Confusion

 It's been a hot minute.  For year, blogging, getting my thoughts out there and writing it all down, was so healing.  I used this website as a therapy surrogate.  Never found talking out loud to a stranger helpful but loved the release of writing it all down.  But over the year, it became redundant.  How many times can one person walk the same sad journey?  What new did I have to type out about my newest miscarriage.  I felt like I had said it all, so I let the words dry up and wondered if I might ever revisit this blog or if it had become irrelevant, lost in the daily grief of repeated loss.

And for a stretch of time, things improved.  Never exactly as I had planned, but in what I considered God's timing.  We continued to experience years of loss before my eventual hysterectomy in 2021.  Andrew finally decided to come on board with the idea of adoption right before that. I give him a hard time about the years I spent waiting for him to come around, but ultimate it lead us to miss Hope.  She is the picture perfect vision of joy - for the first 1.5 years we said she was the ultimate completion for our family.  A part of me always longed for that 5th child we had always planned on, but I also knew I could never enter the adoption world again.  We experienced 1.5 years of heartache and waiting - a mixture of not being chosen (and feeling inadequate/not enough with each rejection) as well as failed adoption attempts - being chosen and not being able to bring those babies home.  We eventually matched with Hope, a long term pregnancy and open adoption with a couple we fell in love with long before we met them.

Enter Hope - the spunky, sassy, amazing 2-year-old we are incredibly blessed to raise.  She is a perfect fit for our family - stands up for herself with her 2 older brothers, dances alongside her big sissy, and keeps us all on our toes.  She is completely full of joy and smart as a whip.  Anyone who knows her loves her.  And, though I always wondered about other kids, our family was complete.

Back in Feb, we sat behind a family at church.  At a new church, where we were finally finding our place.  And this family had older bio kids and a baby who was racially diverse.  This is the first time I had ever seen a family that looked like ours.  So of course, it was distraction.  No clue what that sermon was about.  We made small talk with the family afterwards, offered them use of any of our baby items we had outgrown, and moved along.  Andrew asked me on the way home if I had baby fever and I laughed.  "I would have to get a call telling me there was a baby for me before I would consider it" I said.  Not because I didn't want another baby, but because I couldn't handle the heartbreak of waiting and rejection again.  Literally the next day I got a call that Hope's bio parents were expecting again and wanted us to adopt again.  It seemed like the perfect opportunity.  We took some weeks to pray about it, to wait for them to go through counseling and sign paperwork.  But honestly, from the second I heard about it, before I knew gender, I loved that little baby.  I would have moved heaven and earth to help mama parent if that had been her desire, but I felt like we were finally getting our complete family.  I never doubted their decision for a single second.

I walked that pregnancy alongside bio mom - giving her words of support, financial support, emotional support, etc.  I love mama just as much as her kiddos and thought it was just the most beautiful picture of God's design for adoption that there could be.  "Hit the birth mom lottery" I say because I just adore her so very much.  When I got notice her water broke, I was nothing but encouraging.  When the nurse called as said our baby boy was here, I couldn't wait to get to the hospital.  Contrary to with Hope, this time I walked into that hospital room comfortable.  I kissed mama and gave her a big hug, held baby boy, helped her with postpartum recovery, interacted confidently with the nurses, etc.  And then, our world flipped.  And somehow, despite everything I knew, we were told we would not be taking this baby boy home.  That mama had changed her mind.  The initial confusion was overwhelming.  Knowing he wasn't going into a safe environment, knowing too much about his home/personal life this time was crushing.  We were told DCF would be stepping in and taking him, but then hurricanes and bogged down systems meant no check  ins were ever done.  And I'm left wondering.

Why in the world would God put this baby in our lives??  Why, when we already had a relationship with bio mom, would we not be just asked to be support people?  Why would He cruelly use this family to open our hearts to adoption just to shut us out later? Why would we walk the road of unbearable loss yet again, especially when we weren't even looking to adopt??  I have no answers a month later, only more questions.  This God I once served is cruel and awful and spiteful.

Birthday

Today is my birthday.  I am 35.  Half way to 70.  My kids still think that I am 27 - though Dean is catching on.  Yesterday he said "now you'll be 28" and I realized he's getting too smart for this charade.  I claimed 27 as my last birthday back in 2011, never realizing at that time that by the time I turned 28 I would become a mom of loss.  My birthday has been extra hard during the last several years.  In 2017, desperately missing Lucas and Noah, having lived away from Andrew, Dean and Warren for a week at the holidays to avoid sickness during the most dangerous part of pregnancy, I started my birthday morning with a miscarriage.  The following year we expected to be holding our twins right around my birthday (though I was due the first week of January).  I remember thinking last year that at least it couldn't get any worse.  At least I couldn't add to the pain.  But oh, was I wrong.

When we found out we were pregnant, we were shocked.  Completely shocked.  We'd been told for over 10 years that it would never happen without IVF, but God proved he was bigger.  And when I put in the calculations and it spit out my birthday as a due date - what a gift!  Though we knew this child would be taken at 37 weeks with my history, it just seemed extra special to be due on my birthday, of all the days of the year.  And yet, here we are.  Barren and broken again.  Heading into a colonoscopy tomorrow so spending the day prepping and grieving.  Literally the crappiest birthday in the world.  The grief of losing Gabe has hit me so hard this year.  The lost miracle.  Some days it's just this dull ache, some days I can't catch my breath or stand under the weight of it all.  And after all these years, after all these losses, time after time, I feel immensely alone.  It's just too much for people to take on, I'm too much.  The thing with grief is that it doesn't just go away.  Every time I see an older girl take Hannah's had and I see the way she looks up at her with awe, my heart longs for Reagan.  Every time I see a rambunctious 2-year-old destroying this and getting into mischief, I long for Lucas and Noah.  Seeing a pregnant woman or a newborn breaks me to the core, because that is where I should be.  And I can't understand or fathom why it keeps happening to me.  Especially this last time with our miracle pregnancy that should have never happened in the first place, I just want to scream WHY???  Why would this happen just to crush me again.  I was already barely standing.  Today should have been a celebration, a joyous day for our sweet Gabriel.  Oh, how I miss you sweet boy.

