For our first edition here, let’s just get acquainted. In whatever format you choose, write a post sharing who you are, the basics of your child’s story and one thing that really stood out to you from your child’s first major hospital or medical experience and why. (For carnival rules and information click here.)

Jacqui’s Story

So much was riding on that one day — all of our dreams, years of heartbroken prayers, hopes still fragile from years of infertility and repetitive miscarriage. It was all coming down to this one sunny day in September, and we wondered as we drove to the hospital that morning how it would end. We cried through the entire thirty minute drive to the hospital, not knowing if we were going to be saying hello or goodbye. Would we hear her cry? Would she need to have a trach? Would she breathe at all? Would we get to hold her? What if…? But I couldn’t bear to finish the thought of my worst fear.

Months earlier we had learned the devastating news on an early ultrasound. Our baby had a large mass on the right side of her face and neck. Opinions were mixed on the actual diagnosis. Originally we were told that we would likely miscarry, that she probably had Turner’s Syndrome. That she might have Down’s Syndrome, Trisomy 18, or a host of other complications that we lost much sleep over. Later we were told that the mass was a teratoma and that she would likely die at birth or during a surgery to attempt to secure an airway. We were pressed to consider ‘termination’ or at the very least, an amnio. We adamantly refused both. We began fighting to find a perinatologist who cared whether she survived and found one a three hour drive away. A complex birth plan and monitoring system was put into place to give her the best odds possible for her survival. A modified EXIT procedure would be performed in an attempt to make sure she had a secure airway throughout the birth.

In the OR suite, I lost count of the number of medical personnel in the room at somewhere over twenty. There was the perinatologist’s team, a surgical team, an ENT surgeon and his team, a respiratory therapy team, a NICU team… and probably others. I felt conflicting emotions of resentment over the number of people in the room (mostly because this birth was so different than we had hoped) and overwhelming gratitude that so many people were there to help try and keep our baby safe. And I started to quietly cry when they told me they were starting the delivery, wishing I could keep her safe just a little longer, hoping — praying that she wasn’t about to die.

I remember hearing a funny little squeak, and wondering what it was. I looked up from my white knuckles to Ken’s awestruck face that suddenly burst into a mile-wide grin. That sound had been our baby’s first beautiful cry. Her second attempt was loud and long. They held her up for a moment for me to get my first glimpse of her. I laughed as tears rained down my cheeks and Ken joyously whooped, “Do you hear her, honey? She made it! She’s OK!”

Then the room was a bustle of serious, purposeful activity. I watched from an aching distance while they intubated her as a precaution, and started an IV. Ken whispered reassuringly in her newborn ears as she tightly gripped his finger. They wheeled her over for a moment and I got to stare into her bottomless ocean-blue eyes and whisper, “I love you, Jacqui…” before they whisked her off to the NICU.

Much of the rest of our hospital stay was a blur. Back and forth trips to the NICU, several floors away from my room. Waiting for what seemed like forever as she endured a CT scan and an MRI before we learned that her mass was a lymphatic malformation, and something that we would not be able to medically address until she was at least six months old. The moment of elation when they took her off of the ventilator and she breathed on her own. Struggling through the paradox of being told we couldn’t remove her from the NICU until she could eat on her own while the nurses stuffed her with tube feedings under medical orders. Worrying over her very scary breathing pattern.

Her breathing. That is the one thing that stood out to me more than anything during that first hospital experience. It was so labored sounding. She snored and often stopped breathing all together, resuming only after she was jostled. I was afraid to leave her in the NICU, but they did have her hooked up to a cardiac monitor. I asked the attending physician about it and he told me there was no cause for worry. That newborns often sounded like that. She was just “junky” from the birth and it would clear up in a few days. A dark cloud of doubt gathered in my heart as I cautiously sat back to watch and wait.

