Twelve

Happy Birthday, Jameson! 

Today you would be twelve if you were here.  I still don't know if there are birthdays in heaven. Are you celebrating today?  Who is baking the cake?  What kind of things to you do to celebrate?  I'm excited to find out someday. 

We are celebrating you here, my son.  I am going to make you a chocolate cake with chocolate frosting.  And we will play games and look at pictures of you and tell stories about you. 

We miss you so much Jameson.  I am sending you all my love and wishes today. 
Love, Mom

Christmas HOPE

It is Christmas night.  The presents have all been opened.  The dinner had been prepared and eaten.  The DIY addition projects are still underway, but that is never ending for now.  We are at the end of the day, after a long and wonderful, but always hard week.

The kids having spent all day playing with new toys and helping Daddy with construction stuff and I've spent most of the day doing some help on the house, a LOT of cleaning up Christmas carnage, and a decent amount of cooking to make a dinner special.  And like every other day of my life, I spent all day thinking about my Jameson.

Tomorrow marks eight years.  Eight years ago he died.  How could it already be eight years? How have we lived this long without him?

This season has been filled with distractions with the new puppy, and the house addition, and finishing up grad school, so I haven't been able to write or really process my feelings well now for a while. But now I'm done with grad school.  Holy buckets, that in and of itself is crazy and a whole different story. The short one is that I now have a masters in Pastoral Theology and plan to start an internship at the hospital next fall to become a hospital chaplain. The long story is a book, I'm afraid. Not one I'm sure I'm ready to write.  Ha.

But here I am and here we are together and it's Christmas.  Christ's birthday.  AMEN.

We went to midnight mass last night and it was a little bit of a train wreck. I had in my mind candles and full out orchestra and magic.  How it really went down was spending 30 minutes trying to wake up Hubs (who has only been sleeping like 3-4 hrs a night in order to finish DIY projects) and then get to church and have all three family members fall asleep during the mass.  I'm totally going to throw Hubs under the bus, because it was SO FUNNY.  At one point he fell asleep and woke up, but wasn't quite awake enough to know where he was...and it just happened to be at a very quiet part of the mass and he, quite loudly, exclaimed, "OH MY GOSH I"M SO TIRED" and I'm pretty sure the priest probably heard him.  Little Man and I were trying to not laugh loudly.  It was so funny.  Bless this mess that is my life.  Ha!

We are also living in Jumanji and losing.  Lord have mercy, my home is always a disaster of epic proportions, with insulation, and wiring, and new holes in the wall daily kind of madness.  If we all survive I'll be pleasantly surprised.  Especially the puppy.

So I suppose we have a little bit of excitement and drama going on, but overall, I can't even express my joy at life.  Everything is so magical and perfect and life is grand.  I think Jameson would be really happy to hear me say that. It's weird, to write that and think that -as if life after losing a child should ever be good.  But it is.  Its still a gift, even in the bittersweet pain of mourning that will never end, and really never could.  But I am happy, we are happy, and life is such a gift and we are so thankful for every second of it.

But damn.  He's still gone.

Today I am conflicted. Full of grace. Full of Joy.  Full of love. And also full of sadness and wistful longing for what might have been.  I miss my son.  And I want the life we should have had.  But I also want the life I already have and I don't know how that fits together, other than understanding that God's plan is always the best one, even if it kinda sucks in the short term.  I've learned how to grit my teeth in thanks in the short term, knowing the truth that later it will all be right.  But this still sucks, even eight years later.

The weather here has been amazing.  Sunny and dry, which truly feels like a Christmas miracle.  But tomorrow the rain comes back and it feel just right.  As if the whole world is in mourning with me.  Tomorrow morning we say goodbye to Jameson once again.  And we all feel the sting of the heartbreak and pain just a strongly as it was eight years ago.  But we also feel the hope for what is to come.

We look forward to the day we will see him again. And we see the connection of today with tomorrow so profoundly.   Therefore, today, this day of Christ's birth, we acknowledge our pain and our longing in light of the cross.  And we celebrate this day of Christ's birth all the more joyfully, knowing how much it changes tomorrow.  We have sadness tomorrow, but HOPE for eternity.

Eleven

Oh Jameson, how are you already 11?  My sweet boy.

I miss you with all of my heart and soul.  I've been watching a slide show of all of my favorite pictures from your life and they make me so happy. 

But also, oh the heartache, because we are missing 8 years of pictures and memories and time. 

Some of my favorite pictures of you are with your brother and your doggies.  Oh how you loved your doggies.  I remember so many times at the table hearing you giggle and looking over to see you had shoved your hands into your yogurt up to your wrists and then were letting the dogs lick it off you.  Farkie and Flick just loved hanging out with you at the table.  Ha!  It gives me so much joy to think about how much fun your are having with them in heaven, even though we miss all three of you so much here! 

We aren't getting balloons this year to celebrate your birthday.  And the dinosaurs are all packed up.  This year, we are adopting a puppy on your birthday.  I can't imagine a gift you would have loved more.   And of course we'll have cake to celebrate 11 years of Jameson! 

Even though you were only here for three years, you, my boy, have profoundly left your mark on this world and we will always celebrate our J Day.  Happy Birthday Jameson.  I hope 11 is grand. 

All my love,
Mom

Hello Again

Oh my goodness, it has been eons since I've last written here.

I was trying to think about how to write a short update on life, since its been quite the adventure lately, but I'm not sure how short it can be.  But I'll try.  So we moved.  Hubs got a job way up north and we finished the home improvement projects, sold our house, packed up a moving truck and moved into a tiny, not-so-great apartment and house hunted.  And then we moved into a tiny house, but not a #tinyhouse, if you know what I mean.  We basically bought heaven on earth, but it needs a little adding on so the kids have things like bedrooms.  And Hubs loves his job.  And Little Lady started FULL DAY kindergarten (can I get an AMEN?), and Little Man is now in middle school, God help me.  And holy buckets, life is so good.  I have this amazing thing called alone time every day.  Its incredible.  I've been using it to hike and bike and explore.  And try to squeeze full-time grad school into that, too.  I'm a procrastinator, so that isn't going quite as well as it should, but it'll be fine.  I hope.  So here's the new view from the front door.  Heaven on earth. 

My tiny house isn't really that tiny and it has an amazing kitchen.  I've been cooking a lot and will try to put some more food posts here if I get my act together.  Here's a few pictures that are especially fantastic owing to that whole we-moved-to-paradise-thing. 

I am still missing my boy every second of every day.  We are coming up on seven years.  And I still get the aches and pains and extra dark days from Aug-Jan as my body and mind grieve his illness and death.  Its been a little better this year.  Partly because I'm taking better care of myself.  I'm exercising more and sleeping more and my stress levels are way down.  But my boy is still gone and the scars in my heart still ache for him. 