Happy 7th Birthday Reagan

Seven years ago, in a still and quiet room, we welcomed our sweet Reagan into the world.  S.E.V.E.N.  It feels like an eternity and yet a moment - funny how that happens.  I remember every moment of that day like it was yesterday.  The way it felt to be walking down the L&D hallway long before time.  How scared I was once contractions begin.  No where in any of my maternity books did it prepare me for this moment.  I remember Andrew reading and praying over me, I remember how he held me close once those contractions picked up - hour after hour.  I remember the way our day nurse cried alongside us, the strength it took for her to care for us that day.  And again with our night nurse as labor continued late into the night.  I remember the quiet steadfastness of our doctor, who sat there with us, who showed the grace of God in his demeanor and care and tenderness toward the situation.  I remember not having a clue about any of it was going to go, how to breathe or push, how to face any of it but not having the strength to ask for direction or guidance.  And I remember the overwhelming guilt that I had missed something along the way, that something I had done or not done had caused this, wondering if I might ever be okay again, never knowing all we would face again in the future.

But then, you were born.  And in an instant, I was your mom.  I had been your mom from the beginning, but there was something about seeing you for the first time, something about getting to hold you, that flipped a switch for me.  I felt this love unlike anything I had ever felt before.  I had known you for every second you were here, had cared and sacrificed for you all along the way.  And I loved you so intently, with an almost innocence about it.  I'm not sure that will ever make sense to someone who hasn't experienced the death of a child at birth.  And I am so thankful that our doctor encouraged us to soak up those moments.  We had about 5 hours with you.  Five hours to make a lifetime of memories.  Five hours before we had to say goodbye.  Those hours brought us so much joy, and I am forever grateful for those memories.  For getting to study your face and see your already long eyelashes, your big pouty lips, your little turned-up nose.

I wonder now how different our lives would have been had you lived.  How our lives would have changed - Hannah loves playing with the big girls.  She's in awe of them at church and dance, watching and learning from them.  I imagine you in these cute matching holiday sister sets and it breaks my heart each time.  We miss you in our lives constantly, miss the role you have as our firstborn and oldest child. 

But, though there is grief in today, though my heart feels like it's breaking as I relieve all these moments, today is mostly about celebrating that sweet and precious time we had together.  For being thankful we had any time at all, for cherishing those few moments.  It reminds us that life is short and can't be taken for granted, that we are only guaranteed this moment and to make the most of it.  So, we celebrate you, year after year.  With cake and cards, with a therapeutic morning spent building a new garden space for you, with a meal together as a family, with sharing this intimate day together as a family and taking a timeout from all the work (homework, housework, and work-work) to just be still and rest.  And then, of course, because you chose to make an appearance on Halloween, we have an evening of gathering large amounts of candy that we never actually eat and we will throw out around Easter when our candy stash is replenished. 

It's not what I would have ever chosen as a start to motherhood.  And I would give anything to have you back in our daily lives.  But you, my daughter, have made a profound impact on our lives, and I certainly wouldn't be the woman or mother I am today without you.  I love you so much and miss you desperately.  Happy SEVENTH birthday my sweet Reagan!

XOXO,

Mommy

Happy 7th birthday cake

Cherishing the moments

Gabe

With each of our losses, there has been some unknown component.  Either we were too early for testing, we denied testing, or everything tested normal.  There have been lots of guesses as to what is happening, but nothing concrete.  And for me, that's given me extensive amounts of guilt.  Maybe I did too much.  Maybe I ate the wrong thing.  Maybe I lifted the kids too often.  Maybe I didn't rest enough.  Maybe I simply WASN'T enough.  Ten years worth of guilt and questions, never with an answer.  For our sweet little miracle, I needed that answer.  And since, for once, my body didn't recognize what had already happened, we were able to get a few answers.

First, we were having a boy.  Of course I already knew this, I wasn't nearly sick enough for this little one to be a girl.  I was still functional (barely) so I told Andrew the week prior in 100% confidence that this baby was a boy.  Glad to know my mama instincts are spot on with at least this little detail.  Since our last transfer, we've talked extensively about our girl and boy names.  We've had a top for each gender, a plan.  Of course, in my mind, it was a twin set that I was naming.   But in reality, that didn't happen, and we will never get to call out or sweet boy's name in our home.  But it felt wrong to save the name for a potential future adoption.  I would never be able use the name again, knowing full well that had this child lived, it would have been his.  And so, we have given this child, this little boy, the name Gabriel Preston Savant, aka "Gabe".

But we also learned that Gabe would have been a very sick little boy.  He had trisomy 13.  I had never heard of trisomy 13 (we've heard of 21, 18, even 16, but never 13).  And this is because, babies with this diagnosis don't survive.  They don't live.  Had Gabe been born, he would have been in significant physical pain.  He would have spent his little lifetime either having multiple procedures or withdrawing treatment to allow the inevitable to take place.  And that would have broken me for sure.  I already know there is little worse than having your child in pain, that watching helplessly as they fight.  We lived through that for 3 months with Dean and Warren - but there was a different goal in sight for them.  For Gabe, no matter how the pregnancy turned out, we would have said goodbye to him in his first year of life.

But today, today he is whole.  Today he is healed.  Today he is complete.  That doesn't take away the pain I have.  That doesn't take away the questions of why he would have that in the first place, of why we were chosen for this.  But I can rest in knowing that one day I WILL know him without the pain between us.   And that helps a tiny bit.

Happy 2nd Birthday Lucas!

Two years and 1 day ago, our world crumbled.  I fell asleep to a kicking baby and woke knowing something was wrong.  And on June 9, a sweet nurse at the hospital sobbed alongside us as she gave us the news.  Our baby boy was gone.  We just struggle to get through June 9 each year.  But on June 10, we can celebrate.  Today, my sweet Lucas turns TWO!

Lucas was born in the wee hours of the early morning.  Unlike Hannah, Dean, and Warren, there was no team of doctors there.  No NICU staff standing by.  No big lights and excited voices.  With Lucas, all was still and silent.  A single doctor, a single nurse, and his mommy and daddy.  There were tears all around.  But, there was also joy.  That's such a hard thing to explain, but I so much loved the little time we had with him.  I love that I got the opportunity to know him a little bit, to study his little face - his cleft chin and pudgy cheeks and unibrow.  I love that I was able to read him a story, to sing him a lullaby, to hold him.  I have about 8 hours of memories with my sweet Lucas to last me a lifetime.

