we are both fighting the same thing:  the cravings of hearts that want to control.  You want to wear sparkly black shoes and white socks with jean shorts, to eat chocolate for lunch.  I want peace, quiet, order.

I can delude myself into thinking that my desires are more valid and therefore more important.   Perhaps they are.  I've had about 30 extra years to refine them.  But the deeper truth is this:  we are both desperate sinners, and we both in desperate need of a Savior.

If you being three can teach us both this, it will be a good year indeed.

Six Months

You smile.  A lot.  You smile when I come into your room after a nap, a big grin lighting up your whole face when you see me.  You smile when someone says hello to you, then shyly bury your face in my shoulder.  You smile at your sister, eyes tracking her while she spins and sings and dances.

The other day, your Daddy said to me:  "I hope she's okay.  She just smiles so much!"  And I laughed because he's always the one telling me that I find crazy things to worry about.

You are more than okay, baby girl.  You are a beautiful, babbling, bouncing source of joy in our lives.

You regularly start my mornings at 5:30 a.m.  You eat and sleep on your own terms, making it impossible for me to plan my day and difficult for us to leave the house.  You can't crawl yet or sit for more than a few seconds, but you're no longer to content to rest in a bouncy seat for long periods of time.  You want to be held, carried, played with.  And thanks to your GI issues, I'm still eating more quinoa than I'd ever imagined possible.

You do not make my life easy, my Celia, but you do make me smile.  Your demeanor is characterized by joy, and your joy is contagious.

Four Months

I wrote last month about what a delightful baby you were.

And you are delightful still.  Your smile.  Your cheeks.  The way you snuggle into my shoulder when you're pretending to be shy.

But the past month has been a harder one.  You're so excited about your newly acquired rolling skills that you often wake yourself up to practice them in the middle of the night.  You are no longer quite so content to sit in a bouncy seat or lie on the floor; you are ready to go further than your tiny muscles will allow.  And even though I'm no longer eating much of anything, your GI issues have continued and even regressed.

I am tired.  I miss chocolate.  My arms and back ache from carrying you.

But, sweet Celia, the simple truth remains:  I'm so glad you're here.

Three Years

Once, I worried I would never be able to have a child.  In fact, in the long year before I got pregnant with you, I was convinced you would never exist.  Your Daddy wasn't concerned, but I, ever the pessimist, was sure that something in my body was not right, that a baby would never come.

But here you are my Ellie girl, full of chatter and wiggles and endless ideas.

You are three today, and I can scarcely believe it.  The baby we prayed for all those months is growing up into an observant, joyful, precocious little girl, a girl who loves dancing and puzzles, dress up and baby dolls, building and coloring, a girl who says delightful things like "Would you care for some of this, Mommy?" and "I'll see what I can do, Daddy."  Sometimes, I look at you and at your sister, and I feel quite simply, overcome with gratitude.

You see Ellie, ever since I was your age myself, I've wanted to be a mommy.  I've wanted to have a home full of life and laughter.  I've wanted to spend my days at libraries and playgrounds.  I've wanted to make ants on a log and paper dolls and to play house.  Even as I went to college and pursued a career, I wanted most of all to be a mommy.  I couldn't imagine doing anything else.

And now, finally, I am a mommy.  For the past three years, I've had the fearful, wonderful privilege of being your almost constant companion, your diaper-changer and lunch-maker, your ouchy-healer and cuddle-giver.  I've felt more tired and more powerless than I'd ever imagined, but I've also known more joy than you will ever understand, until, perhaps, the day you have a baby of your own.

I want you to know Ellie how grateful I am for these first three years of your life.  Your name means "God has answered," and you, my child, have been an answer to prayer - not only the prayers prayed by your Daddy and I in the year we waited for a baby, but also to the often unspoken yearnings of a little girl's heart and to the whispered longings of young, single woman.

Ellie, I still struggle sometimes to believe that God is good.  It is easy for me to see all the hard and broken places in life, to get stuck there, wondering where He is in the pain and the darkness.  But today sweet girl, as we celebrate three years of you, I see His goodness all over you.  I see it when you smile at the pleasure of speaking your latest "silly word."  I see it in the pitter-patter of your feet running to greet me when I come home from an errand or meeting.  I see it in your tender affection for your baby sister.  Most of all, I see it in the simple reality of your presence here with us, a sweet fulfillment of my heart's desire, a generous gift from a God who is indeed, good.

