Life is precious, from the moment God knew of it, we are human

There is a little girl in the arms of Jesus. And He is the luckiest being in creation. Because the rest of us are broken-hearted.

My dear friend found out in November that they had been selected as adoptive parents for Kate, a beautiful baby girl, due March 12th. We gave her formula, and a bouncer chair, and a swing, and a piece of our lives. On Monday Kate's birth mother delivered her, stillborn.

Now my friend is consoling a birth family, holding together her own family, choosing a two-foot coffin, and grieving with a pain too deep for words.

In the midst of it, she is being refined, and is being proved to have a faith purer than gold.

I keep trying to comment on her facebook posts. I want her to know that I am there for her, that I have lost a baby too, and my heart is weeping oceans for her family. I keep trying to say simple things: I am praying for you, you are loved, after all things God is only good. I just can't seem to manage to do it. There are no words. When your arms have ached to cradle your daughter, but now they will be empty of her until heaven's gates, then, there are no words.

I don't know what her story will hold besides faith beyond measure. My story is that the grief dulls, and one day you can think of your baby and not hurt. One day you will look excitedly to heaven and know a face, a giggle, a little human being will await you there. One day here, there will be joy ahead of pain. And one day there, there will be no grief at all. The darkness does not endure, nor do we mourn forever. My story is that God is good, and only ever good, and His faithfulness is new every morning.

My friend will have her own story. It will be beautiful and simple. And in eternity she will introduce me to Kate, her amazing daughter. And I will introduce her to my baby, who never had a name, but still had my heart.

Preparation for Labor

A dear friend loaned me a Lamaze video series when we first got pregnant after she found out I wanted to deliver naturally. I can’t explain this compulsion to needlessly endure pain. Perhaps it was fear of a giant needle being excruciatingly laced under the metalwork in my spine and through inches (which might as well be miles) of scar tissue. Perhaps I liked the idea of being able to lilt and skip about after pushing out what my doctor assured me was a “hunky” baby. The most likely reason (and this says far too much about the kind of person I am) is perhaps I just wanted everyone to gape at how tough I am, to be impressed. I wanted to win. There’s no medal in labor and delivery... But if there was it surely didn’t go to those women who got an epidural at a 3.

Yes, I may just be that stupid at times.

I learned many things from the video classes. I learned the about a high water break versus a gush. I learned the three breathing techniques, which accompanied each phase of labor. I learned about dilation, effacement, focus objects, forceps, C-sections, and a host of other concerning paraphernalia that they don't tell you about until after you're lugging around your precious bundle.

I'm now trying to recall these lessons because, although I am still 23 days away from Baby Hannah's due date, I go to bed each night hopeful that I will awaken in a pool of amniotic fluid (wow, that's quite the eww), and deliver my little 6 pound bundle (yeah right) an hour later. As you may imagine, mornings tend to hold a great deal of disappointment.

I don't remember that much. I remember the breathing patterns still... 'cause yeah, those really work. I remember that they APGAR your baby after birth... so we can be defined first in life by a number instead of a smiley face or frowny face. But mostly I realized that there is no knowing what will be at the hospital, when you first see your child, or for the next twenty-six years. So while prepping is good, the best defense against the insurmountable unknown is a laugh, a love, and an attitude problem.

The Wrecking Ball

At our ultrasound in two weeks we find out whether we are having a boy or a girl. It seems a formality only, to me. I'm 95 percent sure there is a sweet and fiery baby girl tumbling about inside of me. At my last appointment we had a hard time finding a heartbeat. This was not a matter of concern. Every time the doctor placed the ultrasound microphone against my belly, probably she/but maybe he would give it a firm kick. Eventually my OB guessed we were dealing with a girl. This doesn't mean much. He is the OB for my sister-in-law as well, and of the three children we already have, he's striking out on guesses. Noah was supposed to be a girl, and he is decidedly, all boy.

However, the real reason I know we have a wee femme on our hands is because I have become an emotional wrecking ball. I had a few little breakdowns with Noah, a few boohoos and woe-is-me's. But with this baby, it seems a weekly, if not daily occurrence. I walked out of our bedroom the other day, tears pouring in torrents down my face. "What's wrong?" my ever-concerned and ever-sweet husband asked.

"I need a sweater." ...

Justin's eyes flitted nervously back and forth. If he were a man of lesser character he would probably have bit his lip and looked for an escape. "OK," he replied cautiously, as you would speak if you were occupied with trying to diffuse an incendiary device. "So what's the problem?"

I just shrugged. There is no problem. Except that I am insane, swinging like a 100 lb concrete destroyer, ready to shatter anything I come in contact with.

I've cried at my brother, I've cried at my friends, I cried at the cable man, and at a bird. I cried at my dog, and a basil plant, and an umpire. (Poor guy. That must have been a first.) I have even cried at a goat. (Explanation in a future post.) And every one of these is a story that would take too much time to recount.