And we are still in the Newbie stage and meeting everyone and everyone always asks how many kids I have and I still fumble over that question.  It's a thorn in my side that I think I just need to learn to live with. I feel like no matter what I say, it will never be the right answer.  And I know everyone means well, but I'm just so tired of people finding out and only ever asking about his death.  Can we please stop focusing on the worst part of my life and maybe talk about his life instead? 

I get it, I really do.  And I'm sure I'm guilty of it too.  We all want to hear about the phoenix rising from the ashes, how people survive tragedy and continue to live; its inspirational and its a testimony of my life and faith.  And I've been writing about it for years.  But its also the darkest and most painful part of my entire existence.  It would just be so nice for someone to ask me to tell them about Jameson's life instead of asking me about his death. 

Arg, I opened the floodgates but I don't have time for it right now owing to that whole procrastination thing with grad school.  I have to write a paper before Little Lady gets off the bus. But I think I'll be back soon.  It feels good to write again.

Ten

We've been having glitchy and bad internet connections since we moved into our house and I'm not able to update the blog well, but today is Jameson's 10th birthday!

Happy Birthday, my boy!

We are going to make a chocolate cake, because the kid knew what was important in life.

Jameson, we love you and miss you and hope you have a marvelous birthday in heaven!

Nine

Happy Birthday Jameson!

You would be nine today.

It's been six years since we were able to celebrate with you here, and even then, it was in the PICU, with ECMO and it was so much fear and exhaustion and anxiety and heart-ache.  That year, when you were three, we had such a great party planned for you.  Dinosaurs.  Everything was going to be dinosaurs.  You were totally into dinos.

But now you are nine and its been a whole lifetime since I've seen you and known you.  And I'm clinging to what I knew because I don't know what else to do.  So I've got a dinosaur tablecloth spread across the kitchen table in your honor, J, and later this morning Little Lady and I will go and get the dinosaur balloons.  And we are making chocolate pudding cake.

We are going to hold on to your memory a little tighter today, when we all wish we were holding on to you, my boy.  I dream of what it could have been, what it should have been like.  How I'd take your picture in front of the blue door to show how blue those beautiful eyes are.  And your fiery red hair would flame in the sun.  And when you smile, your laughter would fill the sky with joy.   

I reach to hear your laughter as I take the picture, but it is not you in your nine year old glory, but the faint memory of your laugh when you were two, because there were no more laughs after that.  Not here, at least.



I know this looking back and dreaming on what should have been is no good.  But some days the longing for you and the life we dreamed of just pulls me in.  Oh if only.  If only.

I know that looking forward to what will be is better.  And even though you were only three when we last got to sing Happy Birthday to you on this earth, I do not despair that it is over.  Someday I'll see you again.  And I will get to know you again and hold you again and sing to you again and I will never have to say goodbye ever again.  

"We will not lose heart.  Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day.  For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can been seen but what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal." 2 Cor 4.16-18

Happy Birthday, Jameson.  I miss you with all of my heart and looked forward to the day we walk together with Jesus. 

Double digits

So it's been a little while.

I'm not sure why either.  Partly because school, work, kids, residency, life.  Partly because I've felt a little silent.  Or maybe just exhausted.  The class that I started taking in January was pretty brutal, plus I started working full-time.  I think between the homework and writing for school and the 445 a wakeups with the go, go, go all day long life just wipes me out.  I think for a long while, I was treading water, if you will, just trying to stay afloat.  But Mother's Day was just over a week ago and the scars cracked open a bit.  I've spent a lot of time reflecting on life and grief and happiness and hope and how it all ties together to make this beautiful, broken existence.

It's dreary and a little bit foggy this morning as I write.  We've had a really warm and dry spring lately and yesterday was a day of slow, calm drizzle.  It was a welcome change, the rain.  Now its starting to dry out and the birds are singing and the world outside my window is green.  Deep, dark evergreen, bright, electric spring green.  And everything in between.  The big leaf maple outside my back door is already sporting leaves bigger than my head and there are three little peppers ripening on the plant in my front yard.  As the seasons change from spring to summer and the rhythm of our life shifts to later nights and lazier mornings and most of life happening out of doors, the memories and experiences also shift. In a way, a part of me is frozen in that last year we had with Jameson.  I see it even with the seasonal shifts.  This is the kicking off the last summer of shiny in our lives.  May-August of that year was amazing.  It's so good to remember.  It inspires me to keep carpe dieming the crap out of life, too.

Not only does this seasonal shift have me feeling all nostalgic, but this week, my Little Man hits double digits.  He's not so little anymore.  And I've been a mom for a cool decade now.  How did that happen?  He's my whole heart all bundled up into a boy and I can't even begin to say what he means to me without swelling with so much love I might burst and die just thinking about it.  And he turns ten, which seems so big and round and momentous.

He's ten and she's just a little over four and exactly the same age he was when his brother got sick.  I look at Little Lady and think she seems so young; all of my memories of Little Man at that age are all so big and he seemed so much more grown up in my memories.  But I suppose that happens when life get all crazy like it did.  It's overwhelming, though, to see her and remember him and the whole lost year where we were so lost and gone and he was lost and everything was big and scary and chaotic and then quiet and sad and lonely.  And I wish I could go back and just hold him and protect him and let him be as little as he should have been able to be.

And he's ten.  And I'm going to blink and he'll be eighteen, so, really, I should just never blink ever again, I suppose.  It's so cliche, but annoyingly true how fast it goes by.  And you never believe it when they are little and you are in the throes of spit up and poopy diapers and fatigue and the whining and the fantasies change from exotic beach vacations with umbrella drinks and naps in the sun to really, just being able to pee alone and take five minutes without feeling guilty.  But its so true, that it flies by.  And all of a sudden, they are big and independent and it's a little startling how you can just blink and have a ten year old.

Luckily, he's still only ten.  Ad really, nine for a few more days.  And he still needs me to wake him up and pack his lunch and he still wants to snuggle on the couch and read together, even if it happens a little fewer and farther between.  He has such a big heart and I'm so glad he's mine.  And I'd love to keep writing, but I have to go wake him up for the THIRD time so we aren't too late to school.  Already acting like a teenager....

Christmas

It's Christmas week and it's impossible as always.  All these feelings.  Plus a giant paper that I've been putting off for almost a month.  Grad school deadlines may be the death of me.  I've got til NYE.  I've got Little Man working on some homework.  Little Lady snuck the Nativity under the table and is playing with Baby Jesus.  And before you go and think about how cute she is, I'm hearing talk that Baby Jesus has lava coming out of his butt.  Almost four and the potty talk is off the hook.  So Merry Christmas and pass the Pepto. Sigh. 

