The Lilacs

{hanging hearts for healthcare workers}

 "Right now I want a word that describes the feeling that you get--a cold sick feeling, deep down inside--when you know something is happening that will change you, and you don't want it to, but you can't stop it. And you know, for the first time, for the very first time, that there will now be a before and an after, a was and a will be. And that you will never again quite be the same person you were."

— Jennifer Donnelly

When I was little, I remember the lilacs. They were growing against the side of our dilapidated, old garage, with large purple blooms that carried the most intense, beautiful scent my five year old self had ever experienced. I remember a feeling of intoxication with spring, with the flowers that towered over me, with the blue sky beyond them. My senses overwhelmed, it was all bigger than life and my smallness only made it all the more beautiful. Though so many parts of my childhood- ones that I thought were so significant, and would mark me forever- have long faded, that memory lingers still.

A few evenings ago, we walked through spotted sunlight on the sidewalk, tulips and flowering trees as our guide. Showers of sweet pink petals fluttered upon our worried heads, lining the street like a wedding aisle. The sun was beginning to fade, and laughs from the kids running ahead of us shone in the warm glow. It would all be so perfect if the world was not on fire.

{stores: empty}

All I keep wondering is this: what could they possibly think now? In fifty years, I won't want to read the stories from other adults about what happened in the year 2020. I'll want to know what they think, these little heart with so much change swirling around them. And yet, I'm afraid to ask.

I have written so much here, only to feel my hands give up typing before I can share what I feel. I want to say something worthy of it all. I want to write something that my children can read someday, and know my thoughts in this moment. But all that seems to come out just adds to the noise of politicians and TV channels. All that breathes out is anger, and shock, and bone-weary tiredness, and a discouragement unlike anything before. Every morning, I wake up, remember, and feel my heart drop. I don't know how to write about this. I don't know.

I can't make sense of this life. Nothing is right. The same way these masks are hiding mouths and disguising so much emotion and expression, I feel as if society has changed too much for me to recognize anymore. It's been over two months since quarantine started- quarantine, a word too quaint for our modern world, and now is discussed hourly, obsessively. And yet, just in March, I was sitting in an arena with Sky and thousands of people, shoulder to shoulder, laughing at a comedian and buying beer and pretzels from a snack bar. The next day, they closed it down, and not a single show since. Am I lucky for that? Cursed? Did I escape a terrible reality, or am I living it now? Where am I?

{a food pantry sign that was posted in our neighborhood}

In 1918, the great flu pandemic took away the vibrancy of vision. It became a strange, telltale symptom of a quick and lethal disease. Colors lacked intensity and meaning. Everything was faded, saddened, as if life itself had fallen into a miserable depression while the whole world shook with a frightened pause. It feels the same today. Some people seem to almost rejoice in their open schedule, their cancelled plans, their forced rest. But I don't feel that rest. It's not just the fact that our home life hasn't changed much (something that I am ultimately grateful for, especially that we already homeschooled). It is that all those little things- sitting in a cheery cafe with the boys while Millie has a Spanish lesson, waiting for the piano teacher to knock on the door before suppertime, and even trying on ten shirts at the thrift shop only to put them all back- that gave life more meaning than I gave them credit for, and what felt frivolous before now feels like an essential part of the framework of life.

I have always been one for tradition. I am sentimental beyond all reason. But this year, there is to be no sentimentality because the traditions are gone. Swimming at the pool and getting snacks that melt all over our hands, startling, bright fireworks and noisy parades on the 4th of July, watching the Kentucky Derby for those few and swift thrilling minutes- the bookends of summer that held together the beauty of community and normalcy, the proof of a celebrated moment- disappeared. I have tried and tried to think differently about it, but it stings in a way I can't explain.

How is it possible that I disagree with both political parties and so many leaders? How is it that I can get angry at a stranger on Facebook? How can I feel frustrated with friends and family who are doing things we're told not to for the sake of others, or confused that it's supposed to be safe for them in one state, but not here in Illinois? How am I supposed to tell my kids that people are very sick, and so many more have lost their jobs, and that even the grown ups don't know what they're doing? We're supposed to be the voice of reason, but I feel like I've lost my voice completely.

{still can't believe how emotional this sight makes me}

When I was little, my worries felt big. Really, though, they were how far around the block I was allowed to ride my bike, and how I could talk my parents into letting me spend the night at a friend's house. I didn't have to worry about what surfaces I touched, or how close I stood to someone else, or why a park was closed. My parents didn't keep the news off because of the incessant briefings proclaiming loudly what the politicians still didn't know. And when I look at the faces of these three small people I'm entrusted with, my heart hurts terribly. My prayer is that they will never look at this kind of a life as normal.

Spring, of all times, is supposed to give us the grace of hope. I know, just like the scary parts of our history on this earth, that this will eventually fade. I know that something that will mark our generation in the deepest of ways will be forgotten in a few decades' time by many. I worry, I guess, about how long it will take to get to the luxury of forgetting. The unknown is the hardest part of all.

Until it becomes a memory, I have to do the small things that insist life is normal in some ways- tuck Millie and Walter in at night. Nurse Harry and watch him learn new things every day. Plan ways to celebrate three summer birthdays somehow. Tell Sky that I'm too tired to cook dinner. Sit on the front steps, looking at his baby toes. Look for a bicycle to take the kids on a neighborhood ride. Open my Bible to search for passages about joy in trouble. Take walks in the evening under beautiful dogwoods and cherry blossoms.

And I hope, in it all, that they don't remember the confusion, the panic, and sadness of what was lost. I hope they only remember the lilacs.