When it was time to go home, her breathing hadn’t improved. She scared me. I was afraid I would fall asleep and she would stop breathing and never wake up. I asked the attending to send her home with an apnea monitor. He refused. Flat out emphatically refused. Even when I tried to press the matter. Said she was fine and that she didn’t need one. I asked if the lymphatic malformation could swell up like lymph nodes do if she caught a cold. He shook his head no. Told me I was worrying too much, but something in his eyes as he said it unsettled me. He left and I tried to pinpoint what it was about the conversation that bothered me. The substance of it flitted just out of reach from my sleep-deprived brain. In my arms, Jacqui sputtered and stopped breathing for the hundredth time. I jostled her and she inhaled raggedly. “What if…,” my heart whispered, “What if he’s sending her home with you to die?” I went cold. Numb with fear. Then I flashed white hot with determination. Not if I could help it.

After we got home, we took shifts sitting up with Jacqui keeping her breathing until our appointment with her pediatrician the next day. As we walked into the office the next morning I whispered to Ken, “We come home with an apnea monitor, or not at all.” We got our apnea monitor.

One week later, that apnea monitor saved her life. Jacqui caught her first cold virus. In the middle of the night, her lymphatic malformation began rapidly swelling and shutting off her airway, just as I had feared it might. Her heart rate monitor alerted us and we got her to the local ER just in time to intubate her before her airway was completely shut off by the swelling.

Jacqui spent the next nine weeks in the NICU. Six weeks on a ventilator. She had a tracheostomy. A G-tube placement. MRI’s, CT scans, IV and PICC line placements, CT guided injection therapy of her lymphatic malformation. A host of heroic and horrific experiences that no newborn should ever have to endure. That no parent should ever have to watch.

And it was just beginning.

Jacqui is five now. She’s been under anesthesia for various surgeries and procedures twenty-five times now. Twenty-five, and I know in my heart there will be more. And it never gets easier. And I worry. I worry whether we have made the right choices for her, whether tomorrow will bring some new hardship for her to endure.

But mostly I’m grateful. Grateful that for some reason that I still fail to comprehend, God chose us. For some reason, He believed we were the right parents for this amazing little girl. It humbles me. Inspires me to live up to that sacred trust we have been given. Because of her, our life is filled with a joy all the more precious for the sorrow we have known through her. And in those moments where I long to completely give up, I remember that she was a gift. A gift that I was entrusted with. She is counting on me and I refuse to fail her.

What About You? Tell Me Your Child’s Story…

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Artist Unknown

First, Let me explain the reason for this post… and it’s going to be a long one, so hang on… or run the other way, whichever suits you…

For some reason that I fail to comprehend, I have been the recent recipient of a barrage of emails and comments that have basically attacked my integrity as a Christian for celebrating Easter. Yes, you heard that right… for celebrating Easter. The gist of the comments have basically been variations on a theme: That Easter was originally a pagan holiday that the Christians commandeered and I must be either ignorant, immoral or a flat out fraud if I choose to celebrate Easter. I have a number of problems with this assumption.

If you have been reading my blog for any length of time, you have probably become aware of the fact that I am a Christian. Before I continue any further, I would just like to acknowledge for a moment that many people who read this blog are not Christians. I want you to know that you are welcome here. That I respect and value you as readers and that this post is in no way intended to be a sermon or an attempt to force-feed anyone my theology. So, please do not feel in anyway obligated to read this post… or any of my posts for that matter (grin).

At my blog, I do not often delve deep into the hows and whys of Christianity. My posts that speak to topics of personal faith tend to be more reflective in nature… things I have learned about myself, about my own faith. I blog pretty much how I live my life. What I believe is just a part of who I am. It just naturally comes out here and there as I chatter away, but I’ve never been the sort of person who could put together a post, or an everyday conversation for that matter, for the express purpose of Christian instruction … or discipleship (one notable exception being discussions with members of my own family).

