Baby Valentine: PJ's Story

PJ turns 1 this week.  As I sit and think about the joy this little red-headed dumpling brings to our life, I am reminded how he is the baby we thought we lost.  Scarier yet--the baby we very well could have lost, were it not for the Lord's intervention and a mother's intuition.  Appropriate, isn't it, since February rides on the wake of Sanctity of Human Life Month.  Maybe that's why all the pro-life themed programs flooding Christian radio impacted me especially hard this year.  It's not often I stand by the radio fighting the urge to sob.  And I'm ashamed to say it's not often I pause to seriously reflect on the fragility of human life and realize how thankful I am for God's blessings.

But this year is different.  This year, the memories of an ER, an ultrasound, and an unspeakable joy after a terrible scare slap me upside the head, pierce deep into my heart, and wake me up to remember the miracle of our Baby Valentine.

You see, I once lost a baby.  You can call it "miscarriage" and understand that scientifically speaking, a "blighted ovum" means an actual embryo never developed inside the pregnancy sac.  You can reason that an early loss is somehow "better" because of developmental problems, and you can try to convince yourself that losing deformed tissue is less traumatic than passing the actual form of a baby.  You can battle all these thoughts pounding inside your head, but you cannot convince a mother that she did not carry life.  Because when it's gone, you know what death feels like.  And when you are blessed with another chance to become pregnant again, you feel especially alive.

Dear Pudgie, 

On June 6, 2009, Mommy and Daddy discovered you were in Mommy's tummy.  We were so excited.  You gave us hope we thought we had lost.

But our joy was short-lived.  One Friday evening, Mommy thought she was losing you.  She knew the symptoms well.  It was not that long ago your brother or sister went to live with Jesus, and Mommy was scared Jesus was taking you before she was ready to let you go. 

We called the doctor.  When he told Mommy to relax at home for an hour, Mommy crumpled on the couch with one horrible memory pounding in her head, "Not again!"  Your big brother Will was so brave, quietly standing beside the couch as Daddy wrapped his arms around Mommy.  It was hard for Mommy to see your brother looking so confused, but sometimes even grown-ups have to cry.

After one long hour, we drove to the hospital.  Your first ultrasound could not find you, but God saw you, little Pudgie Bear, and He already knew your name.  After 3-1/2 hours, Mommy still felt your life slip away.  Every time she talked with the doctor on the phone, he repeated, "We'll probably have to do a D&C."  Someday, you will know what this means.  Mommy knew what it meant, and God filled me with uncommon boldness.  So when the doctor tried to convince Mommy yet again, Mommy replied, "Absolutely not!"

PJ, those two words saved your life.

The kind lady doctor at the ER championed Mommy's decision, and Mommy and Daddy came home to wait for the inevitable.

But the inevitable never happened.  Two days later, all symptoms that we were losing you suddenly stopped.  And Mommy dared to hope.

On Monday morning, she called her doctor's office and they cleared an appointment at the end of the day.  Early that afternoon, they suddenly called Mommy and asked her to come in early for another ultrasound.  It just so happened God gave your case to a knowledgeable CNP, who was not happy with the quality of the hospital ultrasound results.  When Mommy arrived at the doctor's office, they took her straight to the ultrasound room.  An entire team stayed past the office's closing time, just for you, PJ.  Just for the hope of you being alive.

Because you were still very tiny, the kind ultrasound tech cautioned we might not see anything on screen.  So Mommy prepared herself to not get her hopes up too high as she waited to begin.

But there you were.  A little speck of a thing, smaller than a grain of rice, the tech said.  She turned on the sound.  And there was your heartbeat.  Then Mommy cried.  We thought we lost you, PJ, but there you were, a little dot on the screen, a tiny bar faintly blinking, reassuring us, "Here I am!  I'm alive!"

Knowing you now, knowing your happy-go-lucky personality, I can't help but wonder if you were laughing at us, thinking this was all a hilarious joke.  But we weren't joking in that ultrasound room.  Mommy was wiping her eyes, and she could tell the ultrasound tech had a moment to remind herself why she loved her job.  Even from the very start, Pudgie Bear, you have had this special way of reminding us of the moments worth living for.

We called you our little miracle.  Mommy learned the scientific explanation of what made her believe she was losing you, but she chooses to believe you are a fighter.  When we learned you were due to arrive on Valentine's Day, we named you "Baby Valentine".  Appropriate indeed, because you had already stolen our hearts. 

PJ, carrying you caused Mommy to hold onto faith like never before.  And Mommy learned to grasp the moments of reassurance as gifts from the Lord.  When Mommy struggled with anxiety, she received an encouraging email from a woman who had shared a similar journey.  When the Lord knew exactly the moment Mommy needed an extra touch of peace, Mommy felt you move in her tummy at an uncommonly early stage of your life.  You taught us the faith it takes to live, and you rewarded us with absolute joy.