His Story & Mine: The Three Lions

"There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. 

But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment."
— Anita Diamant

Three times, I've met a lion face to face; the proof is soft, snuggled on my chest with tiny snores and a warm head full of velvet hair. And though I was shaking each time the lion's eyes met mine, I walked away without his teeth marks. I'll tell you how.

  

This time, I was more scared than I had ever been before.When pregnancy aches and pains would keep me up during the hours when the streetlights were glowing, I would hold those fears in my hands, turning them over and over until I had them memorized, examining every facet until I knew them by heart. The rounder my belly grew, the greater my anxiety. I compared it to being tied to train tracks, hearing the whistle screaming closer and closer. And while I could remind myself over and over that a billion women had done this before- that I had done this before, twice, no less- all I could feel was the fear. Friends would encourage me that I was getting so close to meeting my baby boy, that it would all be worth it- but the kicks often felt like echos, second to the task I had before me. I didn't know who I would be holding, but I did know the pain that was coming.

My mom flew in on a Sunday morning. My due date was that Tuesday, so I was glad she made it before he was born. Early Monday morning, I had some real contractions, much different from the Braxton Hicks I'd felt for months. I began to keep track of them for the first time, and realized they were close enough to go to the hospital by the midwives' standards, although I wanted to stay home as long as possible. I told Sky I didn't want him to drive to work. We all waited, unsure. After a few hours, however, they all but disappeared. Even after two previous labors, my body seemed confused. Emotionally, it was exhausting to feel like it was happening, only to have it all come to a halt. I didn't know what to think. But I had a doctor's appointment the following day, so I hoped to hear I had at least made some progress since the last one.

My due date: Tuesday morning at 3 am. I woke up. It wasn't unusual- I had dealt with insomnia for weeks, due to heartburn and an intense need to watch breathing/relaxing videos on YouTube, trying to prepare myself for it all. Around 6 am, I felt the same contractions as the day before. I timed them again, and again, they were close. Sky thought he should go to work, and I agreed- no point in missing days for nothing. My mom asked how I was doing and got herself ready just in case. After a little while, I decided I should probably get ready to go, too. I kept telling my mom that I wasn't sure if I should call Sky or not, until a few contractions helped me decide. Around 10:30 that morning, I called him to come home, then called my dad to pick up Millie and Walter. (I also called my midwife and let her know I needed to cancel the day's appointment, because it looked like I was having a baby instead. She laughed and wished me luck.) Once I knew everyone was in motion, I started to get really nervous, afraid that it would be another false alarm. By the time everyone got there, things had slowed a little. I said goodbye to the kids, and tried to figure out what to do. The contractions got farther apart. My mom brought up walking several times before I agreed, so she, Sky, and I took a very slow stroll around the block, and up and down our street a few times. I had to stop for each contraction, and could tell they were picking back up. They would talk about the features of a house we passed and I would chime in once the pain was over, describing the red flower vine overtaking the front of a home. Finally, I got too hot, and we went back indoors. I did some laps around the dining room table, still nervous to go early and trying to avoid an induction if I ended up getting admitted too soon.

{I took a photo before we left for the hospital- I knew it would be my last pregnant picture.}

But the pain slowly grew stronger, and the thought of having a baby in the car did not ease my anxiety, so eventually at around 2pm, I was ready to go. Once I got settled in the car, it felt more like an emergency than a quick jaunt down the road, and I asked Sky to hurry. Thirty seconds later, we hit the road construction on our street, and I nearly lost it for a second. We pulled up to the ER a few minutes later, and my mom helped me out while Sky parked the car. The receptionist asked if I was in labor, and then asked how far along I was- "Today is her due date!" I heard my mom exclaim. They sent for a wheelchair, and after a long elevator ride, in which everyone in the hospital got on and off, stopping at every floor (I'm looking at you, Karmen with a K), they wheeled me onto the L & D ward.

The pictures of newborn babies, the frosted glass doors, and the room signs brought back a floor of memories from Millie and Walter. I let out a sob, overwhelmed that I was back in the same space again. The nurse told me to change into a gown, and I started to worry again that it would all be for nothing. They quickly checked to see how dilated and effaced I was, then told me I was staying, and got me to a delivery room. I remember Sky pointing out the baby bed at some point, and being slightly surprised and in awe of it, even then.

We talked with the nurse a while, met the midwife on call, and I settled in with a birthing ball, rolling my hips, and looking out the big windows that gave a view of our town and beyond, all green and sunny. Sky and my mom took turns rubbing my back, and the nurse checked on us often, stopping to laugh at The Office episode that was playing. The whole room began to fade into the background as the contractions intensified, and I got into the shower to get more pain relief. There was a bench to sit on, and my mom and Sky held the shower head over my belly while continuing to rub my back. I felt so selfish during this time, knowing they had to be tired, but feeling like I needed them too much to ask them to stop. Sky turned on the worship music playlist I had made a couple weeks prior, and I tried to breathe through each contraction as I listened to the familiar songs from church float in the air, trying not to get emotional when I heard "It Is Well". I didn't even know if I would be present enough to hear any music, but I was so thankful that I could focus on it, and have the constant reminder that God was there with me.