Happy 2nd birthday Lucas!  This year we are in the mountains for your birthday.  I'm sitting out on the balcony while Dean and Warren fight inside.  Daddy and Hannah are looking at pictures of us all together.  It's like any other day, except it isn't.  Because today is YOUR birthday!  We had big plans for today - a hike in the morning, a picnic in our favorite park, cupcakes and cards for your birthday party.  But the weather isn't cooperating with us and it's cold and wet today.  Which means, a dinosaur museum (which at 2, you probably wouldn't have enjoyed.  But by 5 you would love)  Don't worry - we are still planning on those cupcakes!  Mommy even made them gluten free so I can enjoy too!  But mostly, today is a day when we get to think about you a little more, get to talk about you more freely, get to remind your brothers and sister that not every day is about them.  I have missed you so very much over these past 2 years.  So much.  As Dean says, I so wish you were able to come live with us.  But ultimately, I know you are cared for and safe and loved now.  And so I'm resting in that on this dreary mountain day.  Knowing you are celebrating yourself with Reagan and Noah, with your 12 brothers and sisters in heaven.  What a party!  But don't grow up too fast, k??  Save something for Mommy to teach you. I love you fiercely my boy, always and forever.

The Dark Day

Six years ago, I walked into work fairly carefree.  I had just had an OB appointment where they had listened to Reagan's heartbeat and told me she was fine.  I worked an 8-hour shift treating patients, climbing all over things, bending/squatting/lifting/teaching, doing what I loved with patients I cared for.  I had never experienced mommy intuition before, so I kept telling myself I was overreacting.  That the nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach was nothing.  I guess I wasn't quite convinced because I made a doctor's appointment, but I wouldn't leave work for it and I wouldn't have Andrew come with me.

What happened next I remember like it was yesterday.  I remember sitting in the office waiting, rubbing my large belly lovingly, telling myself she was just tired and sleeping.  I remember the doctor asking me why I had lost so much weight and scolding me for being concerned about appearances while pregnant - I guess a lot of thin women might get judged like that, but I was kinda pissed at him for the comments he was saying.  And I remember thinking this idiot, judgmental doctor doesn't know how to use a doppler, because he seemed to really be struggling with that.

But then I saw his face.  I saw the alarm in his eyes.  Those eyes still sometimes haunt me.  He reached out and touched my arm and said, let's get a quick ultrasound.  Except, they kicked out the woman who was in the ultrasound room to get me in.  And spoke in hushed voices.  And the doctor stayed in there with me, which had certainly never happened before.  I remember the exact moment I broke.  No words needed to be said, no one needed to explain.  I saw Reagan's still chest.  No flutter in there, no thumb sucking, no waving, no smiling.  My little girl, always so active before, was quiet.  The moments after that were a blur - calling my office to get Andrew's office number because he wasn't picking up and smart phones were newish, and I didn't have one.  Telling Andrew the horrific news over the phone.  Sobbing in the floor of the ultrasound room until Andrew got there.  I'm fairly sure they helped me out to the car, though I somehow managed to drive to the specialist office, where I met a doctor who would change our lives, but at the time I just sat there as he tried to explain what was happening.

Oct 30 is my 1st dark day.  There have been others since, but it was the first time my world was rocked.  I still sometimes have nightmares about the day.  And, every year, it my sad day for Reagan.  A day where I extend myself a little grace and allow myself to wallow.  Because tomorrow, well, tomorrow is her birthday.  A cause for celebration!  Tomorrow, we do happy things for Reagan, remember those precious moments we had together, teach our kids about Jesus and heaven and remind them that Reagan is happy and complete now.  Tomorrow is beautiful.  Today may be ugly and dark and hard, but I have tomorrow to look forward to.  And, at the very least, I can be so very grateful that, for both Reagan and Lucas, that their birthdays and death days were different, that I can have a day of sadness and a day of celebrating.  Because no matter how short their lives, they always deserve being celebrated.

Longing

I feel as though I am at an impasse.  Most families get to make a decision when they are done having children.  They have 2 or 3 or 4 (or 5) and say "I think we're done."  And I've always heard, "you'll know when you're done."  But here's the thing, I don't know.  In fact, I feel quite the opposite.  I have 2 more little babies out there, babies we have already prayed for and named and love, as crazy as that sounds.  My days are completely full, I am stressed to the max, I have more laundry than I can keep up with, more toys than storage space, and an endless amount of junk that I trip over.  Our home is messy.  I forget to meal plan and we scrounge for dinner, calling nachos and hot dogs a meal, and throwing in a few baby carrots for good measure.  It's not a glamorous life we lead by any stretch.

But, through it all, is this nagging feeling that our family isn't done.  Maybe, because of all we've lost, that feeling will never go away.  When Lucas died, we had 8 more freezer babies waiting for us.  And we'd never lost a pregnancy early, so I just assumed we'd still be facing the decision of when we'd have to stop because we didn't have a vehicle large enough for the family.  God had different plans.  And oh, that is so incredibly painful.  And I hate it.  And I kinda think his plans suck.  Surely mine were better.  And yet, I have to rest in the truth that His plans are good, even when it feels so so bad.  So bad.

So, where does that leave me?  And how can you support me?  Pray.  Pray that God would open a door, that we would know where to go from here.  With my last surgery cancelled, my odds of conceiving are hovering right around 0%.  And, my odds of loss if we were to defy that first statistic are right there around 75%.  So, it's pretty bleak.  Basically, I cannot carry another child.  The decision to be done has been taken away and put firmly in the hands of an uncaring doctor and crappy insurance plans.  We know God is bigger than all that.  But we also know all too well that God doesn't always work the way we want him to.  That wanting it isn't enough.  So, pray that God would work a miracle.  Or that he would take away the desire for me to carry my own child.  Or that he would bring a surrogate into our lives and work out those details.  Or that he would bring a birth mama into our lives.  Most days, I am too weak to pray for these specifics.  Because, as the months go by and they don't happen, it only seems to deepen the wound.  And that is where my village comes in.  That is where and how you can help us as we continue to walk through the grief and guilt that comes after losing so many little ones.  And the ongoing pain and sting of infertility.

Grief

I've heard a lot about grief over the past 6 years.  I've walked through it every day.  Some days I can live in the moment and enjoy my children and genuinely smile.  Some days, I do a pretty good job of faking it.  But there are other times when it is still crushing, when it's overwhelming, when I don't know where to turn.