Now that you have been in our world for one whole year, you have reminded us every day how to smile.  How to laugh.  How to receive the joy God gifts us in the ordinary miracles of today.  Your grandpa tells you that you have a smile that just won't quit!  We stand amazed how one pudgy little redhead can breathe fresh life into the worst of days.  God knew we needed you, Pudgie Bear, and you will always be our special Valentine.

Happy 1st Birthday!

With Love,
Mommy

I always hesitate to share the details of this story.  Although it would be very easy to direct angry remarks towards the doctor who very well could have murdered my child, it is really my desire that we learn about our bodies and how human life actually forms.  Listening to the various radio programs during Sanctity of Human Life Month, I was bothered by how many women chose to believe what some organization told them about their babies' development without actually researching it for themselves.  I am not easily shocked, but to hear in this age of scientific achievements how very few women truly understand the stages of pregnancy and that you normally cannot see a baby via ultrasound until after 6 weeks at the earliest, flabbergasted me.  Had I not known this detail myself, I very well could have listened to the doctor's advice and unknowingly ended PJ's life.  I certainly do not want to hop on the "doctors are evil" bandwagon, like so many do when they hear of one bad doctor making one bad decision.  I do not fault the doctor.  Rather, I choose to remain thankful for my efforts of researching the facts about God's design for life, and also for the knowledge I gained from my previous miscarriage that since I did not need a D&C at 8-1/2 weeks, I certainly did not need one at 5-1/2 weeks.  Admittedly, that particular doctor is not my favorite in the group practice I patient, but it must also be said that the concern and proactive efforts of the CNP and ultrasound tech there, truly represent the other doctors I have had the pleasure to meet.

The Christmas of Chexter the Nosy Bear

Nearly everyone has a favorite Christmas memory from childhood.  To me, the best stories boast dramatic accounts of that one special present that keeps you awake at night for weeks in eager anticipation of discovering its magic appearance under the tree on Christmas morning.  When I was about 7 years old, all I wanted for Christmas was Chexter the Nosy Bear.  There were about 15 or 20 different, adorable Nosy Bears produced in the 1980's, ones like Gumlet, Dizzy, and a cutie with popcorn in his nose.  But Chexter was #1 in my heart...and #1 on my Christmas list.  His soft blue fur complimented a deliciously pink tummy, which, when squeezed, caused a glorious balloon bubble in his nose globe to inflate against a pink-and-blue checker board.  He was the most endearing, beautiful bear I had ever seen, and I simply had to have him.  And I needed to make sure my parents understood my desperation.


So I began an all-out campaign to bring Chexter the Nosy Bear home.  I started with my Christmas list, which read something like this:  "1)  Chexter the Nosy Bear.  I don't care if I don't get anything else for Christmas, as long as I get Chexter the Nosy Bear.  2)  Chexter the Nosy Bear.  3)  Please get me Chexter the Nosy Bear for Christmas."  I'm sure the spelling was slightly substandard, but you get the idea.  I'm sure my parents got the idea, too, but I wasn't going to risk any possible glitch in their memory.  So every time we visited K.B. Toys or Children's Palace, I quickly located Chexter, planted myself firmly in front of him, squeezed his tummy at least 23 times and smiled the biggest, most persuasive smile any child performing feats of angelic awe at Christmastime could muster.  Around the house, I constantly sang the Nosy Bears' "Nose of Fun" theme song, and when the commercial appeared on television, I astutely pointed out Chexter to anyone nearby (usually my poor mother).  As if that wasn't enough, my schoolwork was filled with doodles, topical sentences, and any other nuance I could use to slip in another reminder of my ultimate Christmas wish.  Being homeschooled with my mom as my teacher proved especially advantageous in the onslaught of Chexter paraphernalia.  Forget Santa, I knew who worked Christmas magic in the Moffitt house.


And so this went on for weeks, until finally--Christmas Day arrived.  My family went through our traditional Christmas morning routine of cinnamon rolls, self-timed family photos in front of the wrapped gifts, and reading the Christmas story from Luke.  Finally, it was time to open our presents.  As was also our tradition, each person opened one gift at a time, doling out the typical thank-you's, hugs, etc. before giving someone else a turn to open a gift.  This went on for a few hours, but still no Chexter.  Oh, I received some lovely presents:  Legos, Little People, and even a super cool Pound Puppies sleeping bag.  But alas, no Chexter.  Soon, the number of gifts under the tree dwindled, and from the looks of their sizes, Chexter was not going to be joining our family that morning.  I decided to keep my chin up and make the best of things as my dad handed me the very last gift, my final shot at unwrapping a Christmas miracle.  I immediately opened it only to discover--underwear.  Rats.  Fruit of the Loom foils yet another little girl's Christmas dream.


As I sat in disappointment, the usual pause between our exchange of presents and the trek downstairs to empty our Christmas stockings lasted several moments longer than normal.  Finally, Mom coughed and Dad pulled out a suspiciously lumpy gift from behind the sofa.  Dare I hope it was for me?  I held my breath as Dad mysteriously smiled and read, "To Annie, From Daddy and Mommy". 