All Nighter

To deal with my wicked morning sickness I am using a combination of Promethazine at night, Zofran in the morning, anti-nausea preggo drops, and PSI wrist bands. With all of these remedies combined I still feel nauseous most of the time, but thankfully I'm only throwing up about once a day now instead of six times. For some reason I still don't feel like clicking my heels with delight, but I am trying to be grateful for the blessings I have. Like a new growing baby.

The Promethazine causes extreme drowsiness, which is why I take it at night. I tried taking half pills during the day, and ended up drooling into my keyboard for long stretches of the workweek. Last night I forgot to take it. And no sleeping occurred. I was awake as a chihuahua on espresso. Thankfully, (read deeply embittered sarcasm in that word) Dumpster was restless most of the night too. My tossing and turning was accompanied by the grunting and snuffling of a bulldog shaped like the world's largest sausage trying to squeeze himself under our bed. Like trying to stuff a salami in a mail slot. Then he got an itch and scratched himself right up against our bedroom door so it thunked against the wall at machine gun fire tempo. Then he found his bone and tossed it across the room for himself a couple times. And then, I will not share with you the awful noises and smells he made.

The moral of this section of the story is: although bulldog puppies are preeminent amongst God's adorable creations, at some point they grow up, and then, it's like owning a biochemical weapon with a tongue. He is an assault on all the senses.

I am now debating with myself if I should endure some more nausea and stop taking my night drugs or continue on in comatose bliss, less sicky.

It concerns me that I can't sleep without this drug now. And it also frightens me that if I'm so wigged out by it, what the baby might be feeling. Any intelligent comments on this dilemma would be greatly appreciated.

Catch Up

Since I wasn't blogging for awhile, allow me to catch you up:

For his eight month birthday Noah decided to have a cage pillow pen wrestling smackdown brawl with all his fluffy friends. The aftermath:

 

The sad thing is, even though he was wrestling inanimate objects, I'm not sure who ended up winning.

Whilest I was not blogging several other things of note occurred:

• Justin got his second 4.0 in nursing school. Am so very proud.
• I threw up... lots.
• We saw our first ultrasound of new baby Ririe.
• I threw up some more.
• I took on the Ladies Spring Tea at our church.
• I had 8 migraines, which caused me to throw up.
• Noah progressed to army crawling faster than the Flash can run.
• And I threw up.

10 pounds later, I am still blessing my God for working miracles in our lives. There's just much less of me to worship Him.



Announcement

I am aware that it has been nearly an eternity since I have blogged. It is difficult to write about anything else when there's a quite large something on your mind that you aren't allowed to blog about. However, the secret is out, so I can once again, merrily tap-tap-tappity on the keys.

There I stood at home plate staring down a pitcher, who I can only imagine had my utter destruction in mind. He'd already thrown a nasty twelve foot arc that only by grace was called a ball. I'm sure he was quite secure in his belief that before him stood another little girl, a bunting pansy, a softball wall flower. Poor lad couldn't have known that before him stood an Abi. A real Abi, the kind they don't make every day of the week, the kind they watch because she has no good in mind.

I glared. It's a bad habit. There's some wickedness in my subconscious that demands in the midst of battle I glower like a Greek in the face of the Persians. I'm sure it is no where near as terrifying as the picture in my mind. In my mind this is the glare that sent a thousand ships back the way they came, tails set firmly between their legs. In reality, Justin snickers every time he sees it and tells me how adorable it is. But I persist never-the-less, and glare I did with intense ferocity at said unsuspecting pitcher.

He let the ball fly, I swung the bat, and from the recesses of my primitivity came a grunt that would put Sharapova or Williams to shame. And that ball went. Far.

After I easily hit first, I turned to my brother-in-law and begged him for a pinch runner. He got the ump's attention, but kept throwing me strange glances. There was some atrocious to-do about getting me a runner, and in the end I don't imagine the rules were followed by said ump. Finally, my husband stepped in and defended my honor: "Give her a break! She's Pregnant!"

Well, that wasn't subtle. Nor conducive to game winning. As half our bench scraped their jaw out of the dirt, confusion ensued. It was a clever way to announce it, but I imagine the inning might not have ended on the next play if we weren't all so flummoxed.

So yes, I'm pregnant. And wishing I were dead. While quite amazing at hitting softballs, Abi's are not very good at being pregnant.

I'm sure amidst the first pregnancy as Eve held her swimming head over a hole and wretched up every good, bad, knowledgeable, and stupid fruit she had ever eaten, Adam (annoyed his own self at having to pull weeds all day) commented, "Well, that's what you get, Miss 'I-gotta-try-that'." And she promptly kicked him in his sheep-skin covered jewels, just to be sure she would not have to endure this havoc again any time soon.

Don't talk to me

Because I know I haven't blogged in two weeks, but am too tired to think of anything. I made this list in the throes of pregnancy.

The top five things a pregnant woman doesn't want to hear:

1. "I didn't have any morning sickness at all. I just love being pregnant."
     Really, good for you; I spent the first five months thinking I might just throw up my own toes.