It's been nearly 2 months since I last sat for a few minutes to process through and blog, since Lucas' first birthday.  In that time, we had a wonderful family vacation and the twins 5th birthday.  F.I.V.E.  It's kinda a big deal.  And yet, I let the moment pass.  The pictures are still on my camera, unedited.  The sappy blog post is buried somewhere in my mind, but I haven't found the strength to write it yet.  Every moment in my life is tainted with the despair of missing my children.  It's not fair.

Much of this blog has also been about my faith.  About learning to trust God in the journey into motherhood, then the loss, then the horrors of my pregnancy, and then rejoicing.  But the ugly truth of it all is that now, well, now I am too broken to believe anything I have written before.  The walls are too high, the grief too intense.  I don't doubt God's existence.  I know He is there, that He created me, that He sent Jesus.  I believe in heaven, I trust that my children are there.  But I don't really know what I feel about God's character anymore.  I don't trust that He has planned good for me.  It sometimes seems like He is kicking me while I am down.  I'm not sure how to reconcile with that- the truth of my life,  what we have endured,  the pain and heartache that goes with losing so many children - with the God of love I hear so much about.

And here's the other things I've learned.  Grief is lonely.  You walk this road alone.  I carry the burden, the guilt, all on me.  I can't look at another pregnant woman without catching my breath, even complete strangers.  Walking past someone with a baby does the same, and I find myself trying to find a way to hide.  It's not that I'm angry with them, most of the time I don't even know these women, it's just that I'm so sad for me.  But I'm past the point where it's okay to be sad, past the point where people understand that it's still hard, and so I just have to stand there, expressionless, pretending all is okay.  But it's not okay.  And I'm not sure it ever will be again.

Happy FIRST Birthday!

Happy 1st birthday my sweet little Lucas!  It is hard to believe a year has already come and gone.  That one year ago I welcomed you into my arms, snuggled you tight, and said goodbye.  That is has now been 1 year since I last saw you.  Oh, how I miss you so very much.  More than I could ever put into words.  But you are still so very much a part of our family.  We remember you all the time - every holiday, ever special moment, every time there is another little boy that would be about your age.  And we wish that we were able to know life with you, to watch you grow over this past year - see those first smiles, comfort you when you cried, watch you figure out sitting and crawling and walking.  It would have been such an incredible year.

But instead, you are celebrating BIG TIME up in heaven.  You have so many little brothers and sisters there to have a party with.  And I'm sure Reagan is showing you the best things to do on a first birthday.  And Jesus is there too, that must make for an extra special birthday.  I cannot wait until we can celebrate with you one day.  Until then, we do the best that we can.

This morning, daddy made a special breakfast, just for your special day!  He cooked eggs, bacon, and breakfast potatoes.  Then omelets and toast because, well, Savant boys love to eat!  We made smoothies to drink from Dean's new cookbook.  And then we worked outside in your garden - we fixed your flowers, pulled out the weeds, pruned everything so it didn't get overgrown, and put out some new mulch.  Then we had a little pool party.  You're big brothers are learning how to do cannon balls, you wouldn't have been far behind them!  Hannah still doesn't like to jump, but she will soon.  She follows whatever her brothers are doing, loves to copy them.  I imagine you would have, too. 

After lunch your brothers made you the sweetest cards.  They wrote every letter themselves.  Dean drew a snake and a goose and a lion with trees and a rainbow.  Warren drew you an amazing sunset and a rainbow cake with lots of candles.  They finished up while I took Hannah to her dance recital.  When we got home, we made homemade pizza and cooked it on the grill.  Then we enjoyed your birthday cake and sent you up some balloons with messages from each of us.  I think you would have enjoyed the special day we created for you, and I hope you were able to look down and see how much we love you. 

I miss you so much Lucas.  So very much.  Sometimes it still catches me off guard, takes my breath away, even a year later.  I'm sorry we couldn't keep you here with us.  Always know that you are loved, you were wanted, and that you are so special to us.  All my love, always and forever sweet boy.

Mommy

Anticipation

The anticipation of the first birthday in heaven is always the hardest part.  With Reagan, we had the distraction of tiny baby boys who were still learning how to eat and life was about measuring their volume intake and making sure they hit their minimums, and trying to get them to sleep for a few minutes at a time before the pumping/nursing/bottle feeding schedule resumed.  But I still remember breaking down almost constantly in that week leading up to her birthday, not knowing what to expect, unsure if I would make it through the day.  Her actual birthday was a really sweet time, a chance to celebrate her life and remember our time together.  Maybe it helps that she was born on the day after we learned she had passed away?

This year is much the same, only it's been followed by grief upon grief.  Only this year, I have learned I will never have that rainbow baby, never carry another child.  It's been 1 month since we officially learned that our last babies were gone.  There are too many "should have beens" to even keep up with anymore.  And I find myself feeling panicked about the weekend, about our sweet Lucas' first birthday.  Because he was the last baby of mine I will get to hold.  And so, in addition to grieving everything we are missing with him, in addition to trying to help his birthday feel like a special time just for him (while juggling dance recitals and whining 4-year-olds - because when you're baby #5, that's what you get), I am also still grieving the loss of 8 other babies and the reality that we are done.  Even my body is reminding me of the failure.

I miss my Lucas so much.  These reminders, pictures of him at his last ultrasound healthy, remembering that one year ago, we were happy and completely unaware.  That one year ago was the last time I would every feel him kick.  I am still a bit in shock by it all, even a year later.  I know I have given everything I have to these babies, given them the best that I had to offer.  It's just so hard knowing that it wasn't enough, that I wasn't enough.  Though I know there isn't anything I could have done differently, I live with that guilt every day. 

If we had known something was going wrong, if we had known about the cord, we could be celebrating our sweet boy's first birthday today - on the last day he was healthy.  I keep thinking that I somehow missed a warning sign, that I should have known.  I'm the mommy, that was my job.  But I didn't know until he was gone, didn't have a clue.  And so, this weekend, we will celebrate our sweet boy.  We will make him cards and bake him a cake.  We will look through our pictures and have a special day to remember what it was like to hold him for those few hours. 