Three Months

Your middle name is Joy.  We chose it in faith that your birth, almost exactly one year after your sister's due date, would be a joyful, redemptive occasion, that after the painful experience of losing one child, we might be able again to taste the joy of holding a healthy baby in our arms.

I expected that bringing you home would be joyful and healing and beautiful, and it has been all of these things.  I am very aware of just how precious your little life is, of the miracle of your steady breaths while you sleep, of your warm body in my arms.

What I didn't expect was how much your middle name would suit you, not only because you came after what was lost, but also because of you and who God made you to be.

You have been a delightful baby, Celia Joy.  In spite of some gastrointestional issues that I know often make you uncomfortable, your demeanor is characterized by peace, contentment, and yes, joy.  You do not demand attention, but respond to it with a smile that makes your still-blue eyes sparkle.  You are quiet by nature, but you coo eagerly when I have a moment to sit and talk to you.

I am still learning to know you, watching as your personality begins to unfold.  But I want you to know this my baby girl:  these first three months of your life have been a great joy.  They've been joyful in part because your life is a gift after a great loss, but mostly, they've been joyful simply because of you.

Two and Three-Quarters

Two and three-quarters.  That's precisely how old you were when your baby sister arrived, after many long months of anticipating her arrival.

I'd worried about your adjustment, about how you'd handle sharing my attention after two and three-quarters years of demanding most of it.

But from the beginning of Celia's life, you embraced her with joy and understood that she belonged with us. I will never forget coming home from the hospital with Celia snuggled in her car seat, walking my still tender body gingerly toward the front door, and seeing your colorful "Welcome Home Celia" sign and your face plastered against the glass, beaming.

You've had your moments of adjustment for sure, but they've been brief and uncharacteristic.  Mostly, you've loved your sister.  You've loved her not just in the typical toddler fashion - the plentiful smothering hugs and sloppy kisses - but you've also loved her with maturity and grace, learning to entertain yourself more as I take care of her, trying to understand what makes her sad and how you can help to fix it.

You are two and three-quarters my Ellie girl, but you are a little mother, a nurterer, a life-giver.  Watching you become a big sister has been one of my greatest joys.

Where I Am

When people see me these days, with a toddler and baby in tow, they usually ask how we're doing, how our adjustment to being a family of four is going. 

My answer is always the same, "We're doing really well.  Celia's a really chill baby, and Ellie's adjustment has been smooth."  

And I mean it.  To be honest, these first almost-three months as a family of four have been better than I could have imagined.  

Celia is a peaceful baby, generally content unless she's tired or hungry, problems I can understand and easily solve.  Pop her little pink pacifier in her mouth, and she snuggles herself right to sleep.  Set her down on her play mat, and she'll entertain herself quietly for half an hour.  Put her to bed at night, and she generally wakes up 8-12 hours later.

Ellie adores her sister and has risen to the occasion of sharing my attention with surprising grace and patience.  She has her moments for sure, but her overwhelming response has been one of love.  

I know I am blessed.  With her reflux issues and general fussiness, Ellie was a challenging enough baby that I fully appreciate what a blessing Celia's temperament is.  And I have good friends whose toddlers struggled to adjust to their baby siblings.  I've seen how exhausting and difficult that road can be.  

All that to say, I'm very grateful, grateful not only for the relative ease of these transition months, but also for the two sweet, healthy girls I get to spend my days with.  Last night, after bouncing an unusually fussy Celia to sleep and then joining CJ to sing "Amazing Grace" to our tucked-into-bed Ellie, my eyes brimmed with tears.  

My girls are here.  Unlike my Avaleen, I get to hug them and hold them and dance with them and make them smoothies and play Tinkertoys and dress up with them.  Their lives are beautiful, amazing gifts, and I still really can't believe they've been given to us.  

Don't get me wrong.  Being a mom of two kids is hard.  The days are long, and juggling the needs of two little people doesn't leave much time for anything else.  My back aches each night from all of the carrying and lifting and bouncing.  Celia's had some gastrointestional issues that have required me to cut not only dairy, but many of my other favorite foods from my diet.  And when Ellie skipped her nap three days in a row last week, I thought I might go crazy without those treasured moments of silence.  The introvert in me is struggling to find the places of solitude, rest, and reflection I need to feel like myself, to truly connect to God and to others.

Those are real challenges, and each one of them has left me in tears on at least one occasion.  But mostly, I just feel blessed.  Tired, overwhelmed, and disconnected from my heart, but blessed.  I prayed for these girls; God answered; and it is a sweet, sweet thing.

