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. 

Our Maternity Photographs

{Photography by kDarling Photography}

 “In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. 

You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.” 

― Rumi

Two weeks earlier, I was running my hands over dresses at Goodwill. A soft dress seems like the most comfortable thing to wear these days. I pulled out a minty blue-green that was $5.99, and took it home with me that day.

Not long after, I was talking with our friend and family photographer, Kristin. I say friend, not because she is who we call when I get the itch for updated family pictures, as I'm always desperate to capture the stage that Millie and Walter are in before it disappears forever. She's truly become a friend, because after ten photo sessions- beginning, funnily enough, with maternity pictures when I was pregnant with Walter- there's such an openness and comfortableness with her. She knows us so well, and always finds a way to show Millie and Walter exactly how they look through my own eyes. She also uses light in the most beautiful, indescribable way, and now that she shoots with film (a talent all its own), there seems to be this intangible magic there even more than before.

So earlier this month, I pulled the mint dress from the closet, gathered what I could find for Sky and the kids, and met her at a park down the street. The sun was at the perfect point as it began to set, the air was calm, and the glow and haze around us felt so appropriate.

When I saw the first photo come back from Kristin, I looked at Sky, and said, "Look at us. Look how happy we are." Because despite the physical and emotional toll this pregnancy has taken, we are so very, very happy- deeply n love with each other, with this new baby boy that we'll meet in mere weeks, and with the shape our family is taking. I could not imagine a more beautiful life, and now it's captured on film for us forever.

Thank you, Kristin. It means the world.

 

 

A Sudden Gift

{photo by kDarling Photography}

“Sometimes love is a surprise, an instant of recognition, 

a sudden gift at a sudden moment that makes everything different from then on.” 

― Deb Caletti

Someday, you'll have a birth story. Someday, your dad and I will tell you about that day, and the funny things that happened, and the way we loved you as soon as they held you up and we met for the first time. And how, not long after that, it will be hard to remember when you weren't here with us, and I won't remember calling Millie and Walter without calling for you, too, and watch you pitter-patter into the room. It will seem like we've always been a family of five. It will seem like you've always been covered in our kisses.

But for now, I am still so surprised by you, little one. I'll tell you how.

~

I only found out because, after feeling sick for a couple weeks, I started getting a sharp pain on my side. I immediately diagnosed myself with appendicitis after a quick Google search, and resigned myself to emergency surgery. My mom told me to see a doctor, but I explained to her how many times I'd (possibly) had acute appendicitis before, and miraculously survived. Then circumstances shifted, and suddenly, I wondered if it was an undetected pregnancy going terribly wrong. I texted Sky but otherwise said nothing (since my appendix had just recovered moments before). As I passed Walter in the hallway that morning, he wrapped his arms around me in a big hug, then casually asked, "Are you pregnant?" I'd never heard him say "pregnant" before, and had no idea why he would bring it up like that. Stunned, I said no. And a few hours later, I bought a test at the drugstore and took it home. I was only ruling it out, so I could go back to my original worries that WebMD provided.

Two pink lines showed up, immediately and clear as day. I sat on the bathroom floor and stared, in disbelief and, simultaneously, terrified. I gasped and started crying. Before I could think of a sweet way to tell Sky, I video-called him at his desk in the middle of the workday, and sobbed the announcement. His eyes widened and he smiled, but I was a wreck. It was a lot to take in at once, to both be surprised by a pregnancy, and only knowing about it because I suspected something was not okay. I called the OB nurses, who deciphered my story through shallow breaths, and instructed me to go to the emergency room. Sky met us there.

After a quick rundown and a change into the patient gown, they took me to the dim ultrasound room. The man calmly announced that I was 9 weeks, 6 days pregnant. My mind reeled, because I knew with Millie and Walter as early as anyone could know, even before a positive test. Choking on the words and staring at the dark ceiling, I felt tears streaming down my face as I asked, "Is...it okay?" Yes, he assured me quietly. Everything was fine. The baby was right where it was supposed to be.