The Hardest One Yet

Mother's Day.  It started with the world's biggest hug from Dean, as he called out Happy Mother's Day and ran toward me, jumping into my arms.  Oh my sweet, big boy.  He was quickly followed by Warren, who informed me that gluten free pancakes were coming my way.  These boys are obsessed with baking me gluten free goodies.  And so, I was sent back to my room to wait on the breakfast.  In toddles Hannah, with her hair all a mess, her soft curls bouncing every which way as she climbed up into my bed and arms.  "Happy Mudder's Nay" she says.  Sweet girl, and my heart melts a bit.  It was as promised, gluten free pancakes (of which I get about 3 bites before little hands reach in and grab the rest).  Served alongside some sweet handmade cards.  Dean's was my favorite this year, as he chose to draw our family.  Cue the tears.  There in a line are the 5 of us, plus Lucas, Reagan, and Noah.  No one ever has to remind Dean to include those 3, he does it automatically.  They are as much a part of our family to him as those siblings he gets to fight with every day.  I LOVE that, the sweet innocence of it all.  Often Jesus is in our family pictures too, since that is who is taking care of the others.  He probably would sit and draw all 11 if he knew about those babies too.  And, here's the thing, I waited so many years for these moments, for the chance to have handmade cards filled with the things the kids love.  I wouldn't change that, our morning family time.  It was exactly what I needed.

But as the day has gone on, it's all getting to me.  The physical pain of this miscarriage is worse than I expected.  And way later than the others.  And it just feels like a slap in the face to be facing it today of all days.  And it makes me angry.  And immeasurably sad.  Last Mother's Day I was pregnant with Lucas, woken by his little kicks.  I remember feeling overwhelmed with it all at brunch as I struggled to picture myself being able to manage a 4th kid when the oldests were only 3.  It seemed impossible.  And now?  Now, I will never know.  I'll never get the chance; it was taken from me.  The finality of it all seems to be pushing me over the edge today.  This deep longing for the children I never got to know.  It's like this whole last year has been a complete waste, full of nothing but pain and grief and agony.  Part of me is still stupidly hopeful for a miracle, part of me is so jaded and bitter with it all that I am overcome with hopelessness.  It's a constant back and forth until the emotional ups and downs get the best of me, and I return once again to numb.  I don't know how to get through this one, how to go forward from here.  It just all hurts too much.  Especially today

Bereaved Mother's Day

The first Sunday in May is the International Bereaved Mother's Day.  A day you just don't really even know about unless you have lived through some sort of trauma related to being a mother.  For us, that trauma just seems to keep piling up.

There have been so many Mother's Days over the years when it has been a struggle to even get out of a bed.  So many years of longing to be a mother and being barren, years of having a day where I wouldn't receive that flower at church, where I had no handmade art or breakfast in bed.  And then, my first "real" Mother's Day, our sweet Reagan was gone and I was hospital bound with the boys, still being told they would not survive.  I'd like to say it got better from there, and to some extent it did, but the scar of those early years in our marriage certainly never left.  But, between last year and now, I have lost 9 babies.  This time last year, I was pregnant with Lucas and had 8 embryo tucked away in the freezer.  Today??  Well, I have nothing.  No babies to hold, no babies growing inside of me, no babies in the freezer, and no hope of ever carrying one again.  The agony of it all is almost unbearable.  I am broken - my spirit and my body.  I have failed again.

There are few things worse than watching the positive pregnancy line fade into nothing as the days go on.  To have those moments of hope and joy come crashing to a halt.  No matter how many times I told myself "don't go there yet," no matter how many times I repeated the statistics to myself, no matter how much I tried not to get invested, well, I was lying to myself.  I jumped right into this again, like a big stupid idiot, thinking that THIS time would be different, that THIS would be our happy ending, the miracle we had been praying for.  I let myself get swept away in it all.  And I don't know where to go from here.  The idea that I wouldn't have more children never even crossed my mind until a few months ago.  After 5/5 successful transfers, I just assumed the others would work too.

So, I end my journey as a new mother.  A little ironic that it falls on this day.  No more maternity clothes, no more baby gear, no more night feedings.  The last child I will ever birth was our sweet Lucas, and I only got a few short hours with him.  I'm not sure how to do this.  How to keep moving forward when there is just so much pain.  How can any person lose so much and ever be normal again?  How could I have carried 11 babies that I will never get to parent?  So today, on Bereaved Mother's Day, I get to be sad.  I get to cry the big ugly tears on the bathroom floor and let everything fall apart around me.  Today is my day.  Today is about the 11 that are gone.  Because next Sunday, well, next Sunday is really about my living kids, about doing something special with them, about celebrating the 3 we have here.  I have to pull myself together and go on.

Babies 13 and 14

Yesterday, we met our final two embryo.  We started this IVF journey six years ago. Six. And so, these babies have existed for us for the last 6 years. It’s really crazy to think about that, how the science of it all works. This time last year Andrew and I were wondering what in the world we were going to do with all of our extra embryo. At that time we still had 8. It was a huge question mark in my future. And felt like it was going to be so much pressure to decide. How could I ever turn my back on any of these little ones?? Yet how could I keep having babies. The last year has been the hardest of my life by far, as we lost 7 in a row. Each child took a little piece of me with them, broke me a little bit more. And here we are, at the point of having no embryo left. Babies 13 and14 are now tuck away inside of me. And we wait. For 12 long days, we wait. And pray. And hope.

Going in to the transfer, I felt surprisingly calm. There was no moment of stress, no anxiety. I’m sure a good dose of Valium helped, but even before that there was peace. A peace I know only comes from above. Even when I have these doubt of God’s goodness towards me, He shows up, holds my hand, and carries me through. It’s a beautiful picture of Him as Father. One I could miss if I wasn’t looking. So, for all those who were praying for me, for us, thank you. 

I also just realized this is National Infertility Awareness Week. I’ve just had a few other things on my mind recently and missed that. A little ironic we end our infertility journey this week, one we really started 8.5 years ago, long before we ever decided on the IVF route or met the team of doctors who would hold our hands through the process. For us, our infertility issues could never be fixed, despite numerous surgeries and medications, despite diet changes and supplements, there was no way for us to conceive on our own. We didn’t have a low chance, we had a no chance. But now, we have 3 healthy, happy, crazy kids who bring so much joy (and frustration) into our home. Though my years of being childless are over, my infertility is not. We are still here in Charlotte doing our transfer, my body is scarred from the daily injections, my emotions are all over the place from the roller coaster of hormones. And we still don’t know if we will get to bring either of these little ones into our home. Infertility is a silent struggle, it permeates so many areas of your life. For years, we lived with this constant longing.  Every time I saw a pregnant woman, every time I saw a diaper commercial, every time I saw kids playing down the street, and every year on Mothers Day, always this ache. I broke the silence 2 years into our walk because I was tired of pretending and tired of being asked when we were going to have kids. And I am so glad I did, because I couldn’t imagine the pain of walking through this alone.