Last week was our big family vacation week.  And in true family fashion, Hubs had pneumonia and sinusitis and the rest of us had colds and we were all just a big hot mess.   So instead of going on a trip to see the ocean and big trees, we had a staycation and our goal was to eat out at least once a day and do something fun everyday.  And sleep in and nap a lot.  So that's what we did.  It was pretty nice too.  It was actually really nice, because the pressure was off, we relaxed a lot and we had some good food.  We also saw Star Wars and loved it, so there you go.  I'm calling it a win.

But now here we are and its that week.  The one that is merry and bright and happy and festive and filled with cheer.  Except not so much.  Because five years ago we were in the PICU with our Jameson, waiting for him to die, knowing that there was nothing else we could do, except still pray for that miracle and try to keep our boy out of pain.  And I'm still right there, five years later this week.  Watching his body betray him, watching everything spiral down, trying to remain hopeful in the face of despair.

Part of me doesn't mind being stuck there.  Its sounds bad to write that...like I'm being dramatic on purpose or something, but this was the last week of my son's life.  Even though it was horrific, he was still here and I miss him so much.  As bad as that was, living, continuing to be without him here, sometimes that feels worse.

It's hard enough on normal days and Christmas isn't close to normal.  Christmas is extraordinary.  Christmas is magic and happiness and childhood warm and fuzzies.  It's the birth of our Savior, the birth of hope in this broken world.  It's love, unconditionally given, all wrapped up into one day.  It is presents and rice pudding and crab legs.  It is staying up too late and twinkle lights and Midnight Mass.  Candles and chocolates.  Cookies with sprinkles.  Cousins and Grandmas and special traditions.

Except that it is a lot more than those things now for me.  For me it is also sadness, grief and death.  It is cold and loud and overwhelming.  And when I want nothing more than to run away to someplace warm and quiet and undecorated, I try to think about what it used to be.  And then I try to make that happen for my kids.  But it is a struggle at times.

And I certainly still have special moments that I love about this season.  The whole celebration of Advent and really focusing on Christ's birth has truly become the joy of Christmas for me.  This is a beautiful thing.  I love passing this on to my kids, too.  We light the candle and read the Advent book.  And we try to do everything else so they can have the warm and fuzzy memories, too.  We bake cookies and wrap presents and sing carols.  We will see Peacock Lane and the Christmas Ships (if we can get our acts together this week.)  There will be Midnight Mass and more presents than they imagined and rice pudding and crab.  We will stay up late and eat chocolate.  And I love the idea that even though this season is a strain for me, I'm still making it magical for them.

But the 26th always comes after the 25th of December and Christ's birth will forever be tied to Jameson's death for me.  In a way, this perceptive is amazing.  Hope is birthed the day before despair tries to overthrow everything.  And even though despair may win a battle or two along the way,  I already know the ending to this story.   And I have hope that can carry me through these dark and hard days.  “And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes; there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away.” Revelation 21.4.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas.  May the birth of Christ truly be your light and hope in this world, as it is for me and mine. 

Filling the Bank

I have about 30 pages of text to read and 15 pages of papers to write this week, so I should be working during this naptime.  But. One of Jameson's songs is on the radio and outside the sun in shining, the golden leaves are slowly floating down from the trees to cover the ground in a blanket of color, there's a fire burning in the fireplace and I've got a clean kitchen and a cup of hot tea in front of me.  There is so much good right here right now.

In the business of life -and oh my, how busy is gets- its so easy to just jump into crisis mode and focus on everything that need to be done.  But then you just miss all the really important stuff.  And there is so much good right here right now.

And I know that there are so many harder days coming soon.  The clouds will roll in and the rain will soak me to the bone.

But right now, in this moment, the sun is filtering through the golden trees and the birds are singing and I'm just going to sit here drinking my peppermint tea and being thankful for all these gifts big and small in my life right.now.  I'm still counting gifts, even if I rarely remember to write them down.  But these gifts...the seafood in my fridge, the husband who still loves me, the coffee, the warmth of my home, the community of friends, the mercy and grace of God who never gives up on me, the new galoshes arriving Wednesday...big and small, this noticing and thanking process, its like a bank account of joy.  And the more I put in, the bigger the account gets.  And when I go through a season of less, a season of sadness, I'm still making interest even if there aren't any recent deposits.  It all adds up.

Thanksgiving is two weeks away.  It's also the due date of the baby we lost four and a half years ago, that first spring after we lost Jameson.  I didn't think it would still get to me, this baby that never was.  The baby that if I had, I wouldn't have my Little Lady.  But I still remember and I still miss the baby I never got to hold. 

And oh how I miss my J.  The holidays always seem to make it harder to breathe.  That black hole inside me seems to grow and the whole world loses its luster.  But just as we remember and wait for the return of the sun when it goes behind a cloud, I will remember the joy and look for it still.

So today, even though I have a million things to do, I'm just going to be still, right here and look around me and count my gifts.  The heirloom quilt on my couch. The ugly wool socks on my feet. The restless napper down the hall. The dishwasher humming away in the kitchen. Blue skies with fluffy white clouds.  Getting to follow my dreams and go to school.  Having a safe, warm home.  Being able to take a full, deep breath.  The gifts are endless.  And on a day like today, when I can see just how much good there is, I'm going to do my best to see it all and save it for a rainy day. 

Season of Aches

So much for going slow. 

On top of working full-ish time, taking most-ish care of all household duties, having kids and a husband in residency, taking on some leadership at MOPS, I started grad school.  For the most part, adding in school has been amazing.  It is invigorating and challenging and filled with hope and dreams and adults.  But there's also the fine print of deadlines and homework and seriously intense readings and papers(okay I love writing papers) and 4 am wakeups in order to get in the quiet time to work.  Yawn. 

Its been really nice this fall to have some intellectual distractions, but I'm afraid it may also be adding a little to the seasonal anxiety and stress I tend to feel during these four months of the year.  I noticed shortly after Jameson's birthday this year that I started having a hard time sleeping.  And my back and neck started to get really sore and moving started getting painful.  And probably owing to those things, I also started to get really tired.  My first thought was that my thyroid must be off, but after consulting with DocHubs, that is really unlikely based on my recent numbers. 

So then I started thinking back and last fall I had the exact same symptoms, but worse from the thyroid issues.  The previous three years were riddled with sleep deprivation and pain from pregnancy, birth, babies, insane amounts of flu and stomach viruses and therefore, hard to know, but also full of aches and fatigue.  But, judging by the timing, I really think part of my fall aches and pains are physical symptoms from grief and remembrance of those four months we spent in the PICU before he died. 