Introducing Celia Joy

Celia Joy Waldron

November 26, 2013

8 pounds, 10 ounces

21.75 inches

Her name means "heavenly."  We chose it because we'd prayed she'd be a fighter, strong enough to survive to birth, a life-long fighter for heavenly joy in her own soul and in the souls of others.  We chose it too because we trusted her life would be a source of heaven-sent joy to our family, a gift especially precious after the loss of her sister Avaleen last year.

She's here now, almost two months old already, and I don't know how else to say it except that she fits.  She fits snuggled under my chin, fast asleep in the middle of the night.  She fits nestled in her Daddy's arms, peacefully watching the world go by.  She fits on her sister's lap, the perfect size for eager little arms to embrace.  She fits in all of our hearts, fills in some of the spaces Avaleen left behind.  She fits in this crazy little entity that is our family, already a calm and peaceful presence in our busy, noisy lives.  

She belongs with us, and we're ever so grateful she's here.

Life Right Now

My brain swirls with things to do:  meals I want to freeze, piles of clutter to tackle, Pinterest projects I want to make for the girls' new rooms.  CJ says I am creating projects, orders me to stop and relax and rest.

And then there is this book I am writing, so many more interviews to transcribe and chapters to draft. My goal is to have most of the rough draft done before the baby arrives.  I know I won't have much time after.

It all seems so important.  I wake up each morning hardly knowing where to begin, watch my to-do list getting a bit longer each day.  There are only seven weeks left, maybe fewer.

In a rare moment of quiet, I read Matthew 6:31-33:  "Therefore do not be anxious, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?'  For the Gentiles seek after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them all.  But seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added to you."

And I know, in the moment I read this, that I am to write, to leave meals unfrozen, rooms undecorated, clutter in piles.  I am to write because God has asked me to, because that is to be my priority right now.  When this baby is born, God will provide ways for us all to eat and function even if I am unable to prepare in advance the way I'd like.

This seems like a small thing, an easy step of obedience, but it is not.  My soul wars against being told to choose the uncertain value of writing over the seemimgly certain value of plans and preparations.  I'd love to be a full-time nester, not a full-time mother and a part-time writer.

But my calling is clear.  God has spoken.  I know there is joy in obedience, as hard as that obedience might be.  Lord help me.

Two and a Half

If you'd asked me last week what I thought of you being almost two and a half, I would have said it wasn't my favorite age.  We were in the thick of it then, this thing called discipline, particularly with your responses when you didn't get your way:  throwing, hitting, running away.  When prompted, you would tell me that you were sorry, but I wondered if you really meant it, especially when we were right back in the same predicament just twenty minutes later.

But this week something happened, and suddenly you're all about making good choices and saying please when you need something and generally being a content and pleasant child.  Not a perfect child, but a different child.  I can't explain the shift, but I'm grateful for it, for however long it may last.  It's allowed me to stop focusing so much on where you fall short, but instead to see and remember what a delight you are to me at this age.

I love your ever-expanding vocabulary and the sentences that roll off your tongue with such confidence. "Ellie," I say.  "Do you want to take any of your new library books upstairs to read before bedtime?"

"I'm okay with what is already up there," you reply immediately, walking toward the stairs, and your Daddy and I look at each other and laugh.

I love your love of reading, your expanding attention span for longer books.  I love that several times a day you request to "cuddle" on the couch with me and read, that my library card is getting more use than it has since I was a child myself.

I love all the little things we get to do together, just you and I, in these special last few months before Baby Sister makes her appearance:  walks to the playground, ballet class, and craft time.  You love to help me with everything:  putting groceries in the cart, washing dishes, making dinner.  You can't wait to help take care of Baby Sister.

You'll be an amazing big sister I know.  But I treasure these days with just you.  Happy two and a half, my sweet girl.

Family News

I am pregnant.

It's such a simple sentence, but writing it feels to me both exhilerating and scary, much like my hesitant jumps off the high dive when I was ten.

You see, the link between pregnancy and having a baby has been severed in my experience, and I am still finding it difficult to reestablish the connection.  Telling the world is one way to choose to celebrate this life, to rejoice in this child who is right now very much alive, making her presence known with gentle flips and kicks while I write.  I battle fear of losing this baby every day, probably will until she is safely in my arms, but I don't want to be consumed by that fear.

So I'm telling you all:  I am pregnant, twenty weeks.  It's another little girl.  We are delighted and terrified, grateful and hopeful.

