Tuesday, August 12, 2014

Between two worlds

The plane ride there is filled with excitement.  Anticipation.  It's 12 more hours, then, 10, then 8.  It's bearable, even with a one year-old.  Because you know in just a few more hours you'll be met with hugs and kisses, your children's hands held and your bags pulled.  You know for the next month you'll have four more hands, and you can feel yourself starting to relax.

You arrive in the car and the road looks huge, well organized.  You see billboards you can read advertising stuff you want.  Your body craves sleep, but your mind is wide awake, taking it all in.

The first night is strange.  You wake up after a few hours and can't remember where you are.  Then you remember this is your childhood home, the room you snuck into for late night sleepovers with your sister.  It's strange, but it's already hard to remember your other house, your other bed, your other life.

You wake up for good around 2am.  Your children awaken soon after.  You spend the sweet, early-morning hours with infomercials droning on in the background.  Your husband places a hot cup of coffee in your hands while little boys play excitedly on the floor below you.

The first time you leave the house you panic at least three times when you glance in the rearview mirror.  Then you remember your kids are home, with grand-parents.  You take a deep breath and hold your husband's hand.

When you walk through the grocery store your eyes are wide the whole time.  You say over and over again, "You can get anything you want.  All in one place."  You grab a pack of Reese's in the check-out line.  If for no other reason than you can.

You're almost unbearably awkward with the cashier.  You forget how to make small talk and are a bit suspicious that someone you don't know could be so, incredibly friendly.  You bag your own groceries and look up in surprise when the cashier says thank you, and is staring at you, both confused and grateful.

You finally compose yourself and go to renew your husband's expired license.  You're ready for a fight.  You're ready for a long, complicated process.

It's easy.  It's fast.  And people are actually apologizing for your inconvenience.  What in the world are they sorry for? you think, but you don't really care because you've been given time.  And although you have nothing to do, time suddenly seems very important.

You stop at a coffeehouse because, again, you can.  You talk about all that is different here.  You talk about Americans... only to remember you are one.  It's a bit overwhelming.  You miss home.

A day or two later you're feeling a part of things, and you're surprised how fast you adjusted.  You're creeping out of the jet lag fog and starting the visits.  You remember that time and distance quickly fade with the people you love.

You bounce back and forth between family and friends, catching glimpses of your past life.  You both can and can't picture yourself there, and you pretend for a moment that you never left.  You imagine your life, continued.  Your mind wanders down the other road.

About halfway through you start thinking it's almost over.  You feel the weight of leaving, the heaviness of good-byes.  You spend hours on Amazon finalizing orders.

Your start the separation, one person at a time.  If you let it, it feels a lot like the first time, so you put up a shield, paste on a smile, and part with the words, "We'll see you soon."

You spend one full day carefully packing five, large suitcases, a carry-on, and four, small bags.  You weigh, you shuffle, you stuff.  When they magically hit 50 pounds each you smile, satisfied.  And then it hits you.  This is it.

You don't say much that last night.  There's not a lot to be said.

You busy yourself the next morning so you don't have to think.  It's easy as there's much to be done.  You put on a smile for your kids and tell them all they have to look forward to.

You check your bags at the airport, and it's suddenly time.

You keep on with the see-you-soon routine, because you don't want to cry when you still have 5 bags, 3 kids and a stroller to drag through security.

You say good-bye and wave a ridiculous amount of times.  When you're finally through you turn and wave one last time.

You walk away, but you stop shortly after to hold your oldest son as he cries, the same sobs that shook his body a week ago as he said good-bye to his other grandparents.  You try to think of something comforting to tell him, but in the end you just admit that you're sad too, and you carry on through the airport.

You order fully-loaded nachos and beer at the terminal restaurant, because you can... and you all need a little something.  You smile as you watch your family dive towards the cheesiest chips, and then you reach in quick, because they'll be gone fast.

You board the airplane and ready the Benadryl.  You learned your lesson last time.  When the baby's finally asleep you scroll through the movies. You watch brainless comedies and attempt a few hours sleep.