Sky and I kept the secret for a while. We had to get used to it ourselves (although he insists he really knew). But a few weeks later, just a couple days after we told the kids, I had a different, much more real scare that made me sure I would wake up without a baby. I called my mom and asked her to pray. I held tight to Sky that night and wondered what the next day would be like. I wondered if I would lose a child without anyone knowing it existed. I never had to think about that before. It was if my body and I were on opposite sides, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was the most helpless feeling I have ever felt in this world.

The next morning, the doctor had me come in. I tensed up as they searched for the heartbeat; they found it. I looked at Sky, too overcome to say anything. Then another ultrasound. I worried about the kids being there if something wasn't right. I gripped Sky's hand as they moved the wand over my stomach, remembering how we'd done the same thing twice before, but without any fear. There was the head, the arms, the legs. There was the heart again, beating visibly on the screen. The tech laughed as she tried to take the right pictures and measurements, because the baby was incredibly active, doing somersaults and tricks. Maybe God knew we needed that.

I realized that, while it is such a personal choice, I didn't want to keep it a secret anymore. If something did happen, I needed to be able to mourn and have people mourn with me. But we had good news to go on, so we had to have faith that everything would be fine. The next day, nervous as I was, we made it public. Through all the congratulations, I hoped I wouldn't have to share heartbreaking news later on.

Since then, all my checkups have been completely fine. and my belly is getting decidedly rounder. I've been a lot sicker this time than I ever was with the other two, and I'm still figuring out how to cope with that well. Sky has been the sweetest husband ever, and friends have brought meals over. Our house isn't as tidy, and life has had to slow down, but we are learning to navigate it. Millie and Walter talk about it all 50 times a day.

All this, and somehow, it hasn't felt real yet. We bought a stroller, discussed names late into the night, and talk about what the future will look like, but I still don't really believe it.

~

It's been a bumpy roller coaster ride, sweet one. So you can understand how I was surprised, and continue to be. Yet just this week, I have begun to feel your smallest of kicks, reassuring me that you are not only there, but that you are healthy and strong. You have my attention.

In a few days, we will find out if you're a boy or a girl. And late this summer, in the full heat of August, we'll all be introduced. Maybe you'll have blonde hair like Walter, or auburn like Millie. Maybe you'll be the spitting image of your dad, or favor my side more.

With all the uncertainty, I am sure of this one thing; you are a gift. And you will be so very, very loved.

Home Sweet Home

"Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? 

For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back." 

— C.S. Lewis

It's still nearly a daily occurrence here- at some point, Sky and I will look at each other with slight awe, and say, "We have a house."

Neither of us thought we would, or at least as soon. "Soon" is a funny word to use after we've spent our whole relationship in rentals, but it still seemed so far off. We had tired of our apartment several years earlier- the neighbor below who made us miserable and unable to feel comfortable letting our guard down in our own space, let alone having people over. The backyard that was a story below us and was shared by the other tenants, as well as the buildings beside us, and offered no privacy. Yet the apartment was mostly big enough, and in a good area, so we kept to the status quo.

But the old farmer couple who owned our building sold it to a big, impersonal company in town, who promptly raised the rent. That, coupled with our itch for our own, tiny piece on this earth gave us the motivation to at least look. We thought we'd save up for a year or more. We thought we'd look for a year or more. We ended up looking for only a couple months, and though there were a few houses we had nearly purchased, I can't say that I loved or necessarily even liked most of them. We were settling, and I knew it, but we could make it work and be grateful.