So I was somewhat confused as to why people I didn’t even know, and had never spoken to or interacted with on any level, suddenly felt obligated to come here and share with me their opinion that I am an ignorant, immoral fraud. I haven’t until now even posted anything about Easter. And I’m not the sort who harasses other individuals over what they believe. If you’re an atheist or agnostic or member of a religion entirely different from mine, I’m not going to come hassle you about it. If you want to write on your blog that you believe the Easter bunny is an alien savior from another planet or that you prefer to dance around a maypole completely bereft of clothing by the light of the spring solstice moon, that is your prerogative. I’ll likely not be spending much time at your place if you fall into the latter two categories, but I’m not going to give you a hard time about it. And I expect the same courtesy here.

Lest I be misunderstood, by saying that people are free to do as they please, I am not intending to imply that I do not believe that some activities are morally bankrupt. I believe in standing up for what is right, and for living a life in harmony with what I say I believe. I just don’t believe it is my job to go and push the world’s face into the carpet and rub it’s nose in the mess it has made. I have messes of my own to attend to which keep me humble in my striving to live a Christ-like life. What I am saying is that those of us who call ourselves Christians, if we spent less time bickering amongst ourselves and pointing fingers and put half as much effort into living lives worthy of being called Christian, then perhaps more of the world would be inspired to do likewise.

So now, on to those pressing questions: Why do I celebrate Easter? Don’t I know Easter has it’s roots in a pagan holiday? Why don’t I celebrate Passover instead? Wouldn’t that make more sense? (I have paraphrased the questions for the sake of polite conversation) Here’s my answer… and it applies to any Christian holiday that I celebrate that may be believed to coincide with pagan festivities:

Why do I celebrate Easter?

I celebrate Easter because in my culture, it is the day we as Christians set aside to remember, give thanks, and celebrate the resurrection of Christ. I celebrate the resurrection of Christ because I believe Jesus is who he said he was: The son of God, who loved me so much that he died in my place, and that he was resurrected. He died so that I might live and because He now lives, He makes an eternity in heaven attainable for me through his grace. For me and for my family that is worth remembering, worth being thankful for, worth celebrating.

Don’t I know Easter has it’s roots in a pagan holiday?

I have heard this, yes. I have heard the same thing said about Christmas. In a recent conversation with my father-in-law on the topic, a pastor by the way, he made a very good point: Virtually any holy day that one could pick off the calendar is has likely been celebrated by some pagan group at some point in time. That for everything holy, there is a counterfeit. That while the word Easter does have pagan roots, that is true that “easter” is really “ishtar” one of the pagan gods and that tammuz her son is a resurrection figure, the celebration of the resurrection of Christ is most assuredly not a pagan practice. He went on to say, “I refuse to stop celebrating the resurrection of Christ simply because some pagan has counterfeited what God has done. I refuse to stop reveling over Christ’s resurrection because someone chooses to confuse ishtar with Christ. If we stop doing things because someone else has corrupted it or has counterfeited it then we might as well pack up and go into hiding.” A wise man, my father-in-law.

While I do have a problem with shifting the focus of Easter onto the Easter Bunny, I do not have any personal spiritual conflicts with the observance of Easter as the fulfilled promise of the resurrection of Christ, no matter where it falls on the calendar, and no matter what the pagans are celebrating at any point in time, past present or future.

“One man esteems one day above another: another esteems every day alike. Let every man be fully persuaded in his own mind. He that regards the day, regards it unto the Lord; and he that regards not the day, to the Lord he does not regard it. He that eats, eats to the Lord, for he gives God thanks; and he that eats not, to the Lord he eats not, and gives God thanks” (Rom. 14:5-6)

I also teach my children about what the world believes. They know about the Easter Bunny, about Santa Claus. And they know they aren’t real. Around Easter time, they eat jellybeans and chocolate Easter bunnies, so long as they are gluten-free. And I don’t believe for a minute they are going to grow up and become converts to the worship of ishtar or any other pagan god or goddess because of it. They are jellybeans and chocolate nothing more. Do we really need to look for and see perversion in the innocent joys of childhood? At our house we don’t find it a necessity.