After changing positions in the shower, I made my way back to the ball for just a while, until it was time to get onto the bed. With Millie, I had pictocin and an epidural, and a horrible experience with them. With Walter, I didn't have any medication, and while it was very intense, it was a better decision for me. This time, the only option I wanted them to offer me was the nitrous oxide gas, based on what I had read and what I thought was best for myself. Someone brought it up, and I said yes. They told me how to breathe, but the mask felt a little suffocating, so I did the best I could, trying to find the energy to raise it up to my face as the next wave hit. The midwife had tried to talk to me about breaking my water, but I did not know how I could handle more pain, or less breaks between it. Finally, my mom pulled her aside, worried that I was getting too exhausted. My mom explained to me that it was my choice, but she didn't want me to become to tired to push, and I agreed. After all, it had been over 16 hours since my first contraction at this point- a far cry from the short labor I had hoped for/expected, since Walter was only 5.

  

Once my water was broken, things happened quickly like the midwife promised. She told me there was a little meconium, so the NICU team would be called in just to be on the safe side. I pushed for about an hour and a half, feeling completely drained of energy, very hot, and nervous. Towards the very end, they made me turn onto one side, then another, and then gave me oxygen and fluids. I started to worry about the baby, and started to get nervous about the possibility of a c-section, because it was threatened with Millie. The midwife told me to curl my body around the baby, tuck my chin in, and push, and though I had stopped being able to respond much to anyone hours ago, I heard her voice in the distance and gave it everything I had. 

Once you've had a baby before, you know the signs. I felt as if nothing was happening until that moment when there is a spark that sets the whole room on fire. Suddenly, I heard the midwife say to page NICU. With Sky on one side of the bed and my mom on the other, I heard their encouragement heighten, and everyone's voices got higher. The quiet nurse began to speak up, too.The lamp on the baby bed, which looked miles away, got switched on as the nurses poured into the room. I felt a huge gush and heard a cry. He was here.

  

I don't remember the order of what happened after that. I know the placed him right on my chest, and his crying was a relief. I remember seeing Sky wiping tears from his eyes, and giving me a kiss. I remember my mom holding him for the first time. And when the nurse asked what we bet he weighed, none of us guessed the 9 lbs he was. We all laughed at the size of his footprints, and marveled that when they placed him on his belly on the warmer, he lifted up his head like he had forgotten to be a newborn first. He was born at 12:34 am on August 14- just 34 minutes past his due date. If I hadn't been so stubborn about breaking my water, he likely would have been there right on time.

By the time we got to our postpartum room, it was 4:30 am, and I had been awake for over 24 hours. Sky and my mom were completely exhausted, and while he drove her home and brought our bags up from the car, I held our new son, marveling that it was all over and he was finally in my arms. All of the last year- the surprise of those two pink lines on the test, the papers from the emergency room with "threatened miscarriage" typed on them, the night I thought I was losing him, and all the aches, pains, sleepless nights from the heartburn, and crying desperate tears from the severe nausea- it was all gone. 

I've conquered one of my biggest, deepest fears- three times. When Sky told me he was proud of me, my heart could not have been more full. It's not the length of the labor, the medication used or how big the babies were (although I am certainly not above claiming the extra credit if I get any)...it's that I did it. My body did it. By God's grace, they are all here, all healthy, all wonderful, and I am their mama.

~

Tonight, I was looking at your eyes as you dreamily stared at mine. It's amazing that we share a story together, and that I remember some of it before you, but you'll continue it long after I am gone. You'll never know who I was before we met. But I hope that, someday, I will be able to look down from Heaven and watch your life in full, because my heart will still be with you, loving you. You see, Harry, it's you, Millie, and Walter that make me a mama, and along with your dad, are the people I most adore.

I love you, my darling boy. I am so glad you were made for us, and that God put together those cheeks, the softness of your hair, and your inquisitive, searching eyes just for your dad and I, just so we could be the ones to start you on your journey in this world.

I'm so happy that you're home. 

Gathering

“It is familiarity with life that makes time speed quickly. 

When every day is a step in the unknown, as for children, 

the days are long with gathering of experience . . .” 

― George Gissing

We're deep in warm days of the daylight hours outside in the summertime: backyard picnics, catching bugs in a jar, long swingset conversations. There is excitement over the brightly colored butterflies that land nearby or the tiniest baby bunnies that have taken up residence near the flowers, munching on white clover. The whole outdoors is a treasure hunt in blades of grass and sidewalk cracks, where rocks or leaves become valuables to share.

They are the days of sounding out big words at bedtime, spreading out joke books to tell fifty and understand five, and staying up a little too late to read the story that is too good to put down. One of them will pull Little House in the Big Woods from the shelf and ask me to read at lunchtime. They ask what a phrase means or giggle at a funny chapter.

They play travel bingo in the backseat, shouting when they see a bus or the sign they're hunting for. They ask for quarters to spend on the prizes in the machines at the grocery store. They delight in talking to everyone, about everything, and find topics of conversation easily, like a scraped knee, a favorite animal, or a rainy day.

There are so many questions; some are about how things work, and some, about everything bigger and beyond, like God, or why bad things happen, or what heaven will be like. And the answers come from my heart or from Google, except for the ones where I have to admit, "I don't know, either."

Monkey and Mousey are constant companions, snuggling under their arms every single night, rolled onto or tossed under blankets in the thick darkness, and sometimes get brought along for things like a doctor appointment that is just a little bit scary. They are worn from years of hugs and secrets, real like the Velveteen Rabbit.

Santa Claus still brings presents every Christmas, simple things like an ice cream cone illicit squeals of joy, and spending an afternoon with PaPa is a great delight. A letter in the mail with their name may as well be made of gold. Small arguments over a toy are monumental, and disappointments sink deep. Everything now is large and forever, until it isn't.