Two and a Quarter

This morning, you climbed your pajama-clad self up into your Daddy's lap and snuggled in close.  "Hold me like a baby," you demanded.

"But you're a toddler," he replied with a smile in my direction.

"No, I'm a baby," you insisted.

He tried to convince you otherwise, but you weren't having it.  "I don't want to talk about it," you finally declared in a whining voice, nestling in closer to his chest.

I laughed silently, remembering how just yesterday at the pool when I told you that the snorkle you wanted to play with was someone else's grown-up toy, you announced emphatically, "I want to be a grown-up."

I guess that's part of what being two is all about:  wanting to hold on to what is safe and known, wanting at the same time to forge ahead into the new and the exciting.  I get that.  I still feel that way sometimes.

But Ellie girl, two and a quarter is a special time too, just as you are right now in your pig tails and summer dresses, dancing your way through life with overflowing curiousity and a love of desserts and playgrounds and words and pools.

You will always want to go back.  You will always want to go forward.  But I will always love you just as you are.

Two

You are two.

Everyone talks about the terrible twos, and already, I see glimpses of what they mean.  For you, being two means regular meltdowns about things that just won't go your way:  blocks that won't fit together just as you'd planned, a piece of furniture you can't move, toy ice cubes that won't line up just so in your cup.  I see these moments coming, but you don't want help.  "I do by self!" you cry, flapping your arms in frustration.  Usually things escalate to the point where you throw the offending toy to the ground and run away crying.

I'm not sure exactly how to handle these moments.  We're working on asking for help, on not running away, on picking up the things you've thrown, on saying you're sorry.  But it's hard for you, and I think I understand that.  Life rarely fits together the way we think it should, and sometimes, no amount of help or perseverance can fix that.  It's been a hard lesson for me too, still is, in fact.

Sometimes, these moments I'm describing feel pretty terrible to you and to me too.  I guess that's why they call them the terrible twos.  But I want you to know, someday when you read this, perhaps when you have a two year-old of your own, that I see a lot more to your two year-old self than terrible tantrums.

I see creativity.  For a long time now, you've liked the song, "The Wheels on the Bus," and to keep you entertained in the car, I've been adding extra verses about the Daddys on the bus who say "Go Ravens Go" and the Aunt Jens on the bus who say "We love Ellie" and so on.  Well just this week, you've started adding verses of your own.  Last night at dinner you said, "Sing about the water on the bus."  "What does the water say?" I asked.  "It says, 'Drink me Ellie,'" you fired back confidently.  You were proud of yourself, and I was proud of you, proud to see you building on what you've been taught, creating your own part in our silly little family song.

I also see enthusiasm.  Often, when I am getting you dressed in the morning, you ask, "Who come to our house today?" or "Where we go today?"  You love people, and you love to go, to do, to explore.  At the suggestion of putting on rain boots and going to jump in puddles, you dance giddy circles around the living room.  When Daddy tells you he's taking you on a Daddy-daughter date, you run around excitedly gathering things to take:  your milk, your "purple Cheerios," your baby doll.  For you, life is an adventure to be embraced.  You wake up expecting fun and excitement and joy, even though you don't know the specific plan, and because of you, I get to live a little bit that way too.

Finally, I see love.  You've figured out what the word family means, and you talk to me about our little family:  "Mommy, Daddy, Ellie."  On weekend mornings, your Daddy gets you out of your crib and brings you to our bedroom, and we lie there together the three of us, giggling and tickling and talking.  You know that you belong with us, and you're starting to use language to express that.  "I love you Mommy," you said the other day, unprompted, eyes sparkling with joy.  

"I love you too, sweetheart," I said, my heart full.  And I do, my Ellie girl, so much more than you can know.  On terrible days.  On beautiful days.  On average, ordinary days two-year-old days too.  

My Book

So I told you almost a month ago that I'm writing a book.  Now that I've left you hanging for a few weeks, I'm ready to tell you a little bit more about it.

It's not a book I would have chosen to write, but it's a book I need to write, one I believe will be helpful to people like me.  It's a book about infertility, miscarriage, and stillbirth and about where God can be found in these circumstances.  It's a book about my own story, but it's also a book about the stories of other families I'm interviewing who've walked through one or more of these trials.  It's a book of creative nonfiction that wrestles with some hard theological questions.

I am not writing this book because my story is particularly unusual or notable.  Most of the families featured in the book have endured loss more profound and extensive than my own.  I am not writing this book because I know how to walk through pain and loss or because I've figured out exactly how to discover God in the midst of it.  