My father-in-law is quotable on this topic as well… “I can remember coloring eggs when I was a little boy. It happened at “Easter.” But not once did it ever provoke me to diminish my wonder over the resurrection of Christ. Call it compartmentalization, call it what you will, but to the pure all things are pure. To the impure of conscience everything is defiled. My counsel has been that if you can’t celebrate the wonder of Christ’s resurrection without these accouterments then you are in trouble spiritually. But I refuse to give up hot cross buns because some misguided soul equates them with some pagan ritual. They are flour, water, salt, and some other things that make them good to eat. And I can eat them freely without having one idolatrous thought.”

Amen, Dad.

Why don’t I celebrate Passover instead? Wouldn’t that make more sense?

Long story short, as a Christian I believe Easter (Or Resurrection Sunday, if you prefer) is a completion of the Passover ceremony. I have deep respect for the Jewish faith, for the Passover and all that it stands for. I have observed Passover with Jewish friends, and you will not find me saying a word against anyone observing Passover. However, as a Christian, I believe Jesus to be the fulfillment of the promise and prophecy contained within the Passover ceremony, and it is much more meaningful to me to celebrate the resurrection of Christ.

So. That is what I believe, and why I celebrate as I do. I hope this clears matters up for those of you drive-by types who have felt compelled to share your ‘wisdom’ with me.

Happy Easter!

Please Note: This was not written as an open invitation to debate this subject. It is a statement of what I believe personally and nothing more. You are welcome to leave comments on this post and to ask questions, and I will do my best to answer any questions of the reasonable and intelligent variety. However, I will be removing comments that are of inflammatory intent or seek to debate this topic. That is not the purpose of this post. There are plenty of other places on the internet to debate topic in the most detailed and heated manner you may choose. This is not one of them.

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One of the hardest things about CVS is the waiting. Waiting for your beautiful child to come back from nothingness and pain. The days of an episode stretch on… a windswept beach with no end in sight. But you cling to what you know. Remind yourself that it will pass. Stare at the faint scribbles in the sand and will yourself to remember… she will come back.

Soon she will light up the sky with her brilliance… begin writing once again on your heart.

And your heart will soar. Storing away all the precious moments…

The wonderful laughter.

So that the next time, and there will be a next time, you can draw out each memory. Treasure it. Evulse hope from each shred, scrap, stitch. And assuage your broken heart with the credence that laughter does indeed await still… she will return.

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Image Courtesy Istock Photo

Nine-thirty. I trudged up the rain-soaked walk in the dark at the end of a 56-hour work week. The house was quiet as I slipped off my shoes near the coat rack, wiping away tears as I padded up the stairs and down the hall. I paused at the door and brushed off fresh tears before quietly slipping into our room, and there she was. Sleeping for the moment. Curled up in a tight ball under the quilt her grandmother had made for her and clutching her ever-present buddy, a stuffed lavender puppy named Cosmo.

Ken had set up her travel bed in our room so we would be able to get to her quickly during the long night to come. I set down my bag, pulled off my coat and knelt down next to her, bending to kiss her damp little forehead. Her long curls were slick with sweat and a third set of tears stung my eyelids as I kissed her cracked and bleeding little lips that no amount of salve had been able to obviate. I stifled a sob as I caught the scent of stale formula that had most likely been spilled on her purple PJ’s sometime earlier in the evening, and wished for the millionth time that things could be different. That it could be me lying there suffering instead of her. That I could do something, anything to stop this horrible thing called CVS while knowing with a cold sickening ache that I was completely, utterly, wretchedly powerless.

Frustrated tears strangled and clawed down my throat as she suddenly convulsed in a violent wave of retching and gagging. I fumbled for her decompression tube and clicked it into her G-tube valve as wave after retching wave propelled her exhausted little mop of curls off of her damp little pillow and her tensely curled little toes skyward. I looped an arm under her neck to do my best to support her and forced myself to speak in quiet, soothing tones to her, saying I know not what as the waves went on and on and on, until I began to fear she might snap in half in my arms. I let the tears fall as she suddenly fell limp and lifeless as a rag-doll, her vacant eyes staring through me, seeing nothing.

