The Runner

Last week at church, our preacher talked about how everyone has a "thing".  That activity you go to when you need to figure the world out.  Some people cook, Parke surfs...and for most of my life, I've been a runner.  In fact, my best friends in college used to make fun of me for it, occasionally something would happen that I didn't like.. and I would just take off running...hence the nickname "The Runner". Probably not the best way of dealing with your problems.

After a long hiatus, I've recently gotten back into running a few mornings a week, and yesterday I finally felt my body starting to return to the rhythm that I've always loved- I guess some call it a "runner's high", to me it's always felt like strength and clarity.

Gracie has had a fever this week.  I know many sane mothers who have told me that they lose all sense of reality with a sick child in the middle of the night, and start imagining the very worst.  You couple that with the loss of a child, with something that started with a fever no less....well, forget about it.

Here is what I know:
1) Gracie is a perfectly healthy child
2) Perfectly healthy children get sick all of the time (especially when they are in daycare)
3) None of this matters when my perfectly healthy child is sick

So when I woke up yesterday morning and felt Gracie's head, which was cool as a cucumber, and saw my running shoes sitting beside the bed, the mental health alarm in my brain went off and I was out the door before I was fully awake.

Around mile two, I felt the adrenaline start to kick in.  I started thinking about all the miles my legs have travelled.  Through the hills of Clemson, when I was trying so hard to figure out what the next steps in my life would be.  Through early morning training sessions and finally the completion of my one and only half marathon, when I was in the best physical shape of my life.  Carrying me (and beginning to heal me) during my first run after we lost Rip. Up the steep hills of Tortola, Parke and my happy place, where we went right before I got pregnant and right after Rip died.  I remember wondering then how I could possibly be the same person running up the same hills.  But I was, and somehow the legs that carry me through each run seem to be an extension of the strength I find in myself.  Somehow, after I am breathing hard and sweating and feeling like I will die, that's when I know I will survive.

By the time I got back to the house, I really did know that Gracie would be fine and so would I.  The Runner is still running, but instead of running to get away, I'm running to stay right where I am needed most.

Red or White

The Scene:

On one of the first beautiful days of Spring, Mother decides to take Baby to the Farmer's Market, a mere block from the house.  Baby rides in new push car device, seen here... 

Mother and Baby look much like mother and baby in photo.  Baby loves new toy.

While at Farmer's Market, Baby gets rather full of herself, rams out of the car and busts around with newly formed walking skills, occasionally sticking her finger in other babies' eyes (Baby has also recently learned parts of the body).  After a few dirty looks from other mothers, the Mother decides to load Baby back in new push car device and head home.

Baby decides she hates, actually despises, riding in push car device and bends her body completely in half while issuing several bloodcurdling screams.  The mother is very hot.  The Baby takes off with push car before skidding across cement.  More screaming.  The Mother grabs Baby and car and starts for home.  The mother is perspiring heavily.  

The Baby decides she would like to try her hand at pushing the car again and begins wriggling like small but determined eel.  The Mother could lie down on the sidewalk.

Mother and Baby struggle to the end of the street, when rounding the corner comes Father.  Baby shouts joyfully.  Mother hands over Baby and push car device.  Baby happily allows herself to be settled into car device.  Mother mumbles under breath.

Mother, Father, and Baby reach home.  Never a fool, Baby takes Mother's hand and kisses it several times, rubbing her cheek against it.  As further act of rebellion, Baby has taken to calling the Mother "Dada".  Baby kisses "Dada" again, very sweetly.

"Dada" has one question- Red or White?

Simple Joy

I love Easter.

The whole day...everyone going to church, the pretty new dresses, the stuffing your face with ham and potato salad (maybe this is just me), the egg hunts, the candy, the azaleas in bloom...it just makes me happy.

Three years ago (how has it possibly been three years??), I found out that I was pregnant with Rip on Easter weekend.

Two years ago, I found out that we were expecting Gracie.

Here is a sample of what I did this year...

(Forgive the grainy video...I think the general cuteness still comes through.  That's my dad-Gracie's Pop-helping out, and her Uncle Will taking the video...and my Southern twang calling for the camera)

I say and show this because I think we had the best Easter yet.  It was just full of joy, simple joy.

There are lots of people I know right now going through hard times, times of uncertainty and pain and sorrow.  And when you in the middle of one of those times it seems like things are never, ever going to be simple again.

And then, one day, they are.  

Happy Easter. 

Only You

Remember a while back when I got all riled up about writing Rip's book...actually wrote a book?  Then got rejected by 40 some odd editors and publishers?  That was (not) fun.