I'm writing this book because I'm right in the middle of grief and hope and uncertainty and disappointments, trying to grow our family, not knowing if or when that will happen.  I'm writing this book because every day is a struggle for me to trust God, because I often fail to do so, because I desperately need the stories of others who've met God in their own pain related to having children. 

I'm writing this book because I believe God asked me to, and already, His fingertips are all over this project.  I'm only a few chapters in, have many words and challenges ahead of me, but I have a lot of faith that this book will one day be. 

Twenty-Three Months

There are many things in my life that haven't turned out the way I've expected.  I'm an idealist, a dreamer.  I create rosy pictures in my head of how things should be:  composites of magazine photos, people I've observed, and Pinterest ideas blended into one harmonious, unrealistic whole.  Over the years, I've gotten better at recognizing this about myself, better at realizing that just because things aren't what I expected doesn't mean they're wrong or bad.

But I have to say Ellie girl, being your Mommy has lately been exactly what I expected when I dreamed of having small children.  We snuggle and read books.  We color and play with PlayDough. We go to the playground.  We bake muffins.  We sing silly songs.  You take long naps and play at my feet while I make dinner.

I'm not saying you're perfect.  You have your moments.  I have mine too.  But I can honestly say that being your Mommy, which has always been a privilege, has lately been an absolute delight.

I love watching you learn new words and question your world.  "Where dat come from?" you say, and I tell you.  "What dat called?" you ask, and I name it for you.  You make me laugh with your Ellie-isms, calling your Grandpa "old man" on his birthday, exclaiming with delight that the teddy bears are "nakey!" or that Tiny Baby needs a tissue for a "booger."

I love watching you learn to play in new ways and with new things.  We are entering the worlds of dollhouses and felt boards, of jigsaw puzzles and stamps.  You explore, create, imagine.  I help, sit back, watch your amazing little mind at work.

We're in a sweet spot, our tiny family of three.  I try to remember this even as I feel the gap where your sister should be.  I long for the chaos and clutter, the squabbles and stress I know another child would bring to our lives.  I pray they will come.  Soon.  But in spite of what has been lost, in spite of what I hope will someday be, there is goodness here.  Right now.  With you.

Writing News

I am writing a book.  I am sitting in Starbucks, watching snow flurries fall and eavesdropping on conversations about life and love and God and sipping my rather boring decaf.

So far I've read the introduction to a book related to my topic, re-read the notes from my first interview, highlighting the parts that stand out, and checked on a few blogs that have absolutely nothing to do with my topic.  Why is it sometimes so hard to do anything but write an actual sentence?

Well, I will start with this one:  I am writing a book.  I've gradually been telling friends and family that this is true, that I have an idea and a plan, that I feel like God has made it clear that I am supposed to do this now.  Each time I've told someone, I've felt a little bit scared.  I hate not meeting my goals.  I hate even more when others know I'm not meeting my goals.

But now, I'm telling the world, or at least the very small fragment of the world that might happen to read or stumble upon my blog.  I'm really, truly trying to write a book.

I know that I've never written a book before.  I know that my knowledge of proposals and agents and publishers is limited at best.  I know I don't have the best history with writing goals.  As you may have noted, my Thirty Pieces series on this blog, designed to capture thirty parts of my life in words before I turned thirty, is still stuck at #27, even though I'm getting close to 33.

I know that I have a one year-old and a busy life and that we hope to have more children.  I know that in the rare quiet moments, I usually just want to crawl into bed or watch an episode of Parenthood, or best of all, do both.

But somehow, in spite of all of that, I have faith to write a book.  I don't say this often and I really can't explain it, but I believe God wants me to do this.  I have faith that He will make it happen.  So I'm just taking it one step, one interview, one decaf, one sentence at a time.  I can't wait to tell you more about it soon.

Twenty-Two Months

I see more and more of myself in you.

You share my obsession with order, preferring cabinet doors shut, toys back in their particular place, hands wiped clean of crumbs in between bites.  Like me, you love to read, content to curl up in my lap at several points throughout the day as we work our way through book after book.  You like learning your letters and the way that words sound, "gooey" being a current particular favorite.

You seem to be an introvert too, just like your momma.  You get nervous around new people and large groups, burying your face into my shoulder.  It takes you time to get comfortable and warm up to a new experience.  You recently spent your first two music classes in my arms, refusing to participate, even though you're now dancing around the room unabashedly.