“Poor little ladybug.” I whispered as I gently brushed her eyelids closed. I was easing her back onto her pillow when I heard a faint, cracking whisper…

“Mommy? Are you ever so sorry I’m so very sick?”

I felt a tiny surge of joy jolt through me that she was alert enough to even talk. “Yes, Sweetie. Ever so sorry!”

“Were you so very worried ’bout me and missin’ me tuh-day wen you had to be wurkin?”

“Oh, very worried… and I missed you to the moon and back!”

And she slipped away again as her brow furrowed in pain. I was about to creep back down the hall when I heard another hoarse little whisper…

“Sing, Mommy… please?” And a trembling little hand stretched in my direction.

“Anything Sweetie. What would you like me to sing?”

Her eyes stayed closed as she moved her cracked little lips and whispered… “Moon, Moon, Moon…”

“You got it. What kind of pie tonight?”

“Bwoo-berry.”

“Oh, blueberry is a great choice!”

I caught the faintest glimpse of a smile as she nodded…

“Moon, moon, moon…

“Sing da Clock Song, Mommy…”

“Won’t you play the music,

And I leaned down to catch the faintest of whispers… “You sing-ded me dat song in da hoz-pittal wen I was a baby, member?”

“Yes, I remember. Many, many times.”

“One more song, Mommy?”

“Sure, sweetie.”

“Jesus Loves Me?”

And for the faintest moment, I longed to beg her to let me sing anything else. Because right in that moment, I wasn’t feeling particularly loved or that Jacqui was either. But her clammy little fingers squeezed mine… “Please, Mommy?”

“Jesus loves me, this I know.

And she smiled. Opened her eyes, looked right at me and smiled. Then she faded away, back into that place she disappears to during CVS episodes as she whispered… “Jesus will keep me company while I’m sick, Mommy. I’ll be all bedder soon… so don’t cry…”

And suddenly, for the first time, I really understood what it means to have the faith of a child… and I feel so very humbled, so very privileged to know such an extraordinary little soul as Jacqui.

“Assuredly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.”

Luke 18:17 ~New King James Version

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Note to my readers: This is an introspective post, and will most likely be dreadfully dull. I am writing this for my own therapy and I have no idea how it is going to turn out. I’m not always Pollyanna smiles, puppies and rainbows… I have down days too. I know a lot of folks who read this blog are going through some very tough things in the form of medical and other challenges, and I just don’t want anyone to be misled by the perception that I always ‘have it together.’ I don’t. Just like anyone, I have days where I hit the limits of what I can endure with a grin. Today was one of them. If you are just not up for this sort of thing, then click on my ‘Laugh’ menu button, find something amusing to read, and pretend you never saw this. I promise this is a temporary funk and I will figure out how to pull myself out of it eventually, so don’t wander too far…

Ever have one of those days where you just know you’re walking a tightrope? You know… the kind where one itty bitty little thing, no matter how stupid, is going to just pitch you toppling through space. That was me. Today. And I know when it comes down to it I have much more to be grateful for than to whimper about, but today I whimpered. Ok, I bawled my head off. I was a lip-quivering sniffling mess — and not just in the privacy of my own home. Oh no. That would be too tidy. Nope, I crumbled to sand in our church nursery and there was nothing I could do about it.

Actually, sand is a bad analogy. Unless it was soggy sand. Silt maybe. Guess I didn’t really crumble either. I deliquesced. Deliquesced into silt. What? Don’t look at me like that… sounds better than ’shlumped into sludge’. Well, it does to me anyway. Eight years of extreme challenges in our life, and you would think I would have been able to hold it together until we got home, but no. Not today. Today I fell to pieces. In public.

And I felt that panic again… Like I was going to drown in dry air if I didn’t get away from the faces. Watching. Assessing. Wanting to help me but not knowing how. I couldn’t have told them how if they had asked. Because I couldn’t even help myself. Except by running. So I ran. Home. Kyle and I. We ran home and I cried.