And then, we saw this house. Our house. The gorgeous wooden floors. The pretty staircase. The backyard with the swingset that seemed destined for Millie and Walter. The attic that could finally store all of Sky's military gear. The thought of parking our cars in an actual garage. The thought of living in peace, without noise from other people or worrying about disrupting them. After we had seen it all, I sat down on their couch and announced that I wanted this home. So did Sky. I cried every time I thought about moving, stunned that we could be so blessed, and I cried again as I watched my children finally have a place to play outside. It is definitely more expensive than our apartment, and comes with a different kind of stress as new, first time homeowners. There are sacrifices to be made. But though the process was harder than I thought it would be, it was so full of God's grace that I know we are meant to be here. The moment we got the keys, on my birthday no less, we drove straight over and did something we could never do in our apartment- we turned on music, and we had a dance party, the kids and I jumping up and down, spinning in circles until we were all dizzy and out of breath.

We walked around to the neighbor lady's house yesterday, the deep, green ivy creeping close to the edge of the sidewalk. She already calls hello to Millie and Walter. It's the kind of neighborhood my heart has always loved most- big, shady trees planted decades ago, houses that were built during big wars or near them, a different look to each. Some have window boxes, currently filled with small pumpkins and mums. Some have grand, wrought-iron gates, and others have idyllic white picket fences. There are tiny bungalows, cottages that look as if they belong in England, and even some large painted ladies with intricate details framing wide porches. American flags wave slowly at dusk, when the charm of it all glows its very brightest. There are cozy side streets with globed lights, and when you squint a little, you can almost picture the old cars that would have lined them years before. All of it makes me swoon.

Our home was built in the early 1940s. I love to picture it, smelling of new paint, and think about what it would have been like to be the first housewife here. Did she sit on the back steps and wave to her kids playing in the yard, her laundry swaying on the clothesline? Did she plant flowers here? Were her thoughts always on the war, and did she have someone she loved in harm's way? Did she sit at a desk at night, writing him letters by the fireplace? Was there a new baby nine months after his return? This is why I love old houses; there are stories here, some possibly grand, or just as ordinary as my own. They're woven into these walls, into this Midwestern soil, and the history of this town. We are a part of that history now, and though it's likely nothing that most people would ever notice, the deed to this land bears our names now, and we'll carry it though the decades to the next owners, who hopefully cherish what came before them, too.

It doesn't quite feel like my home yet. I think it's because I'm still in disbelief that it could be mine. We have waited so very long for this.

There are a hundred quotes I've read telling me that home isn't a place. It's a feeling, or it's who you're with, etc. It's everything but a sweet little house with a long driveway for riding bikes, a yard for finding butterflies, and bedrooms nestled close together. I'm sure all those writers meant well.

Tonight, though, I have to disagree with them. Home is right here, at last.

A Boy in Khaki, a Girl in Lace

The same old sweethearts, the same old place

A boy in khaki, a girl in lace

He bends to kiss her, she lifts her face

The boy in khaki, the girl in lace

Tenderly he sighs, "I will come back to you"

"Oh my darling, please do," she replied

And so we leave them in fond embrace

The boy in khaki, the girl in lace

{Performed by Dinah Shore here and Bing Crosby here, and written by Charles Newman & Allie Wrubel}

In the first few sweltering days of August, we flew a little airplane around the wide, green park at golden hour, the sun splintering into bright shards around our bodies. I watched Walter run with the plane as Sky and Millie tossed a disc back and forth. Everything was covered in warmth and wonder. There was a lush view before me to soak up and savor; I had not seen it for so long. Just a year before, Sky and I had stood at that park, watching the kids run far up the tall, green hill with little friends, explaining to their mom what was in store for us. We mused about timeline and scenarios, and being a veteran's wife, she understood that there is no knowing, only guessing. Only hope, mixed with fear. I remember how surreal it felt to hear the words coming from my mouth before I had the chance to let them sink into my mind. Yet, the panic growing in my stomach assured me they were absolutely real, backed by the weight only the Army can summon.

Standing on the other side of the deployment is like leaning towards the edge of the cliff. There is no way to know exactly how far down, what will bruise or break in the fall, or what is at the bottom. Not long ago, I dreamt that he was really only on leave all this time, and he thought everyone knew, but we didn't. And I was hysterical when he started packing up again. Strange how the fear still lingers. Like labor pains- the ones that everyone told me I'd forget, but I remember clear as day- that heartache is one forever stamped into the morning of our goodbye, and never fading. But there is dancing after mourning.