These resemblances between us surprise me because for so long, I felt like I couldn't understand you.  And everyone said you looked like your Daddy.  I felt a little sad then, as much as I love Daddy, because I worried that there was no part of me in you.

I don't worry that anymore.  In fact, I worry sometimes that there's too much of me in you, that my compulsions and guardedness will be your's too.

But you have your Daddy's sense of humor, I think, and his fascination with the way things work.  The truth is we don't know yet who exactly you will be, how the personality we see now will change and develop.

Today though and for as long as it lasts, I am enjoying the companionship we find in our mutual passions:   your little broom beside me sweeping up crumbs after meals, the shared pleasure of a delightful word and a good book, the freedom to dance together in places where we feel safe and known.

Twenty One Months

I thought we had three more months until you became two.  I thought we had three more months until you had opinions about everything, until phrases like "big girl" and "Ellie do by self" entered your vocabulary.

It's not surprising, I guess.  You had opinions from the beginning; you fought feedings and naps you didn't think you needed.  You stood and walked early.  You wanted your independence fiercely even then.

But we had this nice stretch of a few months where you were so amenable.  When I asked you a question, you generally said yes, happy to simply have your opinion considered.  Now, I've stopped asking if you want eggs for breakfast or turkey and cheese for lunch because even though you love these foods, you will tell me no, simply because you can.

I'm glad that you are becoming your own little person.  It's normal and natural and right.  But it's unnerving sometimes to see how much will there is in you, how strongly you protest doing what you should.  I see places you will need to change and grow and mature, and I can feel overwhelmed at the prospect of parenting you in those places.

But the process of you becoming your own little person is also delightful, for parenting is not simply about correction and discipline.  It is also about developing and nuturing your God-given gifts and abilities, the interests and strengths He's built into you that I am starting to see a little more clearly these days:  your love of Irish dancing and puzzles of all sorts, your observant and verbal nature.

I guess what I am trying to say, my Ellie girl, is that I'm seeing more and more that you are human.  You are weak and you are strong.  You amaze me and you horrify me.  You have been made in God's image, and you fall far short of His glory.  And I love you, all of you, even the almost-two parts of you.

She Lived

I have two daughters.  One of them, Elliana Grace, is a busy, chatty toddler whose antics have made up more than half the contents of this blog since she was born some 19 months ago.  The other, Avaleen Hope, was supposed to be born this week, but we lost her in late May, at around 14.5 weeks gestation.

Though most of the writing I've been doing these past six months has been about the baby I will never hold, I haven't been ready to introduce you to her until now.  I've needed time to grieve alone, with my husband, and with family and close friends.  I've needed time to pray and cry and ask for God to heal me.  I'm still doing all of these things, still think about Avaleen multiple times every day, still miss her fiercely, but I think I'm ready to share the story of her life and death with a broader audience.

It feels a bit crazy even to me.  I've always thought that if I had a miscarriage, I'd want it to be a private thing.  That's part of why I didn't announce my first pregnancy on Facebook until almost 20 weeks, part of why I hadn't announced the second to the world even though I was in my second trimester, a few weeks past the point where the pregnancy was supposed to be safe.

But now that I have had a miscarriage, I see it differently.  To me, Avaleen is not just a setback in our pursuit of growing our family.  She is my daughter.  She lived.  She grew.  I heard her heart beat.  And she changed me, by living and by dying.  Even though I never got to hold her or kiss her forehead, I am different because of her.

So if I want to write honestly, to tell the story of my life and of the God who carries me through it, I feel I must tell Avaleen's story.  I cannot ignore it or pretend it didn't happen because, quite simply, it did.  And I believe with every fiber of my being that her life, short and quiet as it was, matters.

To be honest, I am a bit terrified.  I hesitate to write so publicly about pain that is still so very present in my heart.  I am not sure how readers will react, how their reactions will make me feel.  I know too that by introducing you to Avaleen, my public identity will shift.  I will no longer be simply a wife, mother, writer, teacher; I am also identifying myself as a grieving mother, a woman who's miscarried.  Unlike the previous titles, these aren't labels I ever would have chosen.  Part of me rebels against being associated with them or defined by them, would rather be linked to happier terms.

But the truth is, I have two daughters.  I hear one of them breathing softly over the baby monitor while I write.  I feel the absence of the other in my flat stomach, my empty arms, in the fact that I am able to travel for Thanksgiving this week.

I wish this post was Avaleen's birth announcement, that I was telling you how much she weighed, how her delivery went.  Instead, I simply want to tell you that she lived.