My name is still Mama and Mommy, and they don't know that it melts my heart when they say it, or that I'm clinging to it in anticipation of the time it will suddenly turn into just "Mom". My neck is still hugged, my hand still held, my words still needed and believed. His name is Daddy, and his knack for magic tricks, silly jokes, and simple instruction, as well as the uniform he sometimes wears, gives him an almost mythological status. He can fix anything, and usually does, and he is heroic in his every day habits. They tinker in the garage when he does, just to be near him and imitate his every move. He makes everything more fun.

Days are long, but not long enough. Mornings come early, sometimes with the sunrise, because there is much to do, much to talk about, and usually a rush to breakfast or to crawl into mama's bed for a hug. Nights swoop in too quickly, and bedtime foils many plans.

There are moments when I have felt overwhelmed by what is to come, when this baby boy is born and the clock starts all over for us. There will be much joy and much hard work, but woven through it all will be this beautiful season of gathering- moments, experiences, time, and treasures. And Millie and Walter will teach him, becoming their own kind of heroes to his small world.

And for a just little while longer, I will answer to Mama, gathering every sound of it in my heart to hold and pull to my chest in wonder and gratefulness, so many years from now. 

Hope of a Harvest

 

"Love.

Because of you, in gardens of blossoming

Flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.

I have forgotten your face, I no longer

Remember your hands; how did your lips

Feel on mine? [...]

I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;

I have forgotten your eyes.

Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to

My vague memory of you. [...]

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to

Glimpse you in every window."

— Pablo Neruda

The crop sprayer, looking like a overgrown bug ready to devour little cars, moved slowly down the street, and we dutifully took note as Illinoisans should. John Deere green seems to sprout up everywhere this time of year. Without a thought, I remarked to anyone listening how noble it is to be a farmer. How hard working they are, with dirt under their nails, calloused hands, beat up bib overalls, and a hat advertising some insecticide brand. How they never really know, from year to year, what the end result will be. Their entire profession is based on faith and hope. If heavy rains or sudden drought destroy half their fields, then that corn or those soybeans they expected to glean is lost. Other years, they may have an abundant harvest, with shimmering golds thrown high into the combine and poured into tall, lonely silos. Millie said, "It must be sad to be a farmer." "No," I told her, "Some years are good and some are not, but they have one of the most important jobs." I listed off a dozen ways we all benefit from their work, and both kids chimed in with more examples. We saw a rusty tractor bumping through some acreage after that, and watched in quiet reverence.

A few days before, I glanced out at the endless miles of farmland flickering past our car. We were on the way home from an afternoon out and a McDonald's dinner. At the shop, a lady smiled and told me she loved my lipstick, a light berry shade to contrast with the black I'm always drawn to wear. For the briefest moment, I wondered if I should tell her. Should I describe the four hours it took me to move from my bed to the closet, the overwhelming feeling of picking out a shirt, or the fact that I halfheartedly reached for the closest lip pencil and mascara, and prayed no one I knew would see me? The last few weeks have taken all of my strength, and the fragments that are left are not worth much. I pulled out my debit card, thanked her, and silently resolved to compliment people more often, because it might be the only anchor that holds them to a good moment that day.

I spent this afternoon readying our balcony for all the newness that spring ushers in; moving the potted hens and chickens to our little table, pinching off the crumbing brown leaves to make room for bight green buds. I added a bit of soil to them, showered them in cool water, and peered closely at them as if they would grow before my eyes. There are trees bursting into bloom everywhere in town, the breeze carrying their sugary scents through the air. The daffodils have appeared already, and the grass is looking lush- so many signs that spring is here. We're confident enough, even here in the Midwest, to put up our snow boots and wool coats, trade them in for trenches and rain jackets, and walk the fine line between scarves and sandals. It's a back and forth dance every day, but everything is thawing, getting brighter, and becoming alive.

This spring is different for me. I hold my breath wait for the smallest green dots of cornstalks to appear in rows in the tilled brown-black earth, because I know they'll still be there when he gets home, and they'll be taller than all of us. He and I have a few fond memories of those fields from what seems like ages ago, zooming through old country roads in the little red car he bought when he came home from Afghanistan, both of us intoxicated with the new life we had together, still young enough to feel careless and have a million stories to tell without repeating anything. (If you had told us we'd be introduced to a little girl named Millie a year from those rides, we'd never have believed you.)

The three of us here at home are getting weary. The days have been getting longer, the nights peppered with wake-ups and melt-downs, and easy tasks feel monumental at times. The depression that follows me through life, sometimes walking several paces behind, has caught up now and nearly matches me step for step at times. Millie and Walter ask more questions, about dates and plans and all things unanswerable. Millie cries because he'll likely miss her birthday, and writes him somber letters. We've spent some evenings, long past bedtime, sitting side by side on the floor in my room, backs against the wall. I've stroked her curls as she tells me her heart, and I try to make her believe what I can't. Walter recently carried around a picture of our family most of a day, sitting with me and studying it for a while before asking, "Can Daddy see me looking at him?" The teddy bear he plays every night has some background noise from the store we recorded it in, and he once wondered aloud if his daddy actually sounded like that, or if he sounds like we do. Memories are getting hazy, time is stretching, twisting, and turning, and we are tired.