So.  I don't know.  I'm tired.  And tense.  And sore.  And having more headaches and migraines than normal.  And it kinda really sucks.  But I'm also busy(which is a really good thing).  And laughing a lot.  And learning SO much amazing information in grad school.  I'm happy.  And madly in love with husband and my kids and my life. 

The more of life I experience, the more I see how everyone has crosses to bear, everyone has brokenness.  And I'm grateful for mine.  I'm grateful for the pain, grateful for the perspective it provides, the way the fight for JOY makes everything sweeter, the way it connects me with other people.  Don't get me wrong, I would love to give back these crosses, to have my beautiful Jameson here and still be living on the shiny side.  BUT, some of the things I've learned and most of whom I've become because of this loss, because of this pain and because of this faith, I would not want to give back.   It isn't easy to reconcile, but I have to eat dinner, so to wrap this up, I'm just going to say that I'm here.  Broken and happy and ready for more adventures. 

Weary

It feels like it's been an exhausting week.  Between Little Lady trying to sleep with us every night and a migraine that lasted 2.5 days last weekend, I've been physically exhausted.  On top of that, MOPS started last Friday, and that was so much harder than I thought it was going to be.  It kind of caught me off guard today, after the MOPS leadership meeting where I shared about J a bit, how panicky, shaky, and battered I felt; the act of sharing his story, my story, in person just wrecks me still.  Part of it, this month, is absolutely tied to his birthday and all of the horrible anniversaries from the PICU.  But still, after almost five years, going into a social setting with new people fills me with a dread that is damn near paralyzing.  I feel tight in the chest and hot and sweaty just thinking about it here, in my quiet dining room with not a new person in sight.

I don't know how to explain the conflicting feelings that fill me with such intense dread, but I will try.  I don't even think I can put the feelings in an order, because it depends so much on the who, what, when, where, why of the situation and Lord have mercy, I feel myself fumbling around and falling all over my words right now.  Sorry.  So there's always this panicky feeling, like how's it going to come up?  Because it has to, in most situations, when I'm forming relationships.  But when's it going to happen?  Will it be today?  Next week?  A month from now?  Will I get to avoid it because they will read it on my blog and then I don't have to mention it?  Should I just awkwardly blurt it out and get it over with, like ripping off a bandaid?  Should I wait?  And for what?  When does it ever become socially acceptable to talk about my son dying?

And these thoughts are all extra confusing because I really don't want to talk about it.  Wait, what? Did I really just say that?  I've been writing about it for years and sharing a LOT and it makes no sense to say that.  Especially because I HAVE to talk about it.  I cannot be in a social situation without deep anxiety about the other person knowing this story and understanding where I'm coming from.  Because this story is part of my foundation and if you don't know about this, you don't know me.  But, Holy Buckets, do you have any idea what it feels like to try to bring it up?  To try to explain that I lost a piece of my heart and soul?  To try to put into words the flood of grief and pain and love and strength and brokenness that this is?  I still don't feel like I know how to do it.  And I always try SO hard not to cry and sometimes its not hard and sometimes its really hard and both ways feel so incredibly awkward, because nobody wants to see the ugly cry, but really, it feels wrong to not cry.  It makes me feel like a bad mom.  And if you think mom guilt is bad, grieving mom guilt is worse.

And then there is the actually conversations that happen after it is out in the open.  The awkward silences.  The pity.  The Hallmark statements.  The questions.  For me, the worst question is when people ask how he died.  Maybe its because its complicated.  It's not like cancer, where I can just throw out lymphangiomatosis and anyone is actually going to know what that means.  Although I doubt that would actually make it easier.  I think part of it is that I'm kind of pouring out my most tender place and talking about my sweet, sweet boy and people seem to want to know the details of the worst part of his life and mine.  I always, always try to think about how the person I'm talking to is in a surprising and not easy to navigate position, but it still is hard on me too.  I totally believe that everyone is well meaning.  And honestly, I'm not sure there is a reply that would sit really well.  It's just shitty.  The whole thing.  And it stresses me out.

I'm wiped out just writing this all out.  It's all still so hard, five years later.  And I am not expecting it to get easier, but maybe more manageable.  But it doesn't seem manageable right now.  It feels BIG and sad and chaotic and lonely and tiring.  It feels guilt-ridden and heavy and overwhelming.

In church last Sunday, the choir sang Be Still My Soul as the closing hymn and it really stuck with me.  Sometimes you can just know that God is speaking to you and giving you a gift.  And this song, this prayer, is quite a gift for me right now.  If you click the link below it will take you to youtube and you can hear the song.  Be Still My Soul

Eight

Happy Birthday Jameson

You brother and sister picked out some great balloons for you last night.  I think you'd like all of them a lot.  There is one with Curious George holding an ice cream cone with six scoops of ice cream on it.  You loved ice cream and it reminds me of your second birthday when we had ice cream sundaes instead of cake. 

Little Man also picked out a Toy Story balloon with Woody and Buzz Lightyear on it.  That reminds me of the time we took you to the theatre for your first movie.  We all went to Toy Story 3 together and sat near the front and had pop and Reece's Pieces.  You loved that movie.  Especially Rex.  I still have your Rex flashlight, J.  Sometimes I let the kids play with it and other times I put it on the shelf with your urn and blankey.  I remember how happy that flashlight made you.  How we brought it into pre-op before your surgery and you ran around the room laughing and roaring in your little gown and yellow hospital socks.  It was the last time you laughed here, Jameson.  I'll never forget that.

Your Little Sister picked out a Spiderman balloon for you.  She wore your old Spiderman shoes for a while, J.  And now she loves Spiderman, just like you did.  She tells me she misses you and cries because she wants you to come and visit us and she doesn't understand why you can't.  Did you meet your sister in Heaven?  Before she came down to live her?  I like to think that you did.  That when she says she misses you, it's true.

We all miss you so much, Jameson.

We love you and hope you have a wonderful 8th birthday in Heaven.  

Almost Five Years

The end of August is so hard for me. The 31st is the anniversary of Jameson's hernia surgery that turned into the four month hospital stay that ended in his death.  It's been five years since that happened, but it still hurts like it was yesterday.  The fear is gone, because I know what happens, and not knowing is the scariest thing.  But the pain, that lingers.  I've made peace with the pain.  It will never go away on this earth, and frankly, I'm glad for that, because what kind of person could I be if I wasn't in pain for the rest of my life?  My son has been gone for almost five years.  Five years.