You land.  You wake your children and drag them off the plane.  You want to carry them, but you can't, so they stumble through two more airports, sleeping across vinyl-covered chairs as our heads bob beside them.

You finally land back home.  A bus picks you up at the door, drives straight to your house.  You marvel at how easy it feels this time.

An angel messages to tell you she's prepared your family dinner, to come by and pick it up.  You finish the hot, delicious meal just as your groceries are delivered to your door.

With full bellies your children drift off the moment they lie down, and you smile to see them in their own beds.  You're happy to have them so near.

You stumble to bed yourself.  The room spins a bit and quickly disappears.

You wake up at midnight to the sounds of a happy, wide-awake baby.  You try to make him watch Elmo, but he's not fooled.  It's time to play.

You trudge downstairs and share a snack on the couch.  You watch him and tuck this moment away, just you and him in the dark.  Baby smiles and laughter.

Two hours later he takes your hand, pulls you back up the stairs.  The two of you fall quickly back to sleep.

It's so bright, but you force open your eyes and reach for your phone.  It's 10:30, but your body won't get up.  The house is still quiet.  You remember where you are, but it doesn't quite feel real.  Home feels impossibly far away.  It's hard to remember already.

You start to wonder about the meaning of your life.  You feel, in a way, that you're floating.  Stuck between two worlds that don't quite fit together.

You grasp for your phone once more and you find these words.

"Where can I go from your Spirit?  Where can I flee from your presence?  If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.  If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast." (Psalm 139:7-10)

And suddenly, the other side of the ocean doesn't feel too far.  And suddenly, you know right where you are.

You tiptoe down the stairs where your husband waits.  He places a hot cup of coffee in your hands.  And another day begins.

Sunday, May 11, 2014


Mother's Day always makes me a bit sappy.  It's one of the few days every year I want to capture my life.  How it is.  Right now.

But tomorrow it will be different, somehow.  And next year something else entirely.

This time in my life is a moment.  And a short one at that.

But the truth is that sometimes they drive me crazy.  When Aiden chants, "Finny the fried fish" from the backseat of the car.  Or when Finn, in turn, bites through his skin like a stinking vampire.  Or when Benjamin hangs on my leg as I limp around the kitchen, chopping veggies to the rhythm of his cries.    

But today was not one of those days.  Today I woke to beautiful, homemade cards.  I drank my coffee in relative piece and showered with only one child in the bathroom.  I walked through our gorgeous city holding two little hands, the soft weight of a baby head resting on my back.

Today, when our waitress told me how lucky I am, with my three, beautiful boys, I teared up and thought, she's absolutely right.

And just like that Mother's Day wasn't about how lucky they are to have me, but how lucky I am to have them.  These three, wonderful boys who make me a mom.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

In case your New Year isn't vomit-free

It was a week before Christmas and we were on our way to Ikea.

I expected the normal Ikea happenings.  Marital discord, meltdowns in the candle section, checkout line promises that "we will never come here again."

But I never expected this.

Five minutes from our destination I heard something.  It started as a low growl, but the sound turned quickly and undeniably wet.  My head whipped around just in time to watch a cascade of vomit cover Finn's jacket, pants and carseat, landing with finality on the floor.

"Joel, he's throwing up!" I yelled in a panic, followed quickly with a forced calm, "It's okay buddy, not a big deal, just relax."

So with Aiden crying in the back over the smell, Joel driving with his head out the window, and Benjamin sleeping through it all we made our way to the closest gas station.

I hopped out and stripped Finn down to his underwear, his only un-soaked article of clothing.  Pulling out the baby wipes I cleaned the mess as well as I could, wrapped him in the baby's blanket, and insisted we go "back home right now."

Unfortunately, the four lane road where this incident occurred forced us to continue on our previous path towards the Ikea, where we planned to turn around and drive our sick, cold child home.