But spring is insistent. The sun warms our bodies and sweeps us along through the calendar's pages. Soon, there will be swim lessons, popsicles, sidewalk chalk, sweat, and sweet tea. Walter's blonde hair will look even blonder against his skinny tan body, and a few more pretty freckles will be sprinkled over Millie's nose and cheeks. The hope that we have forgotten will climb over our hearts in tall, winding, overgrown vines, until we can't see anything else. Maybe this will have all been a bad dream in the end. We will sprint through vivid daylight, through the firefly laden evenings, through the perfect sunsets over nearly-ripe fields and the deep, damp nights with cicadas calling. We'll run and leave the heartache, the time lost, and the trials in the dust, and wait breathlessly until an airplane touches the tarmac amid blinking lights and tears. We'll wait until he rounds the corner and the fuzzy memories become crystal clear, tangible, kissable, and so sweet. We'll load welcome home signs and heavy green bags into the trunk.

And on the way home, at least one of us is bound to remark, "Isn't the corn so tall now? It's already nearly time for the harvest."

A Little Sad, But Mostly Okay

 “I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between seconds– 

but I think of you always in those intervals.” 

― Salvador Plascencia, The People of Paper 

Sometimes, when it's been a particularity rough day, I try to picture it, to imagine the whole crazy scene- a weary husband comes home from a day at the office or the factory. He dutifully, slowly tells his wife that he has to move to another country for a year. His boss told him to, and there is little time to prepare now. Anything his boss wants, his boss gets.

But it's okay, right? That's his job, and he signed up for it, and so did she for that matter. There is no need to get upset. Just be proud, set your jaw, and embrace the suck. Cue the canned laughter.

My feelings since Sky left haven't really calmed down. I'm still a bit heartbroken and angry. I often feel, though, like I'm expected to be a little sad, but mostly okay. And sometimes that feels unbelievably strange to me. There are times when I am a little sad but mostly okay; after all, when you have kids, there is no luxury for all of your emotion, no time to comprehend it all until they're in bed. But also? I have had days where I've cried through every moment they weren't awake. Where I've had to run to the bathroom to let it out for a moment before pulling myself together to make a box of macaroni or load them into the car for Sonic the third time in one week.

When you marry someone, it isn't because you can't handle life on your own. Most of us do what we need to do to get by as adults, and most of us have lived alone for at least a small part of our lives. You marry them because you love that person. Because you want to spend time with them. And then the military calls one day to tell you that you can't. And you're supposed to be okay. A little sad, but mostly okay. I occasionally wonder how often people think of what it would feel like to have their spouse leave and get a new mailing address. Of course, I can't imagine the many other scenarios that people have had to face in their own lives, either. So many battles we'll never know.

War is incredibly abstract. From a distance, the military is what politicians praise (while secretly slashing their benefits) and people cheer for or blame. It's something we are used to seeing on the news, flashes of uniforms and armored vehicles and bombs. None of it can feel very real, though, because if that face they showed on the screen happened to be someone's husband, brother, son, or father, it would hurt too much to fathom.

The problem is, they do belong to someone, to many someones. I do my best to keep the TV off, but Walter saw a magazine cover with a soldier on it at the grocery store today. He exclaimed excitedly, "Mama, it's like Daddy! It's an Army guy!" I nodded, distracted by unloading gallons of milk in the checkout lane. "Why does he have a gun?" he asked. I stared at his sweet face. They know so little about it all, and thank goodness. To them, Daddy is a hero, probably someone a little larger than life, and someone we spend a lot of time missing.

We feel his absence every single day.

In the morning, he's not there. There isn't a morning kiss, a lazy Saturday with orange rolls to be shared, or a reason to brew a full pot of coffee. There isn't someone else getting them ready for church or running down the road to the next town over for doughnuts as a treat.

At dinner, he's already been asleep for hours there. No sound of the door opening, the cheers because he's home, or someone to compliment me on my (lately barley existent) cooking a full meal. No one else helps Walter with his bath, or does stories with funny voices, or oohs and ahhs over something Millie did in school that day.

At night, it hits all of us the hardest. There are whispered, broken confessions. "I miss Daddy." They each press a paw on their teddy bears that play a little message he recorded, and we stay silent in the dark to listen to his muffled voice say he misses us and he'll see us soon. When I crawl into bed, a day's worth of exhaustion or grief or anger overwhelms my body, running through me. Then I hear the familiar ding on my phone because it's early morning there, and he's saying he loves me before he heads off to PT.

And I think about him, and what it must be like there. A landscape totally unfamiliar. The droning on and on at meetings. The coming home at night to what home is temporarily. The same uniform day after maddening day. The time apart from two small souls who think the world of him.

We're still fine here. The kids still have three meals daily, still have a ball spending time at grandpa's house, and we always manage to get through the day and begin a new one over and over. Sometimes, we have fun, exciting times, or at least afternoons that can distract us. But I can't pretend it feels normal to have a fourth of our family thousands of miles away for a year. (Thank God it doesn't.) The part about deployment getting easier as it goes doesn't exactly feel true in the least, however. We have the days it hurts less and the days it hurts just as much as the time we said goodbye. Maybe it's the expectations, or maybe it's realizing how pathetic I sound, but I'm embarrassed to feel this much, this often. I'm painfully aware that I should be over it by now.

So when they asked me how I am doing, I pause and then give whatever answer I think is supposed to be appropriate. To this blog, I write infinitely too much. To Sky, I probably say more than I should. To my parents, I tell the truth. To my close friends, I say it's hard. And to everyone else, I say something about hanging in there.

A little sad, but mostly okay.