I was telling one of my most favorite people in the whole world the other day how Timehop is so fun, except right now.  It gets SO hard now.  When five years ago the updates are that my son can't breathe and he has blood pouring out of chest tubes and pain and suffering and no one knows the the hell is wrong with him.  And then on September 5, when we get the diagnosis and it says that he dying.  My son was dying.  And they said we would maybe get five years with him.  But we weren't that lucky.

Grief is a complicated and messy thing.  And losing a child is hard on more levels than I can describe.  And it never goes away.  It never ends.  The days that are good carry guilt for the lack of grief.  The days that are bad are indescribable.   Most days are in the middle.  As time goes on, pushing me forward, pressing me farther and farther away from him, he starts to feel more and more a stranger to me and I cannot get over that.  I can't remember anymore how it felt to hold him in my arms.  I can't remember the sound of his voice unless I watch one of the very few videos that I have of him.  I can't remember what is was like to tuck him in and snuggle close unless I try so hard.  The memories of my boy are one of my finest treasures and yet they are like sand in my hand and I cannot keep them, as hard as I try.

The grieving mother in me wants nothing more than to just STOP the world. Just freeze everything and spend every moment possible breathing him in, remembering, commemorating.  But I can't do that.  Because my world is more than Jameson.  I have two living children, a husband, family, friends.  And my own life.  And so I keep moving forward, some days as if I'm on a treadmill with no way to get off.  But I do keep running.

I really don't like ending blog posts so sadly.  I really don't like being a Debbie Downer.  And I reach and seek JOY every day.  But the next four months are HARD.  And this is my sacred place to share my heart and soul and I need to write openly.  So don't feel bad for me, but please do support me.  Tell me stories and moments about my boy that you remember.  Tell me that you love his smile and wish you knew him.  And please don't forget him.  Because I'm trying with everything in me not to. 

Momentum

I thought I'd start writing more in the spring.  This winter was a doozy for me.  I was unknowlingly suffering from hypothyroidism and it was taking it's toll.  I was tired.  So tired I would get up in the morning and literally cry because I was so tired I physically didn't know how I was going to get out of bed.  My hair was falling out, I had horrible aches and pains throughout my body and I was depressed, angry; it wasn't good.  The depression startled me.  I didn't see it happening, mostly because I was too tired to see or do much beyond keep myself and the kids alive and fed every day.  And maybe I held myself together well enough that most people would be surprised to read this.  But all of a sudden, one week I realized I was sitting in the bottom of a pit and I was a long way down and I couldn't get out by myself.  So I did what I could do and I asked for help.  I told Hubs I thought I was going crazy and gave him all my symptoms and cried and he held me and listened, and I said I think I should see a therapist, and he said I think you need to see your doctor and get your thyroid checked.

And I did and it was off.  And I started taking meds and I kinda backed off of everything for a while.  I needed some rest.  So my house wasn't quite as clean, the dinners weren't quite as exciting, the bread started coming from Costco, the home projects completely stopped, and the kids watched a little more PBS after work.  I gave myself some grace.  After a few weeks it started getting a little better.  And then a little better.  And I thought that when I bounced back, I'd be able to hit the ground running and pick up the pace and start really moving again and it didn't happen that way and it really frustrated me.  How can I be getting less done now that I'm well than I was getting done when sick?

After reading The Little Engine That Could to Little Lady for the millionth time in one day, I started see how maybe I was a little like a train.  I was coasting on momentum and speed for a really long time, but it couldn't have lasted forever.  And just like a train carrying a heavy load, the starting back up is the hardest and slowest part.  I'd lost my momentum.  So I gave myself a little more grace to go at a snail's pace.

And I'm still here.  My house is a disaster most times, but I've started cooking again.  I bought painter's tape, which is a step in the home improvement direction....  I'm here, writing.  Most importantly, though, I feel whole and full of light.  Not in the I'm fixed and all better and back to normal sense, because I gave up on that after Jameson died.  Once something's broken, its broken.  You can either learn to make peace with the imperfections or be eternally miserable.  This now almost year long health mishap has brought me to my knees(physically and spiritually) and there, I've done a lot of prayerful reflection and seeking.  I'm realizing more and more the areas of myself that are still quite broken and my prayers for myself are often that God will soften my heart.  But maybe we'll save that can of worms for another day.

So this is a start in building momentum.  I can't say when I'll be back to write again. Maybe next week, maybe next month.  I don't know.  I do know that for a very long time, I didn't feel like I could write and be so....open.  And I still have a lot of things in my heart that feel raw and personal and it's hard to write around them.  But it's a start. 

Butterflies

Yesterday I was folding laundry.  That actually is momentous enough to stand alone, but not the focal point today.  I was folding laundry and watching Little Lady play and sing and dance around the room all full of joy and life and I was thinking about how fast it is flying by.  She is so big.  And in my mind, the numbers all started adding up and then it all clicked into place and I dropped the shirt in my hands and just stood there staring at my sweet girl who has been on this earth now for nine days longer than her big brother every got to be. 

I knew it was coming soon, but I wasn't ready for it and all the complicated everything that comes with it.  Because first of all, THANK GOD she outlived him, since he died at three.  Because don't think I ever have the luxury of looking my sweet kids who seem so healthy and perfect and not wonder what could be lurking in their bodies undetected.  It is a fear that I fight against every single day.  And I will not let it win and I will not live in fear and allow it to rob me of the gift of life. 

But then, she's only three years, three months and twenty days old.  And she's already lived longer than he did.  It splits my heart wide open all over again. 

I've got ten butterflies on my dining table right now.  They are in a butterfly tent, right next to my computer as I type this out.  They all hatched yesterday and the day before and it's been an amazing process to watch their transformation.  While reading up on them, it mentioned that they only live about two weeks once they become butterflies.  Two weeks.  Such a short life. 

The calloused and jaded side of me instantly wondered what's the point?  What's the point when its so short?  When all they are doing is living long enough to lay eggs and then die.  But I've been watching them all day and they are so beautiful.  They are kinda crazy, too.  I can't believe how hard it is for them to fly.  They keep flipping over and falling down and getting stuck partway under the plate holding their fruit and flowers.  Honestly, it's a little stressful watching them.  But they are just so dang beautiful. 

I'm not sure how to tie this all together.  I've never wondered what the point of Jameson's short life is.  He was my boy and his point was to be love on this earth.  And he loved like a boss.  The point of his life was always crystal clear. 

I will always struggle with the brevity of it all though.  It's easy to be okay with the shortness of the butterflies' lives.  I can see how they are a part of the food chain and hear Elton John singing "The Circle of Life" in my mind (you're welcome) and separate myself enough to feel little more than a minute of sadness at the idea of them leaving so soon. 