Ikea was finally in our sights, and we searched for a place to turn around.  Just as we approached the ramp to the parking garage I heard another sound, this time from the way back.  I turned in time to catch the full, explosive event, this time covering Aiden in a pool of vomit.

"Aiden's throwing up," I yelled.  "Pull in here now!"

The car shot quickly down the ramp, under the moving arm and into a far corner of the Ikea parking garage.

One look at Joel's queasy face and I knew I was alone on this one.  I told him to take the baby and go get the piece of furniture we originally set out for.  I knew it would take me some time to clean up and after all this I wasn't about to make the hour trek back home with nothing to show for it.

Unfortunately Aiden's explosion soaked him through, and in the end was left butt naked in his cold car seat.  After just getting him wrapped in my coat and settled down Finn was at it again, and then again.

Finally it seemed as though the storm had passed.  The boys sat huddled quietly in their car seats and Joel returned to the car with a deliriously happy baby and a quick and easy purchase (an Ikea Christmas miracle).

We loaded the car, tied the throw-up covered clothes tightly in bags, buckled up and breathed a sigh of relief to be headed home.

Joel turned the key and the engine ground and screeched, but wouldn't turn over.  He switched the key back off.

"No," was all I could say.

This wasn't happening.  Certainly it would start next time.

He turned the key again, longer this time.  Nothing.

I thought about a friend from our church in a similar situation.  In her car on the side of the road, three kids in the back, car not starting.  She took the time to pray with her kids for the car to start and the next time her husband tried the engine began purring, took them all the way back home.

So I prayed.  I prayed hard.  I prayed by myself, with the kids, I think it's safe to say I begged for that darn car to start.

Joel turned the key again.

Nothing.  In fact, it seemed to be getting worse.

"I need to get someone to jump us," Joel said, and went to the back for the cables.

Easy enough in the US where he could simply approach a fellow customer and ask for help jumping our car.  But at a point in break where his shaggy beard and wild hair had him looking less-than-respectable, approaching unsuspecting shoppers with long, metal cables (as we didn't know how to say "jump our car"), and without a wife and kids in view, he may not have appeared the type people are generally eager to help.

Finally he found a woman willing to drive her car over to ours.  He hooked up the cables and I kept on praying.  He got back in, turned the key.... turned it, turned it, turned it, and.... nothing.

After a few more unsuccessful tries we thanked the lady for her help and watched sadly as she drove her wonderfully working car right out of the parking garage.

At this point I started to get nervous.  An hour away from home, two naked children, a crying baby and a car full of stuff that just wouldn't start.  I felt homesick for our two sets of parents, who would have driven hours and done anything to rescue us, I felt angry that God wasn't answering my prayers, I felt abandoned and alone.

Joel and I both are particularly bad at asking for help.  We don't want to inconvenience anyone and generally tend towards taking care of ourselves.  But desperate times call for desperate measures so we swallowed our pride and called our friends for help.

They heard our situation and immediately offered to come get us, a huge relief as a taxi ride with two, butt-naked, sick children and a baby sounded like a nightmare of its own.

But as we had wandered so far from home we knew we were in for a wait.  So I wrapped the children tighter and shivered in my seat as Joel attempted to explain our situation to the Ikea customer service representatives, as it appeared our car would be trapped in their garage for the night.

At this point all three boys were tired, cold, and Aiden was starting to get scared.  Although we assured him help was on the way he still insisted that he was "going to die" (he's not dramatic at all).

I decided some Christmas songs were in order, and the boys quickly agreed, although refusing to sing themselves.  So I started with the classic Jingle Bells, but I only know one verse so it got old fast.  The next song to pop in my head was "Silent Night," so with the boys staring passively out the window I started to sing.  "Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright..."

I listened to the words I was singing, and at first I felt angry.  Why couldn't I have a silent, peaceful night.  Why couldn't I be in our warm house, snuggled up in our pajamas, watching a Christmas movie by the twinkling tree.  Why would God answer my friends' prayers, but not mine.