The Moon

"And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, 

They danced by the light of the moon." 
— Edward Lear

It was the last flight. I was on my way home from spending seventy two hours with Sky before he would board a plane for a different hemisphere. The trip was somewhat of a surprise, something that we were aware of at our last goodbye, but doubtful to actually happen. We filled those seventy two hours with lots of good food, a couple trips to the movies, zooming around that Texas town in our rental Corolla, shopping and laughing and trying to forget. He looked so handsome in his new uniform, and it felt like a rare and holy privilege to see my husband, to hold his hand. We didn't do anything monumental- there is no dramatic Romeo and Juliet story to tell. But we went to bed and woke up next to each other a few more times. We talked more about the deployment, though we had no more information than we did before. And we were mostly able to push the inevitable away until the drive to the airport. Then we said goodbye again, knowing it was the last time we'd lay eyes on each other until this deployment ends.

The plane took off late, and it was dusk by the time we reached altitude. Dallas looked like a breathtaking, deep navy gown, with a hundred thousand sequins of silver, of gold, of unnatural oranges and shiny blues. I never cared much for Texas, but every city is a different kind of lady at night, and all of them beautiful, even as the lights blurred with the tears I held back. I watched as they scattered, growing farther and farther apart, until the ground was enveloped in darkness. I sighed and looked around me, the dim cabin bulbs giving glimpses of the passengers nearby.

A middle aged man on the other side of the aisle was grading math tests and reading through papers, while the man sitting beside me watched a movie, using headphones to dull the sound of the roaring engine of our plane. Two white-haired men in front of me, one with some sort of heavy accent, were talking loudly, having intellectual conversations full of complexities, when one of them turned his head to the window and let out a soft "ahh". "It's quite a sight," he said of the full moon, glowing brightly as we seemed to follow it through the sky. The other man, still itching for something scientific to say, replied that it is a psychological affect, an optical illusion- that when the moon is near the horizon, we have something to compare it to, like the skyline, and it is so large, it feels like it could collide with the earth. But high above, it is alone, and therefore looks smaller. I smiled to myself a little at the poetry of what he had said. It seemed like a beautiful metaphor for something, but I was too tried to think of what it was, and my thoughts were occupied with other things.

Only a few hours before, I was in Sky's arms, and now, I was alone again. It was a different sort of goodbye in a different town. Soldiers were everywhere we went- the military had infiltrated every part of it decades ago. The post itself was a little like another world. A world with rules, with flag poles and helicopters, with customs and traditions, with pride, and with so many farewells.

And ours was one of them. Wives and girlfriends hugged the ones they came to see, and went through security with red eyes, all of us saying similar things to the men who were leaving, most crying openly like I did. One small child cried "daddy!" as they were separated in the TSA line. A woman nearby remarked how awful it was. I had nothing to say. Sky was already gone, and I couldn't pretend for another second that he would be coming home soon. 

It's hard to reconcile being by his side just a short time ago, when I'm back into my regular life here, and he's back into his there. He's in his uniform again, with the new boots he bought to replace to ones he wore as he walked through Afghanistan's sandy valleys. I am home with Millie and Walter, falling into the same routine as always, and staying up until the early hours of the morning because it hurts too much to go to sleep. I still think about the deployment every minute of every day. I think about Christmas a lot. And I think about how many days we have, how many cycles of this waking up and going to bed I will have to do, how insurmountable it feels to spend so long without our normal life.

I don't know how we can do this year. I don't want to do it, and he doesn't either. And I wish there was a way to be together tonight. But the only way I've ever found to get through the most difficult times is simply to do so because there is no other choice; it frightens me and comforts me at the same time. The necessity of the things that have to be done, the kids that need me, the house that needs cleaned- there is no running away, no alternative. Emerson said, "Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could." That, I think, is how we will get by in these days to come.

The emotions, worries, and tears were overwhelming last night. I closed my eyes, and I thought about Sky, and I thought about new sandy places his new boots will tread upon. And then I thought about the moon, and poetry, and metaphors. I thought about how maybe it was a picture for how small I feel, and how large and looming this pain can be. But maybe, I thought (or more accurately, hoped), this deployment looks so enormous next to the landscape of my life, and the quiet daily bits that make it up. If I can hold it up to the night, though, and tell myself that the sun will come back again, maybe it will shrink to a size I can carry. Maybe someday, there will be a gentle glow around what was once harsh and sharp.

And maybe, when he and I next stand with our fingers entwined, watching Millie and Walter and talking of these days in the past tense, the moon will be just the right size again, and beautiful, and the world will be right again, too.

The Blue

"Joy has been a habit.

Now

Suddenly

This rain."

— Jack Gilbert

The four of us were stretched out on plastic lawn chairs at the swimming pool. The sun was warming our bodies and drying our swimsuits. Sky had one hand resting on my arm. The rest of them were facing the opposite direction, while I stared into the baby pool, sobbing silently behind my oversized sunglasses. And when my aunt texted me later in the evening and told me I'm strong, it felt difficult to believe it. Honestly, who cries at the pool?

We were planning the night before he told me. Sitting in bed, with my planner opened to August, we were discussing a date for Millie's birthday party, and hoping for a mini vacation to St. Louis before we began the school year. What I thought would be a quiet, perhaps even dull summer has instead been quite busy, and there was still so much we wanted to do.

The next evening, the night before Walter's birthday, he walked in the door with a strange look on his face. "I need to talk to you about something. Don't say no yet." I looked at him. "No," I joked, nervously. He told me there was an opportunity to deploy, and the air immediately left the room. We discussed the few little details he had, and he said they wanted to know the very next day. I cried about four times that night, and we talked for hours, discussing the pros and cons. In the morning, over breakfast, we talked a bit more, and he announced that he would tell the unit no.