But Jameson?  That one is not easy.  I can't step away from the gaping hole in my heart and soul.  I can't look at my senior dogs and think how they've outlived my son four times over.  And I can't be okay with it.  It will never be a thing where I can see all the good that maybe has come from it and ever say it was worth it. 

Maybe someday when I get to Heaven, God will show me why it had to happen that way.  Maybe we'll walk through the woods together and He will hold my hand and look me in the eye and maybe then, where death is banished, maybe then it will be okay.  But not here. 

It is a struggle.  And I don't know how I can reconcile my faith when I read verses in the Bible that say "It is the Lord who gives life and death, who casts into the grave and raises up." 1 Samuel 2.  But just like I wrote way back in December of 2010 when the doctors all said we have to let him go, I truly do believe God is good all of the time.  But how can He be good when people like Hitler get to grow up and people like Jameson don't and He is the one who decides?  This is where that faith thing comes in.  The faith card seems like a cop out.  I know it does.  I can't explain it well.  But over the years, I can honestly say that God has proven Himself to be trustworthy.  I trust Him.

As I sit here, watching my butterflies and picking out all the marshmallows from my organic lucky charms (seriously, why do they even bother including the cereal), I don't know what else to say?  There is too much to say, too many things to think about and so little time to process it all and write it all out.  And this topic on faith and trust and death, well, I'll be working on this one for the rest of my life. 

Time

I've been sitting here with the cursor blinking, eating Reece's Pieces and drinking Irish breakfast tea, looking out the window and wondering how in the world to start.  I used to dream about making this writing thing a career and now I'm lucky if I can find the time, energy and patience to write once a month. 

I used to think that the baby phase was the hardest.  That once they got bigger and more independent, it got easier to make time for myself.  Time for cooking, reading, exercising.  But Little Man is almost 9 and Little Lady is 3 and I feel even more stretched now than when they were babes.  I found myself in a shower alone last night, thinking about how rare even this was becoming.  We spend all day every day playing, reading, eating, talking, dancing...I wear her in a backpack still when we walk to school and go for hikes and head to stores.  She loves to be so close.  Always.  I love it, too.  I do.  I sometimes leave her at MOPS and feel breathless, as if I need her closer so I can catch my breath.  But still.  I need my own time.  And I look forward to my showers all day long.  It's my time to be quiet, alone, relaxed and reflective.  But she misses me and if she's still awake, she's there.  And before I even have time to get the shampoo in my hair, there's a pile of princess clothes on the tile and a girl saying, "Here I am Mama!" as if her presence makes it all alright.  I used to fight it.  But she's my girl.  And I know this time won't last forever. 

Just looking at Little Man reminds me how they grow up in a blink.  He's hardly little -almost as tall as me now.  He's gone all day long.  And after school he's off playing with friends until it's time for a quick dinner before sports practices and games.  I feel like we never get to see each other.  And he's only in third grade!  I shudder to think about what high school be like. 

The highlight of my every day with him is our time together at night when we read.   He is a voracious reader, like his Mama.  I know for certainty he's pulled at least two all nighters this year because he couldn't put the book down. It makes my heart swell with love to think about it.  And so every night, after we get home from sports or swimming, or walking, we settle in on the couch with a book and we read.  Sometimes we have to stop every.five.seconds to let the dogs out, get the lady milk, let the barking dogs back in, stop the lady from putting toothpaste on the carpet, make room for the dogs on the couch with us, put the lady to bed for the 14th, no 15th, make that 22nd time tonight.  And he gets just as exasperated as I do and I can see in his eyes how he wishes the whole world just leave us alone so we can snuggle together on the couch and find out how in the world Percy Jackson is going to save Olympus yet again.  We're both suckers for epic adventures and we would both sit on that couch until the sun came up or the book was done if we could get away with it.  But he's too young and I'm too old for all-nighters, so we try to keep it reasonable.  But, man, my first baby is no longer a Little.  He's a Big.  But he still wants to sit and snuggle with me and listen as I read him stories.  And I know this time won't last forever either and my heart will break a little when he's done with story time. 

Too soon I'll have all the time in the world to read and cook and write and won't that be sad? 

Krazy

I have been misplacing things all week long.  Names, dates, car keys, wallets.  It's been a little crazy.  At least I haven't lost any kids?  I'm just off.  I keep thinking St. Patrick's Day is Tuesday, but it's not.  It's 11 days away, in case you don't know.  And really, if you read my blog, um, you should probably know that date.  It's slightly important to my crazy Irish person and family.  Did I mention that I'm only Irish by marriage?  What can I say, it's a fun bandwagon to jump on.  (It's March 17th in case you don't know.) 

But I'm off kilter this week.  And I honestly think part of it is the anticipation of St. Patrick's Day.  Which is CRAZY, with a capital K. But that's me, so here we are. St. Patrick's Day is awesome on so many levels because it's an amazing family holiday.  And even though we are far away from our families, I still love to celebrate and be with them in spirit. I sometimes am more homesick on this day than Christmas.  I loved going to the Cathedral for a traditional Celtic Mass with Hub's parents and sister and family and then out for Irish breakfast with the whole family.  It always seemed sacred to me, even before I was Catholic and Irish.  But it used to be mostly all fun and games back then. 

And then we had this red-headed boy.  And we named him Jameson.  And he embodied everything Irish in my mind,  His joy was Irish.  His hair was Irish.  His spirit was Irish.  And when he wore this hand-me-down T-shirt that said "Irish Prince" on it, it was like he was made for that shirt and that shirt was made for him. And so St. Patrick's Day became a little bit of Jameson's day in my mind.  And now, even though it's really a celebration of St. Patrick, who was an amazing person, for me, its a day for my boy.  Another day to celebrate his life and spirit. 

But it's also still a day to be jolly and silly and dress up all crazy and eat Irish food.  And I love to embrace it all.  And sometimes the celebratory mood and the honoring Jameson idea don't always seem so complimentary and it sometimes feels hard.  And a lot of time, I feel guilty because I have two children here who are also just as Irish(and they have the freckles to prove it!), but I tend to focus on my J.  I feel guilt about that a lot.  I worry that my living kids will think Jameson was my favorite and they are not as loved.  Which is NOT true.  I adore all three of my kids, but its complicated.  It's easy to remember only the good with J and only the bad with Little Man and Little Lady so much of the time.  He no longer causes me grief and I only remember loving him, missing him, wishing for him.  But her and him still here.  Lord have Mercy.  I want them both and need them both like the air I breath, yet still, we have our moments. 