2. "You're glowing!"
     Are you telling me this sucker is nuclear?

3. "The day before I went into labor I taught a pilates class, and took kung fu, and ran a marathon, and won an academy award."
     Well, good for you; the day before I went into labor I ate a plate of nachos and took a nap.

4. "I delivered the baby at home in the bathtub."
     Umm... no. I want legalized opiates readily available. And I'd like to take a bath again sometime... ever.

5. "Can I touch your belly?"
     ... There's just too many retorts available for this one. I can't pick my favorite.

All that Hair

After eighteen hours and fifteen minutes of labor I spent two hours and forty-five minutes pushing before I got a Noah out of the deal. For what seemed like the entire 2.75 hours of pushing all I heard was "Look at all that hair!" So there I was in the most unflattering position imaginable, pushing and pushing with no plausible end in sight and every one who came into the room (which was more people than I would have liked) exclaimed, "What a full head of hair!" or "Look at all of that dark hair!" or "Geez, did you have bad heartburn while you were pregnant?" (There is a medically proven link between the amount of hair a baby has and the severity of heartburn a mother experiences. I'm pretty sure we have Eve to thank for that one. I can't explain this link, but if you have any insight please leave a comment.) These concerning comments persisted to the point that I became somewhat worried. Was I giving birth to an ape? Would they, when baby finally entered the world, say, "Congratulations! It's a baboon?" I mean there are actually worse things I could imagine hearing at that point. "Mazel tov! It's a Wookie," tops the list.

At 8:45 when he entered the world he did in fact have a full head of hair, but was thankfully decidedly human.

At his two week appointment, Noah's pediatrician regretfully informed us that in the next two months all of those gorgeous locks would fall out. Our darling babe would be bald in a matter of days.

Not that we would love him any less.

But he had pretty pretty hair.

Only the pediatrician was wrong. That hair kept growing. The side burns fell out, but most everything else stayed long and baby hair luscious. Now, at five months, he's fuzzier than ever.

And more adorable.

And decidedly still human. Yeah!

Learning to Breathe Again

His name is Noah. Everyone told me for the first twenty weeks of my pregnancy that it must be a girl. Why else would I be so sick, why else would his heart be so quick, why else would I burst into a fit of tears in the face of a poor, desperate bookstore employee charged with the unfortunate task of informing me I had to purchase a new cap and gown for graduation? (Aside from the fact that more than I’d like to admit I’m not a very nice person.) They all assumed it must be a fierce little redheaded girl. Justin and I even started believing them. But I really wanted a little boy first. I wanted Noah. And at our ultrasound there he lay (feet firmly planted in my bulging bladder), Noah, fidgeting in the dark, my baby boy.

 

And at the same time not mine. God is God who calls the leviathan from the deep and puts a hook in his nose. He owes me no answers. And Noah is His. I never had any delusions about being gifted with tremendous faith. Yet, somehow in the last year, I learned to trust without a doubt that He is God, and I am not, and things are better that way. I read the entire book of Job in one sitting at the lowest of my lows. I wept with Job, I raged at his so-called friends, and in the end I was silent in the face of my Maker. Those who don't know God tend to hate the book of Job. Most of those who love Him are not much more a fan of it. For me, it is the most beautiful book in the Bible and has offered solace in pain, strength in darkness, and hope that above all is God and closer than my baby's heartbeat is God.

 

I hadn't noticed that I had been holding my breath. Somehow after the pain of a miscarriage dulled and the grief wasn't so near I took in a sip of air and caged it in my lungs. I lived five months on one breath. I got pregnant again, taught classes, laughed, lived, loved all with one inhale. As I lay down staring at a screen, cool gel on my belly and my husbands hand in mine, I saw the Christmas light blinking of a heartbeat and I exhaled. I felt like I breathed again for the first time. I felt like all the oxygen in the world had been remade and for the first time I would taste sky and become alive.

First Blog: "I'm Going on an Adventure"

I had several people ask me if I was going to keep a journal or a blog while I was pregnant. Honestly, it would have been a very dull read: "Vomitted again today. Am swollen." "Vomitted again today. Am congested." "Vomitted again today. And again. Whee." It gets old after awhile. I have heard there are women who just love being pregnant. I'm sure there are psychoactive drugs for this kind of mindset. For nine months I swore Noah would be an only child. I'm still not convinced he won't be.

However, now that the morning sickness is over (still vomiting, but more on that in posts to come), and I am able to hold the most beautiful baby boy ever fashioned, I'm realizing I need to record every amazing thing he does. And there's just no space in the baby book to write that he buzzed his lips spraying mommy in the face with saliva for fifteen seconds straight. And we really need to record this for posterity. Or at least for when he is dating.

So we're going to try blogging. I like to think I'm at least a tolerably good writer, so we'll try to keep this as painless as possible. No promises are being made here. I'll probably fail to blog for months on end. There probably won't be an audience for years anyway. All I offer is that I'm going to make a valiant effort to record the comings and goings of the young Ririe household, if only to use as evidence in future court cases.