But the information began to change hour by hour, as things often do when it comes to the military. The dates that sounded far away began inching closer and closer. What sounded like a possibility quickly became a certainty. What first sounded voluntary was clearly mandatory. And so we sat at the kitchen table, singing happy birthday to our little boy, with a stunned hush afterward because we'll have to tell them soon.

I look at the two of them and instantly feel tears welling up. They don't even know what is being asked of them, and once they do, they won't understand why. How could they when I can't? It will be the longest separation from Sky that they've had in their lives, by far. And when he was gone just for the month of June, it was hard. They missed him, they cried, and there was only so much I can do to soothe it. People always remark how great it is now compared to years ago, when there was no internet or Skype or even phone calls, when letters could take weeks to arrive. But all of those things (if they even are available) are such small comforts, especially to a little girl and little boy who can't hug their daddy for months at a time.

We don't even technically know the day he leaves or where he'll be yet (and I won't be able to discuss it here on the blog even when we do), but we do know that it most likely won't be in a dangerous place, and I can find some peace in that. I still vividly remember the feelings I had when my brother and Sky were deployed. I woke every morning terrified of what I might hear on the news that day, worried sick that someone would call me and give me bad news. That fear, and that crushing worry of missing people who could be hurt or killed by some awful enemy, turned me into someone who was always on the edge of furious. For that year they were gone, I had a much shorter fuse. I would be irritated at anyone who dare breathe a word about the war, or soldiers, or politics at all. When I would go out with friends and a man might approach me, I would seethe that he could think to do so while people's lives were in danger. I learned that when I get that sad- truly, deeply, maddeningly sad- it turns to rage.

This time, without the threat of a war zone, I am still angry at how quickly this all happened, and without any warning. But mostly, I am grieving already. I'm grieving the summer that was stolen from us, grieving the holidays and birthdays and special times that will be missed. I'm grieving the loss of date nights, of inside jokes missed, of holding hands, of parenting talks and decisions, of late trips out for ice cream or slushies, of laughing over something ridiculous before we sigh and kiss goodnight. I'm aching at knowing, quite soon, we will have to curl up with Millie and Walter on the couch, and explain to them that he'll be away for a very long time. (Yes, I'm technically telling you before I've told them, because it's easier to find the words here.) I am finding myself panicked and desperate to do all the fun, quality family time things that we can find to do before he goes, as if giving them a tiny bank of silly memories will help somehow. And maybe it will. But it doesn't feel like anything will help right now. It's just hard knowing that I can't 'protect' them from Sky's absence. I can't shorten the days he'll be gone, not by a single hour.

I planned to type out words about this deployment with facts, with timelines and maps and assurances that the four of us will be fine. And deep down in my heart, I know we will. But I just can't pretend that this is normal. Even though he enlisted all those years ago. Even though we've been apart so many times. Even though it's part of his job as a solider in the Army. Even though many military families have done this half a dozen times over. I know all that. I just can't resign myself to feeling that it's okay my husband won't be here. My mind can search for reasons and almost find them, but my heart cannot.

When Sky and my brother were overseas, I still lived my life. I went to work every day, shopped for groceries, went to garage sales with my dad, and called my mom. I woke up thinking about the boys, though, and went to bed every night the same way. And throughout it all, there was a somber haze over that year. There was plenty of good, plenty of growth, and some distractions, but always, that filmy shade of blue that tinted all I did and everywhere I went. I know that Millie, Walter, and I will be fine. I know we'll have good times, and even great ones. I know I'm capable, and that I have a great family to support me.

But I also know the blue will be there, quiet and insistent, weaving in and out of our days until he's home.

Yellow Fireflies & Green Corn

"those moments, so

many and so long ago, still come back, but briefly, like fireflies

in the perfumed heat of summer night." 

— Mark Strand

June is supposed to be a month when time slows. We sit on long front porches with glasses of sweet tea, talking a little more slowly, our posture a little more relaxed, with less to do and less to think. That's how it should be, in my mind. But instead, June has been a series of busy moments, of loud, brief thunderstorms, blinding sunlight, and humid nights beginning to glow with the gentle luminescence of fireflies looking wistfully at the stars.

So much has happened since I last wrote- none of it very important but to our little family. Still, there are milestones, memories, birthdays, and long stretches of time apart that compel me to stretch out on my bed and type for a while.

First, we recently wrapped up our beginning year of homeschooling, and more importantly, Millie's kindergarten year. It's strange to think that she was a newborn in my arms nearly six years ago, that those years have gone by like days, and that she will begin first grade in the fall. We spent a lot of time on reading, of course, and there is nothing that compares to witnessing that process. I watched her bloom into reading sentences after sounding out three letter words over and over again. Perhaps most amazing was seeing her handwriting that I've helped form, leaning with her over the lines and the curves until she's confident enough, after a few misspellings, to write "I love you Mommy" on a construction paper card, with magazine scraps cut out and glued to it. She also attended a homeschooling co-op, and it was wonderful to make friends who are learning the same way.

Walter, who still feels like my baby, will be three this month. The last two days, I've sold a dresser and rocking chair to make space in his room for a twin bed. They were both pieces- probably the only ones left- that we used when each baby came home from the hospital. I had a little cry after they were gone. Sky and I haven't completely shut the door to the notion of having one more child, but it's slowly creaking to a close and days like today remind me of that. I was never one to imagine my children, or to dream about how many I would have someday. But when I quickly learned just how fast they grow, my heart doesn't want to forget what it's like with a newborn on my chest, soft and warm and impossibly perfect. Thank goodness Walter still loves to snuggle with me.