Like today.  When she tried to flush Daddy's socks down the toilet and flooded the bathroom and I screamed and dropped and F-bomb and still feel the mommy guilt bad enough to last all of eternity.  And there are enough real life instances for both living kids to write a book I would never want to write.  I feel like I'm failing and sucking at this parenting so much of the time; but the more I talk with other parents and my own who have been there and done that, the more I learn that EVERYONE feels that way.  And while we should all aspire to be better parents and better people and drop less f-bombs around our children, there is GRACE and forgiveness and love that covers all kinds of messes I make.  Praise Jesus and pass the gravy.  Or wine.  Either one. 

I'm not sure how I want to wrap this one up.  I'm kind of writing because it's been a frustrating week with my kids here.  And I'm kind of writing because I'm really missing my J extra right now.  And the two mock me in my mind all of the time.  Because if Jameson could be here to flush socks down the toilet, I would probably clap my hands and throw a party.  And what does that mean?  I think it means I'm grateful to have kids living that can raise hell and bring me to my knees even though they daily stretch my perceived level of sanity, even if I can't see it in the moment. And I think through writing, I can finally get the the point where I can be thankful for cute bathroom flooders and remember to chose the joy.  Because the alternative -the sadness and anger that come when I'm not being thankful, that is just not who I want to be. 

And this is also your 10-ish day PSA to wear green, be Irish, and honor my Jameson.  Slainte! 

The Ship May Be Sinking, But At Least the Sky is Blue...

I've been away for too long yet again.  I woke up this morning knowing that I couldn't put it off anymore, that there is too much bottled up inside me and I have to write.  But the morning happened, as it often does, with snooze buttons, devotions, and kids and breakfasts and hurry-up-so-were-not-late-agains!  And then it's too late, once the day begins.  And nap-time just began and pick up is in 48 minutes, so I have this window, this short window to pour my soul out onto this screen. 

But how do I begin after a month?  A rocky month, too.  One full to anxiety over the big 3rd birthday.  And tantrums of epic proportions.  The kind that leave me crying on the bathroom floor and wanting to run away and never ever come back.  Ever.  I want to write that parenting is HARD.  But really, sometimes, just living is HARD.

It's been a tough month.  And I've been utterly exhausted and it all seems like so much more work right now when everything is hard.  And sometimes I wonder just what is the point in all this striving, when it feels like no matter how much I try, how hard I work, I'm still sinking.  Always sinking.

I read in a book that my children are refining me.  That I am changing and stretching and growing and all this angst will make me a better person on the other side.  Right now, in the thick of it, it feels more like getting hit over the head with a hammer over and over until I'm so broken I will shatter.  But even as I write this, I think about how beautiful my brokenness can be.  And, as Angie Smith wrote in her book, Mended, our cracks and gaps allow more of God's grace and light to leak out of us.  And who doesn't want to ooze God's love?  

I want to ooze the love of Jesus out of every crack in my being.  I want to pray for more cracks just to ooze more love, but I am also so afraid.  The breaking hurts.  And I'm so far from perfect, so far from good so much of the time.  I ooze fear and anger and selfishness more than I'd care to admit.

I fall so short.

It can all sound so hopeless, except it's not.

Wednesday night, the kids and I went to Mass late for the Ash Wednesday service.  This is one of my favorite Masses of the year.  I think of the ashes in my life.  The wreckage still smouldering in my wake.  And how God uses these ashes, these burned and broken parts of my life.  And He makes them beautiful.  We were so late to Mass that we missed getting the ashes.  Which seems about right for us.  But our priest was gracious and marked our foreheads with a black cross after the service was long over.  It reminded me that it's never to late to accept grace offered.  He offers grace enough to cover my faults with no expiration.

But even with grace, this whole living thing is HARD.  Most things worth having are.  This is where the JOY seeking comes in handy.  Because even on the hardest days, weeks, months, when the ship seems like it is sinking fast, there is always, always something good.  Always.  Deciding to choose JOY, practicing choosing JOY and seeking the good every day, this is how I fight back.  This is how I survive. 

I know the days are long.  I get that life is HARD.  But I also know that it is worth it. 

Letting In The Light

I blinked and a month flew by.  It went too fast and not fast enough, as time has a way of doing.  The times when we were sick and sad and slightly miserable seemed to crawl along.  The times when we were full of joy and happiness seemed like they were on fast-forward.  It hasn't been an easy month.  We marked Jameson's fourth Anniversary in Heaven.  I really wanted to go to the Grotto for a mass, but we were all too sick.  So we stayed home and lit his candle.  And cried. 

We rang in the new year painting trim and watching Tinkerbell DVD's.  A week-ish later I got older and greyer.  We had beet and pesto pizza and strawberry rhubarb pie. 

There have been a lot of nice little times sprinkled about over the past month but also some sad and worrisome things.  I've spent a lot of time reflecting and reading and watching...and feeling overwhelming inadequacy in everything.  Mommy guilt, that's the name a book I'm reading gives it.  It's the opposite of JOY seeking.  And it creeps in when I am tired and blue and kicks me when I'm falling down.  And there it threatens to steal all the good from my mind.  And I find myself seeing only where I've screwed up everything.  The downward spiral can happen so fast once mommy guilt kicks in.  And even though I can logically say I know this isn't true, it can be hard to get back up. 

Except I know how to fight back even when I'm down in the pit.  Everything seems worse and scarier in the dark, but if you can just let a little light in, the mind can get some clarity.  Light removes the darkness.  So one night when I was feeling especially vulnerable, instead of wallowing and allowing the mommy guilt to sink in, I spoke out in the darkness.  I curled into that safe space of our marriage, with his arms around me and I told him how afraid I was that I was screwing up the kids with my imperfect self.  And how every negative behavior they seem to have must come from me.  And how I haven't been enough for anyone.  And he listened and squeezed me and laughed a little at my insanity.  Because saying it aloud did sound a little crazy.  And together, we spread some light into that dark place and then it wasn't so dark anymore. 

And the next day I got up and got out my little green notebook and worked extra hard to count those gifts.  The sunrise.  The coffee.  The laughter spilling out from her belly and filling the whole house with joy.  The freckles on his nose.  The love he oozes from his soul.  The love and commitment he chooses to honor every single day.  The coffee.  The friend who drops off flowers for no reason.  The fridge that can fit three gallons of milk.  The dogs snoring all night long.  The waffle iron.  Fleece sheets.  A new warm coat.  Stretch leggings.  Whipped cream.  Red paint.  The moon shining bright on a blue sky.  A quiet morning alone.  A loud morning all together.  Cupcakes and red sprinkles.  Reading in bed all snuggled together.  Whispers of love in the darkness. 