6 months

Today is Easter.  If I were stronger, I'd dig deep and do another Easter post.  Because ultimately, Christ's sacrifice on the cross and his resurrection are the only hope I have.  I know that because God lost His Son, He can relate to my ongoing pain.  I know that this is not the end of my story, that one day there will be a happy ending.  It is only because of what Easter symbolizes that I am surviving, that I am waking each morning and doing what needs to be done and living a life as a functioning human being.  Otherwise, I would be completely broken.  Otherwise, I would live life in utter despair.  Don't get me wrong, I often feel as though I am living in utter despair, but I know the truth.  And, so, I chose to cling to the cross.  Even when it's hard, and even when I'm angry at God, and even when I don't understand, I cling.

But, today marks 6 months since I went into the hospital with Noah.  Six months since we said goodbye to a child I would never know and never hold.  And the first day of the month in which he would have been born.  To add to that pain, today we packed up the last booster seat for the table.  Stacked it right on top of the empty infant seat.  Right next to the box of baby clothes, the brand new rock-n-play, and the never worn maternity clothes.  All things purchased for Lucas, all things we expected to use with Noah, all things that are simply collecting dust.  I now have no kids in diapers and no kids in need of being strapped in for eating.  They're all big enough to choose their clothes, to brush their own teeth, to get their own water, clean up their own mess.  (NOTE: when they choose to...).  This is a moment that most mothers celebrate, the beginning of some extra freedoms.  But for me, it only makes the emptiness more profound.  It only makes the longing stronger.  Holidays always hold a special but difficult place in my heart, as I wonder what Reagan would have looked like, 5-years-old and dressed to match little Hannah; Lucas, nearly 10 months old and matching Warren and Dean.  All these precious moments I will never have.

This week marks the beginning of the end of menopause, and a quick shift and hormonal transition on Friday as we begin estrogen medication.  My heart is so fragile, already broken.  I often feel like I'm just hanging on by a thread.  I know that I will not get through this process without prayer, and I'm out of words.  We're looking at a transfer at the end of this month, our last attempt.  I keep telling myself it probably won't work, but honestly I don't know how I will not completely break if it fails.  If our story ends with the loss of 9 children in a row.  If the last delivery I have, the last baby of mine I hold, is Lucas' still, silent, but beautiful body.   I just can't.  I can already feel the bitterness creeping in alongside the tears as I anticipate what it will feel like to get that negative result.  To learn that my hormones are dropping instead of doubling.  To go in and see the empty chest, yet again.  How many times can I do it??  I know that God can carry me through, I know that he can heal my body and I can have a "normal" pregnancy with a healthy baby - He did it with Hannah.  But it's hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I have been pregnant 7 times with 12 babies and have only made it to full term once.  That I've only had an experience with "normal" once.  That every other time, there has been immense heartache involved, even though Dean and Warren survived, I lost a huge part of who I was during that pregnancy and their NICU stay, living in constant terror.  I may never feel safe again.  But, I know without a shadow of a doubt, that our family is not complete, not yet.  So, we're praying fervently for babies #13 and 14 in this IVF process, that they get to spend a few (or 60) years with me here before we are separated.

All the feels

Today, I start menopause month 2.  It also happens to be Reagan's due date, 5 years later.  And 9 months to the day since Lucas passed away.  So many things should be true that are, in fact, not true.  I should be huge and uncomfortably pregnant with Noah.  I should be ~15 weeks pregnant with the next set of twins, or even just announcing my pregnancy with our most recent transfer.  Instead, I am barren.  Empty.  I have 3 kids whom I love and adore, and yet our family feels woefully incomplete.  And I am already beginning to have panic attacks about the last transfer, because it is the LAST.  I don't ovulate, so I know pregnancy without intervention isn't in our future.  Add to that my "advancing maternal age" and, well, it's a bleak picture.  I'm in need of another surgery before our final transfer and find myself still fighting to get a doctor who is qualified to perform it as we are rapidly approaching the deadline.  All the hurts and emotions and stressors seem to collide today. 

And then, our fish died.  A stupid little fish I have no emotional connect to.  I took him to our preschool "pet shop" this morning and he did just fine.  But on the drive home, his bowl flipped over.  I'm still not quite sure how it happened, I was going about 10 mph.  The kids kept asking if there were old people around (they equate old people with slowness in the car, can't imagine where that came from...) but NO, I was just going slow to keep our fish water from splashing.  Yet, somehow this bowl turned completely on its side and dumped out the water, the rocks, and Tiger2.  I was about 30 seconds from the neighborhood so we raced home, but no luck.  Tiger2 was gone.  Dean sobbed for about 30 minutes over this fish he had ZERO interaction with.  But, it was his Lucas replacement.  It was the one thing he cried about the day after Lucas died, that his fish had died.  It broke the tension for Andrew and I, helped bring a bit of light into that day, but it was Dean's way of connecting with death, his way of grieving for his brother.  We brought home Tiger2 that day, a replacement for Tiger the original who had died right before Lucas.  It seems like such a silly thing, but it's kind of a slap in the face too.  For it to happen on this day in such a weird way.

So, here I am, continuing to grieve Reagan and Lucas (and Tiger2) while riding the emotional highs and lows of menopause and anticipating what I only expect to be failure in the future.  Better days have to be coming, right??

Menopause: Week 1

I think the anticipation of this is the worst.  I am having flashbacks to 6 years ago, when I entered into my first round of menopause.  It's all coming back to me now.  The intense road rage, the way I could actually visualize myself ramming my little car into the back of people who drove even 1 mph under the speed limit, the way my body tensed so much with every little annoyance.  And, here's one big change.  Last time I didn't have kids.  I didn't have little people around me every second of every day, already pushing me and stretching me to my limits.  How am I going to survive that while still allowing them to rest in the fact that their mommy loves them?  What if they hate me by the end of this process?  If they're scared of me?  If I can't seem to control my emotions and take it out on them?

AND...hot flashes in the FL heat??  When it's in the mid 80s in FEBRUARY.  (When there should still be freezing nights and occasional snow...come on FL, get it together).  How does one survive hot flashes every few minutes when it's already sweaty hot weather outside??  Deep breath...  I keep reminding myself that this experience is TEMPORARY.  That I quickly returned to myself after stopping the medication last time, and that will happen again.  That I will be done by April.  That maybe I just hire some help to get through the afternoons, to allow my kids to still have the carefree days in the FL sun.  And that maybe we just avoid large crowds and outdoor activities that do not involve water and a bathing suit for the time being.  Yes, that sounds like a plan.