This morning started so well… so full of potential. I had been planning since Friday. I ironed clothes, packed the diaper bag, found shoes. I made dinner ahead for Saturday evening since I would be working all day. I came home Saturday after a ten hour shift and fed and bathed children. Got them to bed on time, stories read, lullabies sung. I pretended like it would work. Told myself that if I just planned well enough, we would be fine. After five years, we would finally be able to go to Sunday school again. The first time since Jacqui had been born.

We were five minutes late. No matter what I do, how I plan, set the clocks… we’re always five minutes late. It drives me crazy, because before children, I was the sort who was always ten minutes early. But being late wasn’t what did it. I was still OK. I took Jacqui to her class… she was so excited! And I verified that no snacks would be served… so far so good. Then we went to drop Kyle off in the nursery. Something I have avoided for a host of reasons. Most of them ones I never talk about. Because if I don’t talk about them, I can pretend they aren’t real. If I don’t name them, they don’t exist. Nothingness. A wind in the door.

But ‘Let’s Pretend’ doesn’t always work in public. And today it didn’t. Not a bit.

I set Kyle down and put the diaper bag on the shelf. Kyle sat down to play as I signed him in and checked out a pager. I started to sign out the number… 13. I’m really not superstitious, but I switched it for one numbered 18. Just because. Kyle noticed I was leaving and started to howl. “He’ll be fine,” I tried to tell myself, “Just fine”. But my stomach knotted, telling me a different story… whispering to me words of sanity, “Yes, but maybe he won’t…” So I went back in and distracted him with a toy before slipping out again. At least chances were better now. I hesitated a moment… wondering if I should turn back and launch into a warning with it’s accompanying explanation. Would it be making too big of a deal of it? Or would it be best just to let it go? Say nothing… no one ever really believed it unless they saw it anyway. I stood there a few more moments, waffling with indecision and then quietly left.

I met up with Ken in the adult class. There were two seats left. Up front. As I slid back into my metal folding chair, I felt it. The buzz of my pager. I felt ill. I rushed back down the stairs to the nursery… and there it was. The answer to five years of the question, “But, why not?”. There stood my precious screaming son and the dear lady staffing the nursery, our friend. Covered in puke. Literally covered. Both of them. Head to toe. I’ve seen five years of it, and I still can’t comprehend how that much puke can come out of such a teeny little person. Kyle’s vest, shirt, and pants were drenched. They dripped as I pulled them off, answering my friend’s query as to whether I had a change of clothes for him in the negative.

You’re shocked that I forgot a change of clothes? Well don’t be. I didn’t forget. I left them at home. Deliberately. Willing it not to happen. Knowing if it did, that I would long for a reason to flee to the sanctuary of home.

I cleaned him up as I apologized. I hadn’t thought about him throwing up on her. I guess because Ken and I have become so adept at dodging, that we rarely get caught in the line of fire. And now I felt awful. Not just for my child, but for her — kindly and calmly assuring me that she was just fine as she stood there coated in my child’s puke. I offered to staff the nursery while she went home and changed. She was so gracious, said that her husband could come down and watch the children for her, that it was no big deal. Maybe Kyle just had the flu she suggested. Oh, if only. I asked her if he had been eating anything, had he gagged? No. Had he been crying hard? Well, yes… but he had already calmed down by the time he had thrown up. I could see it puzzled her, but it didn’t puzzle me. It was classic Jacqui and Kyle. Work yourself up crying, then the minute you’ve calmed down, puke till your shoes come up. In Kyle’s defense, he’s tame compared to Jacqui’s infant puke prowess… she was ten times worse. At a minimum.

My friend continued to express concern that Kyle was sick, that it wasn’t just a normal spit-up. And she was right it wasn’t. Not normal, but at our house, commonplace. And so I explained. Just a little. And with the explanation came the tears. The ones I stuff down. The ones I shove into that black space of vacuity somewhere within myself where I shove such things. Things which daily threaten to deprive me of my last shreds of sanity. Out came those tears in a threatening trickle. Nails dug deep into damp palms. A tourniquet to the torrent.