Surrounded by the feverish, wet heat of a late July night, he came back home. Up until just a few hours before, the dates and times would change, and then change again, exciting us and crushing us over and over. When the morning finally arrived, there was a text-the plane he was supposed to be boarding in mere minutes had mechanical issues. I sat with the phone in my hand, staring at it blankly, never hating air travel more than at that moment. I had taken the kids to the park, too nervous to stay at home and just wait, even though waiting was all I could do. I asked seventy questions. I begged my mom to pray. My phone was silent, tension mounting every second. 

And then, he got a new plane. Ten months of pent up tears found their way to the surface, and I curled up on the park bench, shoulders heaving, bawling like the day he left, because I was going to finally see my husband. Suddenly, impossibly, he was on his way home to Illinois.

{homecoming photos graciously taken by Ryann Kesler Photography}

I was shaking when I put on my white lace dress that evening, trying to breathe deep breaths while I applied waterproof mascara. It had been pointless trying to look presentable the morning he left, and I found it almost as impossible this time as well. I checked that the kids looked put together from outfits laid out in neat rows, grabbed our welcome home signs, and told them that we were heading to the airport for some "practice pictures". They dutifully climbed into the car, excited for a late night trip more than the prospect of sitting still for photos. I looked in the rear-view mirror and wanted to say something, but didn't. My eyes clouded with tears that I tried to hold back. Those sweet babies.

The photographer met me with a handshake and smile, and she snapped a few posed shots, playing along with the notion that this was all a rehearsal. We beamed and held our signs, and I adjusted Walter's suspenders eighteen times. All the while, I thought of how they were missing him just as they were every day of the deployment, while I buzzed around with nervous energy. My phone interrupted the sound of the camera's lens clicking-he texted that he had landed. Another text soon followed- he was there, inside. My heart fluttered as if I was on a first date, instantly feeling unprepared but oh, so ready. I took a breath. As I glimpsed those well worn boots at the top of the stairs, I quickly pointed towards them, and told Millie and Walter, "Pretend like Daddy's coming home right now." They turned.

A heartbeat or two in time. They each shifted to look once or twice before they realized they were looking at their father's face, a face they'd only see on a computer screen for nearly a year, a face they hadn't been able to touch, pixelated and flat. Was it really happening? My heart swelled.

And then, all joy broke loose. He was home.

They had their arms around his neck as he scooped them both up. Everything we had said and done, all the steps we had taken, all the places we'd gone- the whole year stopped in that moment, and began something new yet reassuring, long-awaited and dreamt of, and it was all so beautiful. It was whole again. The heartache instantly soothed. The weightless flurry of pure happiness.

He was sick- he had been since leaving his base several days before- and I could tell he looked more pale than normal, and a little thin. But we held each other so tightly, and I remembered the strength of his arms and the smell of his neck. His uniform and shrieks from the kids attracted attention from the other passengers, and I could hear applause, but it felt far off in the distance. All I could see was the man I loved and missed so intensely. Coming home from a deployment that didn't seem real, this night didn't seem real either. The relief was palpable. It's done.

Millie and Walter had no patience for a luggage carousel's pace, but they cheered when the green duffel bags appeared. Walter tried to carry one on his own, though it was twice his size. Anything to leave sooner and show their daddy the welcome home banner and balloons in the apartment.

We buckled them into their seats and pushed his bags into the trunk. The car doors slammed shut, and I looked at him in the brief silence. He was smiling. That airport has broken my heart more than once, but then, it was the most romantic place I could imagine. And in the night air that smelled faintly of jet fuel, Illinois cornfields, and summertime, he kissed me. We were going home, under the same glow of stars and moon at the same time. He slipped his hand into mine on the drive back, fitting just as perfectly as always.

His boots came off by the door. He wouldn't need them for a while.

Welcome home, Sky. It's nice to have you back again.