I think ultimately, my biggest fear is that none of this will matter.  That these months of menopause won't actually change the outcome, that the last 2 babies will share the same fate as the previous 7.  That I will put my family through hell only to wind up in the exact same place.  I have lost the innocence of the last time, the assumption that success would be in our future.  Because I only have 1 shot left.  Babies #13 and 14.  I never thought I'd get to this point, and certainly not in the method we did.  I miss Reagan.  And Lucas.  And Noah.  And I want to go back in time to those moments when I saw them healthy and happy on the ultrasounds, when I felt them kicking.  To those days right before they were born, when I was blissfully unaware of the crushing days ahead.  And to know that Lucas could be our last baby to hold, the last little Savant I birthed, it's crushing.  I feel like our story can't just end there.  But in reality, it definitely could.  We could never see another of our children.  And I could end our IVF journey with 9 straight losses with my living children anxious and afraid of who their mother became during the process.  It's terrifying.

And yet again

Well, it is a new year.  2018 started off rough as I spent New Years Day in bed as my body finally began to recognize the miscarriage we knew was coming for a week.  It was not the way I had hoped to start things, not the answer to our ongoing prayers.  But, "chemical pregnancies" are apparently very common and it was considered no big deal in the whole realm of things.  We were told we could start immediately into another cycle if everything had returned to baseline.  So, a few days later, I returned to the doctor and was cleared to begin a new cycle to transfer 2 more baby Savants.  Three ultrasounds, 7 blood tests, and 2.5 weeks later, we were back in Charlotte.  It seemed a bit surreal, how quickly it all happened.  There were no months of waiting, no months of testing.  And, for the first time since Lucas, no last minute surgeries that needed to happen in the days before the transfer.  It seemed like everything was going really well.  I felt good about it. 

And here I am, just 10 days later, kicking myself for letting my heart hope.  I get this weird scar pain with each pregnancy - intense c-section scar pain that gets worse and worse until I begin to worry that the baby has, perhaps, implanted into my scar.  I think I google that every time too.  Hannah, Lucas, Noah - all had this intense scar pain.  In December, I had it for 1 single day.  I knew, after that, with a fair amount of confidence, that it was over.  But this time?  Well, this time it lasted for 3.5 days.  Good days, where I allowed my mind to go there.  Where we talked about if we could make our house work with twins or if we would definitely need to move before they were born.  And then, came the pain.  And the cramping.  And the complete absence of scar pain.  Overnight, it all changed.  My pregnancy test was still positive yesterday.  But, not today.  Today, no matter how many little sticks I used, there was no second line.  And, just like that, our babies were gone.  Two more baby Savants, gone.  Two more children I will never know, never get to raise, never hold in my arms.

Here's where my heart is struggling now...I have this huge desire and burden to have a large family.  I thought for sure we would have at least 5 kids, maybe 6.  And, as we went through our first rounds of IVF, I thought that's what we were headed for.  So, I find myself confused and hurting and wondering why this dream of mine will not become my reality, why that desire was there in the first place.  The reality of me only raising Dean, Warren, and Hannah is becoming very real.  We have one more chance, one more shot at having children, and then that chapter of our lives is completely over.  My head is still swimming with that thought.  Because, here's the thing.  I would have been completely happy with Warren, Dean and Hannah.  I would have always missed Reagan, but I never thought I needed to add to the chaos of my life.  We may have pursued adoption or fostering or something.  But instead, I had 14 embryo.  FOURTEEN.  And so, we transferred Lucas.  And then Noah.  And then 5 babies we'll never know anything about.  And here I am, facing our very last 2 embryo.  Knowing that they are the "lowest quality" of the embryo we had, that their likelihood of survival is incredibly low.  Hannah, my spunky 2-year-old, may be the last baby in our home.  This box of maternity clothes that arrived the weekend of Lucas's death may never be taken out of the box I've hidden in my closet.  The mountain of baby clothes and toys may never be used again.  If we had decided we were done in 2015 after Hannah was born, none of that would be a source of intense grief.  Instead, I've lost 7 babies since June.  In less than the time it takes most women to carry 1 child through pregnancy, I've lost 4 pregnancies.

We didn't really share about this transfer, didn't really say much of anything.  It wasn't a secret necessarily, just nothing I openly shared unless it was asked.  I didn't want to feel judged for jumping in again, didn't want to hear the comments.  Silently going through this is not any easier, that is for sure.  Pretending like nothing happened, well, that's not making it hurt any less.  I long for the flickering heart on the ultrasound, the little baby kicks in my womb, the sleepless nights and stressful feedings and endless crying that come with having a newborn.  I'm not ready for this stage to end.  One more chance...

7 months

The last 2 embryo transfers have started off with the need for emergency, last minute surgeries.  I have been poked and prodded and violated more times than I can count in our desire to grow our family.  When we first found out we had 19 embryo, when we were able to freeze 14, we didn't know what our future would look like.  We used to joke about a reality TV show if we had them all.  We used to wonder what we would do with those that were frozen toward the end, those we wouldn't ever know.  Especially when I was pregnant with Lucas, preparing for the 4th baby I would raise, knowing that we had 8 more embryo and I seemed to get pregnant no matter what and we were only transferring 1 at a time.  And now?  Well, now we have 4 left.  We have 2 attempts, and then we are done.  I am realizing this may be it for us.  And, then what?  Our family doesn't feel complete.  But, maybe that's just the circumstances, maybe it never will. 

Today marks 7 months since I delivered our sweet baby boy.  Seven months since we welcomed Lucas into the world, only to have to say goodbye.  Seven months ago I was able to hold my sweet boy in my arms, to soak up every second of time with him.  And now, seven months have gone by with empty arms and a broken heart.  Again.  I miss my Lucas, every second of every day.  I still twinge when I see a baby boy, still feel my breath catch as I walk past the baby section in the stores.  The difference this time around is that I have no shelter, no way to hide from it all.  And no babies growing in my belly.  I always thought pregnancy loss would be easier if I had other kids at home.  It is not. 