And then came the sympathetic hug. I loved her for it, but it was my undoing. I liquefied as I rushed to stuff the diaper bag full of sodden clothes and Kyle into borrowed ones. And then I ran. Cradled my darling, rancid baby in my arms and ran. Pulled into our driveway, stepped out onto the walk in my black, budget-buy heels and ran. Locked the door, shedding diaper bag and shoes, pointed my body up the stairwell and ran. Turned the corner, holding Kyle tightly as tears began falling in great, weighty drops, faced down the hall and ran.

And then I sat. Crushing him to me at the foot of the crib where countless tears had already been shed, I cried some more. For so many reasons. For confusion amidst my tumultuous thoughts. For frustration with myself over not being able to keep it together. For panic over being caught emotionally vulnerable. For disgust at my weakness, or perhaps my vanity, causing me to even care about such trivial nonsense. For the teeniest bit of resentment that so much of my life revolves around the management of puke and poo. For guilt over that sliver of resentment. For longing for my children to be healthy. For injustices of all that they have had to endure. For my fears for Kyle as I run out of time that I can rationally agree with physicians that his problem will resolve on it’s own. For disillusionment of my admittedly ridiculous determination to parent Kyle completely through childhood and adolescence medically unscathed. For despair of the equally ridiculous hope that I will one day be able to enter a room without smelling like rancid dairy products. For exhaustion. For emptiness. For defeat. For feelings of failure. Failure as a parent, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. For failing to be able to be there for anybody except my family. For the times I’ve failed at even that. For failing to live up to my full potential. Failing to allow those in my care to reach theirs because I haven’t lived up to mine. For the feeling that somehow, this morning happened because I miscalculated somewhere… missed something. Failed.

I had my cry and I chose to not be defeated by panic and fear. I cleaned Kyle up, re-fed him, and put him in a new set of his own clean clothes. I accepted reality and stuffed a spare set into the diaper bag. I washed my face and re-touched my make-up, despairing at my reddened nose and watery eyes. I folded the loaned set of clothes, picked them up and then walked Kyle back to the car and drove my escape route in reverse. I walked back into church. Walked back to the nursery and returned the loaned clothes. Walked back up the stairs to the balcony listening to the sounds of the service that had already started. Walked with my family to the back row of the balcony, where we always sit out of necessity and spent a few fleeting moments together before Kyle started to fuss. Then I walked with Kyle to the Cry Room, a room designed to allow mothers to listen to the service while wrangling fussy infants, and we sat. And I laughed. I laughed as I cried. A pathetic, watery laugh over the irony that here we were in the infant Cry Room, and I was the one crying. Silly, I know.

And now we’re home again. The washing machine faithfully keeping up it’s five year vigil. So now what? Well, I guess now I’m going to piece this mess I have made of myself back together so I can do it all again tomorrow. Hopefully with a better attitude. Might as well give that a try since I’m beginning to annoy myself with this whole crying gig. Takes to much energy anyway. Energy that I really don’t have to waste on such nonsense.

I have the kids in bed for the night and I sent Ken out to watch a movie so he could have some recuperative alone time instead of having to sit here watching me unravel and then knit myself back together. Doesn’t do either one of us any good. I can always see the relief in his face (an expression that always makes me chuckle) when I openly acknowledge that I am non compos mentis and then send him on a mission to stay out of my path until I can claw my way back to a more rational level of existence. So he has gratefully vacated the premises. And I have ordered my thoughts. I believe that a nice hot bath is now in order as I hear the heavy whispers of sleepy breaths over the kiddo’s monitors. And after that… a well worn volume penned by L.M. Montgomery has been awaiting my undivided attention. It’s been ages since my last visit she is an old friend who never fails to disappoint. I am determined to end the day on a positive note and I know she’s a guarantee.

Update: Five chapters into The Blue Castle, Ken returned with a dozen red roses and whispered in my ear that I’m not failing, I’m fabulous. I love that man. Even though I’m quite certain he said it primarily because I didn’t block the emergency exits during my ‘Mommy Meltdown’…

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