The goal is to count a thousand gifts in a year, but there are so many more.  Every second of every day.  Every breath in and out.  Every heartbeat is a gift.  Oh to see it all that way, wouldn't that be amazing?  The vision to do it?  That is not a gift, that is a practice.  One that I often fail in.  But counting the gifts, seeking the good, it lets the light in.  It's worth the effort to try and try again and again and again.  Because I don't know much about what the future is going to look like, but I'm going to do my best to make it as bright as possible. 

Foiled, once again

It's Christmas Eve and things aren't going quite as planned.  I made this plan to keep busy and keep into eveything and try really hard to keep the 25th separate from the 26th.  And I bought this amazing Advent Book, but then forgot it when we went to visit Grandma and are now 11 days behind schedule.  And who can catch up from that on Christmas Eve? 

But here we are.  Christmas Eve.  And I had this plan.  Yesterday was wrapping and baking day.  Only, I got the wrapping done the night before in a crazy whirlwind mess.  Which turned out to be a great thing.  Except for the part where I put out all the gifts under the tree and then after Little Lady got up, I didn't mention how they weren't fair game yet.  And I went to brush my teeth and was greeted by a very excited lady holding her brand new Frozen Jammies.  And I looked at her with magic in her eyes and happiness in her heart and I yelled at her for opening gifts before Christmas.  And I didn't even stop there.  I yanked them out of her hands, put them back in a bag under the tree and in my most Grinch-like voice told her its not Christmas yet so don't even think about it.  She burst into tears and then five minutes later into flames. 

Not literally, but kind of.  We were making Nisu to hand out to the neighbors and she was helping me and then crying and then burning up.  Fevers and chills and refusing to eat or drink and doctors appts and temperature scans every.30.minutes.all.night.long was how the day panned out.  I was doling out the Motrin as often as posible and she was still burning at 104F for hours on end last night.  And it was, of course, the night Dr. Daddy had call and was gone.  He always seems to have call when we are most sick and in need of Dr. Daddy.  The universe has a sick sense of humor, I think. 

So, the upshot is that we get to eat three loaves of Nisu all by ourselves, because who wants to hand out baked goods to the neighbors that are possibly laced with influenza or whatever crazy virus we have?  Don't you worry.  Eating three giant braided loaves of bread in two days is not out of the question for us.  Carbs and I, we are best buddies.  In fact, we've already polished off 1.5 loaves.  No need to remind me that I'm in leggings mode because I can't zip my pants already, thank you very much. I'm well aware.  Yet still enjoying that Nisu and this pint.  Cheers. 

So the Lady is sick.  But better, maybe?  Still cranky as all hell, yet playful enough to sing about poop.  At least she's eating grapes, because yesterday she ate like 15 calories all day long.  And I'm barely exaggerating, which is amazing for me. 

But the plan, it went on.  The plan was for baking and handing out goodies yesterday.  Got the bread done, but can't gift anyone.  So we are eating bread.  And not going to even make the cookies that I planned on and bought all the ingredients for.  Right.  I have 9 pounds of butter in my fridge.  Ha. 

Today was going to be family day.  Hubs got home from work around 8 am and needs to sleep.  Little Lady totally needs sleep today.  Talk about cranky and tired.  And Little Man, he's hanging by a thread, but I'm not sure he gets it.  So right now, it's family naptime.  Only I'm not napping, as Little Man pointed out before I made him head to bed and he told me I was mean for not playing a game with him. I guess I am mean.  And also hyped up on Starbucks.  And exhausted.  And feeling frustrated that the plan isn't working.  And missing Jameson.  And hating the holidays. 

We were planning on going to Mass tonight.  I LOVE midnight mass. It's my favorite mass of the year.  We were going to take the kids caroling and then head to mass.  But it can't happen with a sick girl.  And tomorrow we were going to have some friends over, but I've canceled it in case we are contagious or sick.  It's the same group of friends we bailed on at Thanksgiving thanks to a stomach bug.  I feel like such a flake. 

So here is what it comes down to, the essence of what I'm really trying to say.  I wanted to have a nice Christmas.  To rise above the pain and sadness of this week we feel so deeply.  To make it nice and spend it with friends and people we love.  To give out gifts and be happy and ooze Christmas spirit.  And the reality of it all is that life happened.  We are here and she is sick and J is still dead, with the 4th anniversary approaching in two days time.  And we will be alone, just the four of us on Christmas day.  And Hubs and I will be reliving that Christmas four years ago with every breath we can barely take as we try so hard to smile and be present for the kids still here.  And if there is to be any distraction, it will be that of sickness that isn't anything worth complaining about even though I do.  Me, who knows what a really sick baby is like and yet I still complain about a measly virus here and there. 

Life happened.  And it screwed up the plan.  The plan that included the magic of Santa and Jesus and daily advent and friends and love.  And I don't know why it is screwed up, but it is.  And it bugs me.  And I feel like I'm yelling with my fist in the sky, wondering why can't He let us just have this one day, this one time the way it seems nice to us?  Why must everything always be off-kilter?  Haven't we proven we trust?  Haven't we already sacrificed everything?  But here we are.  Can't go to church.  Can't be with friends.  Can't even hand out goodies to the neighbors.

And I hate the holidays.  I hate that I have tried so hard this year.  With Thanksgiving.  I made plans for me and the kids even though Hubs had to work a 24 hour shift.  I bought gifts for the people we were going to see.  I baked and cooked.  And then it all went to hell with a stupid stomach bug.  And now here we are again.  Christmas.  Merry freaking Christmas.  Again sick.  Can't give gifts.  Can't give hospitality.  Can't even go to Church. 

And I know I sound whiny and ungrateful for the awesomeness that I do have in my life.  And I know that my sadness and heavy heart get old for most of you.  And I know that Christmas is about way more than me feeling good and being happy.  But I just tried so hard this year.  And it all fell flat.  And I'm here, with the rug getting pulled out from under me once again. 

Because HIS birth and his death will always be tied together for me.  And the link seems more of a tangled mess than a beautiful bow to me.  And I don't know how to make it work.  Not ever.  This loving God and missing Jameson.  This circle of life where HIS birth makes his death okay.  How can that be?  This miracle.  God gave me his son and I gave him mine and this week it is all tied together in sadness and hope and darkness and waiting and love. 

And maybe every time I try to separate the two, maybe I'm running away.  And maybe this forced quiet, this unplanned time to just be instead of do, maybe this is HIS gift to me.  To see the bow where I only see a ruined knot.  Maybe He is saying stop and SEE and FEEL.  And maybe the pain and the hollowness and darkness are a reminder of what He felt when He gave His son to me, for me, because He loves me.