{photos by Kristin of k darling photography}

Sky has been away all month, completing more training for his Army career. It's always interesting to see how the time apart will be, because every time he leaves means leaving kids of different ages than what they were the time before. I never exactly know what to expect, and this time was no exception. Millie, Walter, and I were really down when he first left. It's kind of a helpless, lost feeling. Thankfully, we planned swim lessons for Millie during two of the weeks he'd be gone, and that has helped us stay busy and entertained. She finished them up today, triumphant and elated that she can swim underwater now. Walter and I splashed in the baby pool, I got a slight tan and then a less-than-slight sunburn, and we were happy and thankful for the fresh air, albeit in 90 degrees.

The biggest differences with this time away are the quiet nights and subdued moments of the day, when I pause for a breath and remember my husband isn't here. So many times, earlier in our marriage, I would wonder if the only thing keeping us together was the forced time away from each other. But in the early morning hours after he drove to the airport, the tears rolled down my cheeks, and all I could do was whisper, "Thank you, God." I know that my heart needs his, and that is a gift and a miracle. The three of us here are so proud of him, and we're ready for him to come home.

The photos here were shot by someone who has not only been taking pictures for our family since Walter was in my belly, but by someone who has become a friend, too. She's been on much of the journey with us, and though we have had lots of beautiful pictures of the kids as they've grown, I couldn't help but stare at the one of our whole family that she took a couple days before Sky had to go. I love where we are now, and the hope of where we'll be. How blessed we are to be together.

So perhaps June hasn't been lazy and calm the way it is in stories. For us, it's been a time of growth, of beating sun and the smell of chlorine, of long distance phone calls and 'goodnight's from far away, and a time with two little people who seem to be a bit bigger and older every second. It's bittersweet, and it is filled with the broken and beautiful moments that string one day onto the next. The cornfields are so green and climbing high, and if the corn is good, it must be a good summer in Illinois.

The Sewing Machine

 "I know you're tired but come, this is the way." 

— Rumi

In December, my mama was here for a visit. One night, long after Millie and Walter were tucked into their beds, we brewed some tea and dug out my sewing machine. It was bought years ago and was primarily used for collecting dust. She made adjustments here and there, explained the mechanics, and promised to help me learn. And in my deep desire to make and to do and to be motherly, the idea thrilled me.

I have many memories of lingering near her sewing machine as she measured, cut, and stitched. I can still hear the sound from her room across the hall, even though she's on the other side of the country now. There was a red satin dress with pearl buttons and puffed sleeves that she made me for Christmas, a little doll with a flowered gown and bonnet, the green jumper I wore on St. Patrick's day, the pastel for Easter, and a few dozen more. That machine was always humming away.

The next morning, with the kids crowding around the table to play with scraps and measuring tapes, Mom showed me how to make a quick pillowcase. The technique made an easy idea even easier, and in just a few minutes, Millie was clutching her pink and purple flowered flannel, while Walter made joyful exclamations over his cotton train print. After Mom left, I set the sewing machine on the end of the kitchen table, determined to make a pillowcase on my own. That was nearly two months ago, and I haven't sewn a single stitch.

It used to be the same with reading, especially when I had to juggle schoolwork as well. While I've gotten better at working through books these days, it's still not at the pace I did at 10 or 20 years old. My days are so different now. I don't remember them being anything other than filled to the brim.

I'm tired. Most nights, my eyes are sore from it. I got a small taste of it in pregnancy. I expected the tiredness then, and the sleepless nights that would follow, but imagined life leveling off after the first year or so. During the second pregnancy, it hit even harder. Here I am with two little ones, and despite being able to sleep though the night (baring sickness or storms), the energy I used to have hasn't returned. I find myself daydreaming about a meal train and help with laundry for moms of children under 18- never mind new mothers. I still have to look up the recipe for lasagna, even though it barely needs one and I've made it one hundred times. I'm too tired for much memory.

It begins before I open my eyes and find pieces of light breaking through the blinds. I hear little voices talking, or singing, or calling for mama. I stumble through breakfast with decaf coffee, get them dressed and sometimes dress myself, and the day has started. It's full of school to teach, places to go, appointments and lunches and laundry and nap times that seem to flutter by too quickly.

I'm so sleepy that I can't make a pillowcase. Maybe tomorrow, I tell myself, when I have less to do, less to clean, an easier supper to cook or less errands to run. Their bedtimes stories leave little energy for some of my own. As the night grows dark and the baths are done, my plans change from reading a few chapters from one of the books in my towering stack, to flipping through a mindless magazine instead, to giving up completely and hoping Downton Abbey isn't a rerun. Mostly, I just wonder how my own parents managed, and how they had any energy left to unfold the newspaper after dinnertime.

And yet, there is an irony. People talk a lot about their truth, or a great touchstone in their lives, and this is mine; I find such sweet rest in those two little people who have the loveliest faces I've ever seen. In those hugs, the kind that wrap all the way around my neck as if they're holding on so not to be swept away in a wild current. In the sleepy sweat of their hair in the dark, when I check on them one more time and whisper things for them to hear in their dreams. In holding their small, soft hands as we cross the street on a walk. In watching as they sit side by side on the couch, turning pages in a book and exchanging outlandish thoughts in a way only a five year old and two year old could do.

I give them this part of me, this very strength I have to go through the day, because they somehow give it back tenfold in the smallest moments. We dance through this give and take, through the exhaustion and the exhilaration, because it is all we know and all we could ever hope for in life. And though the sewing machine may have to wait for a few more days, and then a few more after that, I know when the house is still, we have done what we could do that day. The rest that comes in this is more than enough.