Then it clicked, and I realized that the birth of Jesus I sang about, that silent, holy night, wasn't the event I always pictured.  The warm, soft glow of the manger scene, the baby Jesus in a bed of silky hay, Mary in a spotless, white dress kneeling beside her tiny, sleeping child.

I have been blessed to deliver three healthy babies... but I also endured the absolute most difficult, painful, and trying hours of my life thus far doing so.

I remember playing the virgin Mary as a second grader in our church's nativity play.  I was so incredibly happy when they pulled my name from that hat, and I practiced for weeks knocking calmly on the door of each inn, asking if there was any room for us, that I was going to have a baby.

Three children later I like to imagine what that was really like.  I could barely handle the pain of labor in the quiet and calm of my hospital room, with doctors and nurses roaming the halls and constantly checking on me.  What must it have been like to wander through the dark, pausing only to catch her breath, or to push through another excruciating contraction, and to hear time and time again, "I'm sorry, you can't come in here, we're all full."

I wonder if she felt abandoned.  Or angry.  I wonder if she thought, "how could this get any worse?"

And finally they landed in a manger, after what I imagine was Joseph begging for some place, any place, for his wife to have her baby.  Perhaps she could feel he was coming soon.

So Mary sets about delivering a baby in a barn, which I am fairly certain looked little like the nativity scenes adorning our mantles.  The place was crawling with animals and the sounds and smells that accompany those animals.  I can't imagine any place comfortable and clean enough to push out a small child.

But she did.  And for a moment, I'm sure, there was peace.  Relief and wonder and peace.  Something like I felt after each birth, only magnified at the sight of this miracle baby.

I somehow doubt that Mary had room service bringing her a warm meal immediately after all her hard work.  Or even a nice, hot shower and something soft to lay on.  But still, I imagine there was joy and peace.  In the middle of a barn.  On a night where everything went wrong.

I thought in that cold, stinky car about how I picture Christmas.  A tree adorned with colorful ornaments, lit with sparkling lights.  Hot chocolate and freshly baked cookies.  Snuggling on the couch watching one of millions of Christmas movies.  Piles of presents and overflowing stockings.

It stands in such stark contrast to the thing we celebrate at Christmas time... that crazy night when Jesus was born.  A night where it must have seemed that everything went wrong, that God, somehow wasn't answering her prayers as she imagined he would.

Eventually the boys fell asleep and Joel returned.  Our friend arrived, towed our car out of the garage, and drove us the rest of the way home, blasting the heat for us and buying the boys Ginger Ale to settle their stomachs.  Other friends helped us figure out the best way to get our car back and fixed the next morning and gave us one of their cars to use while we waited.

It's been over two weeks since this incident.  It's not quite funny yet, but also not traumatizing.

It has me thinking again, though, with the start of this new year.  Everyone wishing for happiness and health and prosperity for 2014.  And how some, if not most, people aren't going to get that.  At least not all year long.

So in case this year is filled with more vomit and broken-down cars or things much worse or not quite so bad, I hope to look back on that night when Jesus was born.  To know things don't have to go perfectly as I plan.  To know that everything can go wrong and still, it will be okay.

Because perhaps, in the middle of it all, a miracle is happening.

Monday, May 6, 2013

Welcome to the world

It was just dawn on a hot, July morning.  The kids' room remained silent and I knew there was just a short window before they barged through our door, begging for breakfast.

Heart pounding I made my way to the bathroom, full of hope and dread.

A few minutes later I slid back under the covers, nudged Joel, and whispered one word that would, once again, change the course of our lives.

"Schwanger," I said, a smile on my face.

His eyes opened and he laughed a bit, either from joy or nerves or the irony of our German pregnancy test.

We turned onto our backs and stared silently at the ceiling for a while.  A million questions waded through my mind.

What have we gotten ourselves into?  I wanted this, right?  What will we do with three children?  How will we keep them all safe and happy, bathed and fed and loved?  How will I manage in a foreign country, so far from home?  What if it's a girl?