Finally, a very nice man who offered to take a look at some of what I'd written confirmed what I already feared to be true...I needed to re-write the whole darn thing.  Well, maybe not the WHOLE thing, but most of it.  Talk about exhausting.  I mean, wasn't it enough to live it, write a blog about it, and then kind of copy and paste all of that into a book?

Yeah, I was afraid not.

The problem was that mainly I wrote like I thought I person might write who was writing about losing her baby...I didn't write like me.  I didn't write what I wanted to write, I wrote what I thought "they" wanted to hear.  And "they" hated it.

So, for a while I've kind of not done anything with Rip's story.  And to be honest, for a while I've been pretty angry with God.  This may be a post for another time and place, but it all kind of seems to go together so I might as well get it all out in one fell swoop (what does that even mean?).

When I was pregnant with Gracie, I was clinging to my faith so hard, I needed God to be there more than ever.  Then when I had her, a lot of that anger that I couldn't afford to have after Rip died just came bubbling back up.  I came to the conclusion that I believed in God, but I was supposed to have all of this LOVE for Him...and to put it mildly, I wasn't feeling the love.

And that lasted for a while until I didn't feel that way anymore.  And that's that, or what months of inner turmoil looks like in blog form anyway. But sometimes I think people go through really hard things and they don't admit to feeling doubt or anger and I think sometimes I was one of those people.  Heck, even Mother Theresa had doubts!

Yesterday I was reading a blog another mother had written who had lost a baby years ago.  She was talking about a sign she received after praying for that very kind of sign.  And I felt such a sense of recognition.  I don't know how God works all of the time in the world, there are certainly things I will always question Him on, but I do know that He sends signs to mothers who have lost their children.  I believe in signs.

So, last night I started thinking about Rip's story again.  And kind of talking over with God whether or not I should write it again.  I flipped open my Bible (after many months of staying away, I've started reading it again) and the following verse is what I read: Now finish the work, so that your eager willingness to do it may be matched by your completion of it...(2 Corinthians 8:11)

And I realized that I am the only one who will ever be able to tell Rip's story.  I am the only one that was with him from the very beginning to the very end.  The only one who can complete this for our family.  So I hope I can do it, even ten years from now, I hope it is something I finish.

Dat?

Gracie has reached the age now where she wants to know what EVERYTHING is.  She is constantly pointing her meaty little finger and asking, “Dat?”…”Dat?”

Some things you can just pray that she only asks to see at home.  One she has recently become obsessed with is my c-section scar.  As you may remember, I had some…troubles…when I got out of the hospital with Gracie and so my scar is a bit larger than most (ie you could probably see it from space). 

Still, when this little love of my life points at it and asks “dat?” and I tell her “that is where Gracie came out of mama’s tummy”, she nods very smugly and smiles a small little smile… and I feel very, very lucky to have been so beautifully scarred by my children.

And “dats” all that matters.

Nights of Crinkling Dipes

Gracie has been sick for the past few days (somebody please tell me this immunity thing is going to kick in soon!)

Because I am now neurotic by nature and nurture, I always come to the come to the conclusion that something is terribly wrong any time she cries out in the middle of the night.

This has resulted in several nights of Gracie and me setting up camp in the guest bedroom, my body wedged into a "V" in case my strategically placed pillows missed a spot and, God forbid, I should fall asleep and she could roll off the bed.  Really, there is no need to worry as the mama is not getting a lot of sleep in this scenario.

Last night, as I lay there with a footy pajama-ed foot slung across my face, thinking about all of the things nobody should think about at 3 am, Gracie rolled over.

It was the crinkling noise her diaper made that did it.  It's just such a comforting sound for some reason. I looked over at her tiny little body, all compact in her bright rainbow pajamas, and the THERENESS of her got me good.  All snugged up, safe and sound.

There will be a day when she doesn't need me to wind my body into a "V" to protect her.  There will be a day when she knows I can't make it all better.  But in these nights of crinkling dipes, where we need each other, that's the good stuff.

Perfectly Said

I read a blog post this morning that put something into words so perfectly that I had to share it.

It gets harder as time goes on to know how and when to talk about Rip.  It's sometimes hard to tell other  people why I want to talk about him so much, but Jack's mom did it so much more eloquently than I ever could.

I love that when I go shopping with Gracie, giggly little teenagers stop trying to be cool and tell me that she is adorable.  I love that I can exchange knowing glances over her head with other mothers when I pick her up from school and an end of the day tantrum is imminent.  I love that everything about me when I am with her screams that I am this child's mother.

And I miss those things so much with Rip.  I miss having all of the same love for my child who is not here, so I can't be his mother without saying a word.  So echoing the words of someone who said it perfectly, thank you for continuing to say and for letting me say Rip's name.