2017 sucked.  That's really the best word I can type out to describe it.  We lost so much, and there is so much pain there.  I will never see my son grow up, never hear his little baby cries, never nurse him to sleep, never grow exhausted with the midnight feedings.  I am missing so much.  And, I should be right at the same point with Noah, 23.5 weeks.  And instead, nothing.  I am back on hormones and all sorts of new drugs, an attempt to prevent the future loss of any more babies.  But, as I spoke with my MFM, with each loss our odds go down.  Now, I know better than anyone that the statistics mean absolutely nothing.  In the best and worst of ways, we defy the odds.  But, on days like today, when the grief and loss are so raw, my mind goes back there.  Oh, what I wouldn't do to have my sweet boys back.  To have them all back.  Reagan.  Lucas.  Noah.  These last 2 we didn't even get to name.  I lose so much of myself with each loss.  And the thing is, I keep telling myself that, at least I can only lose 4 babies this year.  But, with that is the end of our chances, the complete closure of this chapter of my life.  And that, that is terrifying.

Broken again

This week, we said goodbye to another 2 baby Savants.

I am so ANGRY to be typing these words.  I fully planned on talking about the miracles growing inside of me and the anticipation of a better 2018.  Now, the only positive I seem to come up with is that in 2018 I can only lose 4 children instead of 5.  Cynical?  Sure.  But I'm just not sure how much more one can endure.  I keep thinking that I've suffered enough, that it can't be my turn yet again.  But the truth is much harder than this fantasy I want to live in, and we are left ending this year in the same way we started it - barren.

We had a very brief 24 hours of hope.  Twenty-four hours when I had a faint positive on my pregnancy test.  I've been there before, walking the line of faint tests, which always darkened as the days went on.  I had years of negative tests, month after month.  I know what those look like and the heartbreak that accompanies them.  And, because of that, the faint positive is SUCH a huge thing, something I never had in those years of waiting.  So, for 1 full day, I clung to that.  And then the next day - it was gone.  These babies existed for only a few weeks,  I'm not sure that they ever count in my medical charts.  But for us?  They were everything.  They were our hope at the end of a difficult year, they were a promise of something to look forward to, they were two little people we loved so desperately.  Miscarriage isn't easy at any stage.  I used to think that miscarriage before that first ultrasound wasn't so bad.  But, here's the thing, from the MOMENT you see that faint little second line, you make plans.  You dream.  You talk about names.  You hope.  And to have that all come crashing down is hard, whether that child is loved for a few weeks or months.  We knew these babies for 12 days, saw them for the first time 12 days ago.  Not long at all.  And yet, still so painful.  To make it all worse, two new big boy beds were delivered this week.  Two new mattresses, new accessories, new bedding.  I have a once-nursery, now spare bedroom, filled with unused cribs and changing tables and baby gear...

I'm not sure what lies ahead for us, I'm not sure what our plans are.  We have 4 embryo waiting for us, so I am confident we will meet all 4 in some fashion.  But I'm also coming to grips with the reality that this big family we have dreamed of may not be what God has planned for us here.  That we may continue to watch our extended family grow while also watching our own children die.  That I may only be raising these 3 crazy ones here - a Warren, a Dean, and a Hannah.  And we may not know our other children until they are grown.  I have a pile of maternity clothes that I ordered while pregnant with Lucas that came in a few days after he passed away - those may never be worn.  But, I still feel like our family is not complete.  Like something or someone is missing.  And I still feel like it's a set of boy-girl twins. As much as having twins again terrifies me, that's still where my heart is.  I just don't understand why there has to be so much pain in the journey to get there.

Our only picture of this set of twins

6 months

I cannot believe today marks 6 months.  How is that even possible?  Six months since I gave birth to my sweet son, in the silence of a delivery room.  Six months since I held my boy, since I rocked him and sang him songs, since I gave him his last kiss, since I said goodbye.  Our whole story is written in past tense as I look back to our one, final day together.  Oh how my heart breaks, as I cry these ugly tears and try to figure out what to say.  Because for the most part, there are no words.

Oh Lucas, I am so very sorry.  I'm sorry I failed you, in the most permanent way.  I make mistakes all the time as a mother - some based out of my own sinful nature, so simply because I don't have a clue what I'm doing - but I get to apologize, give hugs and kisses, share about grace, and ask for forgiveness.  I never got to do that with you.  I'm sorry son, I'm sorry for every moment I complained about feeling sick or tired or run down.  I'm sorry for feeling disappointed for a second that you were not the girl I had planned you to be.  I'm sorry for not buying you much of anything special, things that were just for you.  And most of all, I'm sorry my body failed and I couldn't keep you alive.  I wish we had known to try things differently.

June 10, 4:41am, you entered this world, my only child to ever be handed right to me.  You were so small, just shy of a pound, but perfectly formed.  We have the most amazing hand and foot prints from you.  And, in those first few moments, I tried to soak up every tiny little detail.  The cleft in your chin, the slight pudge in your cheeks, your long feet and even longer finger nails, your little unibrow, your 2 single eyelashes, and your pouty lips.  Little pieces I can see in Dean, Warren, and Hannah every single day since.  In the short hours that followed, we attempted to create the only memories we would have in this lifetime.  We tried to make every second count.  I don't really remember too many tears in the delivery room after you were born.  It was like mommy instinct took over and I didn't want to waste a second of our time together being sad and missing out.  I knew from Reagan the importance of soaking up every single moment together.  The other emotions came later, but in the moment there was mostly joy and peace.  I kind of forgot that until now, how strongly I felt God's presence at the hospital.  Because, since coming home, there has not been a lot of peace or joy.  More angst and despair than anything else.  So, I am grateful for that day especially, and for the memories I have.

So today, sweet baby Lucas, we celebrate you.  We remember you and love you and want to do something special for your 6 month birthday.  We are baking you some cupcakes, that each one of us can decorate with whatever makes us think of you.  I imagine this will entail SO. MANY. SPRINKLES.  My child, your siblings love some sprinkles.  I will be sure to take some pictures for you.  Warren wants to send you a balloon, because that is what he knows.  So, be on the lookout for a few blue balloons headed your way.  And we'll make you some cards, carefully decorated and written on.  Probably at least one of them will get crumbled in a ball.  But don't worry, we'll flatten it out and place it gently in your memory box.

Oh Lucas, how I love and miss you.  I wish these last 6 months were filled with memories with you.  I wish I could be sharing about what your favorite book is and what calms you down, how well (or not well) you are sleeping, and new milestones you have reached.  I will never have that post.  I will maybe never know these things.  But know this, you are loved beyond words, my son.