Nearly 10 months later, Benjamin is finally here.  And like magic all our doubts washed away the moment we saw his smashed up, little face.

Suddenly I would do anything for this tiny man, even give up my precious full nights of sleep.  And Joel, who worried how he would manage with three, couldn't keep his hands off him, his face covered with pure amazement as he stared at our newborn son.

In the three short years since our last new baby, I forgot so much.

I forgot about that long wait, how every day passed in a slow blur of nerves and excitement and frustration.

I forgot about labor (which explains why Benjamin is here at all).

I forgot what it felt like to hold a brand new, slimy baby in my arms, the mixture of relief and joy and exhaustion, the touch of his warm skin and the gaze of those dark, beady eyes.

I forgot how my heart soared as my husband spoke in soft tones to our screaming infants, how each child quieted down and I could hear the nurses comment, "he knows his daddy's voice."

I forgot that feeling of pride, the quiet knowledge that if I can do that, I can do anything.

I forgot what it's like to see your children meet each other, to witness the first moment of so many together.

I forgot about those middle-of-the-night feedings, the intense stares of a newborn looking through me in the quiet and dark of the hospital room.

I forgot that when changing a newborn you have to be quick, or you and everything around you becomes a probable and likely target for all kinds of projectile happenings.

I forgot what it felt like to forget the world for a few days, to focus almost entirely on this new and changing family.

I forgot how good it feels to hold a sleeping baby, his belly puffing quickly as he lies against my chest.

I forgot what tired feels like.

I forgot that after a month of wiping poop and waking all night long, that first wild, baby smile erases every hardship.

I forgot how your heart grows to make room for each child, and how, somehow, it grows every day after that, so that at night, when you place your hand on the rise and fall of each little chest, you feel as though you will burst.  And although you know in the morning you will probably find something to yell about, you go to sleep with a smile on your face.

I learned a few things as well.

I learned that someone was missing from our family, and I never even knew it.

And I'm learning every day who that person is, how he fits here, and just how much I love him.

Welcome to the world baby Benjamin!

Monday, March 11, 2013

The waiting game

I remembered this part being awful.

I just forgot how awful.

I never experienced the wait with Aiden.  I went to the doctor Friday morning, 37 weeks, where he told me, starting today, I am officially at term and they won't attempt to stop my labor.  That night, with friends in the living room, my water broke while cleaning the kitchen and we were off to the hospital, full of naive excitement.

We expected the same with Finn, but 10 days after my due date the induction I dreaded was written in on the hospital calendar.  At the very last minute Finn decided to come on his own and was born 30 minutes before my appointment.

Now I wait again.  Wondering and hoping and fearing.

I know in my head that a due date is just an estimate, and I certainly realize that my first coming early means nothing for subsequent labors.  Still, when 37 weeks hit I rushed around like a mad woman, packing bags and scrubbing showers and hunting down dust mites.

And then I sat down and waited.  Well, as much as I can with two kids who still need fed and bathed and loved.  Nearly two weeks later the dust has returned and my hospital bag sits open at the door, where I regularly exchange items I hoped I wouldn't need again.

At this point I am still over a week from my due date.  And I told myself time and again not to expect anything, but like the silly, hormonal, pregnant woman I am, I did anyhow.

It's mostly the not knowing that gets to me.  The not knowing what to tell my kids when they want to know when the baby is coming.  The not knowing when I put them to bed at night if I will be there to greet them in the morning (and by greet I mean rolling over in bed and grumbling for them to go downstairs).  The not knowing if this is my last trip to the grocery store, or what will happen if I'm alone with Finn in the city, or will this labor be faster than my last, and if so, what are the chances I have this baby in the car (I'm hoping by writing that one down I have significantly negated the possibility of its happening).

I guess it's just called worry, nothing new or significant really.

I could think of a million different scenarios of what could possibly happen, particularly in a foreign country with a 30-minute drive to the hospital.

Or I could trust... and wait... and then wait some more.