YESSSSS!!!  This was Chexter!  It just had to be!  I ripped that puppy open with the gusto of a madwoman.  And finally....there he was, in all his blue and pink glory--the most beautiful Nosy Bear in the whole wide world.  This was Chexter, my new best friend.

I honestly don't remember exactly what about him appealed to me so strongly that I wanted nothing else for Christmas.  And I couldn't tell you why Chexter triumphed over Gumlet, Dizzy, or the cutie with popcorn in his nose.  But I do remember the innocent suspense of wanting something so badly and the pure joy of having that wish come true.


Now that I have two children of my own, I finally understand my parents' perspective on the story.  Will wants a frog Pillow Pet for Christmas this year.  Every time the commercial sings on TV, he astutely points out his favorite one.  And every time we look at the store ads on Sunday, he always locates the Pillow Pets...and makes sure we know it.  I'm nearly positive if he could read and write, he would be doodling and writing sentences about Pillow Pets in his schoolwork.  This is the first Christmas he has ever wished for that "one special present", and it has returned my thoughts to Chexter.  As I read Christian articles and comments online about commercialism detracting from the celebration of Jesus' birth, I can't help but wonder if my parents debated the risk of caving to Christmas commercialism in America and worried about jeopardizing our focus on Jesus.  However, when I think back to The Christmas of Chexter the Nosy Bear, I now recognize the secretive joy my parents shared when building a little girl's suspense towards this ultimate gift.  And though I was too young at the time to metaphorically parallel this with God's Ultimate Gift to earth, I can certainly make the connection as an adult.  So maybe my parents' gift to me was more than a $20 bear one Christmas morning.  Maybe the memory of fulfilling this little girl's dream is the reason a $20, fuzzy frog Pillow Pet currently sits wrapped upstairs in my closet.  Maybe I want to hide that box behind the sofa and experience the joy of watching my son's wishes come true.  And while I know he won't fully realize the connection between Christmas gifts and Jesus' birth until he is older, maybe that is perfectly ok.  Because ultimately, I believe in making Christmas magic for my children.  Because I believe in the power of Christmas memories.

Blogging on a Blood Sugar Crash

I am ready to be done nursing PJ.  I'm simply not one of those moms who can't bear ending this "precious bonding experience".  God made cows for good reason, and dairy farmers are not out to poison our children.  Some might label me as a lazy, "early quitter"....one of "those mothers" who doesn't diligently Google Dr. Sears to understand the possibility of allergies, bowel stress, or any other calamity which might strike my child from weaning him two months prior to the hallowed 12-Month Mark (that milestone in life when cow's milk magically transubstantiates into the nourishing beverage of choice).  However, nursing is not so much of an "inconvenience" to me as it is a health hazard.  If I don't eat something substantial every two hours, my blood sugar crashes--hard.  Breastfeeding books flabbergast me with their suggestions of stocking your nursing station with "healthy snacks", i.e. whole wheat crackers.  Yes-- crackers.  Come off it, La Leche League, are you serious?!  Plant my glider by a fridge full of burritos, sister, and I'll show you a well-stocked nursing station.  "Grazing" does nothing except spur me on towards greener pastures:  beef and bacon.  If you have ever viewed footage of a lion enjoying his prey, you have witnessed a tender moment in the life of this nursing mommy.  And, unfortunately, if said lion hunts in the midst of famine, you have just glimpsed a day at our house prior to a grocery run.  Such is the life of a nursing mother with a ridiculously high metabolism.  Even Will's play food starts to look yummy if you add a tad of salt.  So there you have it--I am switching my son to whole milk for the good of the entire family...and tonight I'm buying more groceries.

Confessions on Why I Get Up in the Morning

When I was a senior in college, I remember the discussion question, "Why do you get up in the morning?"  Subtextually, this asked what motivates me, what drives me to succeed.  And I probably answered something along the lines of getting to class on time, as I was diligently working towards graduating with honors.  You see, I played by the rules--I never arrived in my jammies, never turned in a late assignment, never skipped class for pleasure (well, ok, I did skip one Friday philosophy class to visit my fiance 8 hours away, but hey, love demands Plato wait 'til Monday).  I felt no need to question my driving ambition; the alarm clock buzzed and I obeyed.  I went to school and got my education.  I worked hard and graduated Summa Cum Laude.  I got married and got a job.  I got up in the morning because my eyes opened and the day had begun.


Then I became a mother.


And I confess, I hate getting up in the mornings.


I would love to exemplify the perfect Proverbs 31 pixie, who flutters off the sleepdust fairies with whimsical grace, as I arise before the household to bake a nutritious, delicious, aesthetically pleasing breakfast for my family (I'm a huge fan of Denver omelettes).  I would relish sharing a mystical spiritual strength, feeding my soul with a complete, uninterrupted hour of biblical "quiet time", verse memorization and all.  Or perhaps a heart-pounding jog by the stillness of the dewdropped grass, as I greet the sparkling sun upon the dusky horizon and pound the pavement home to the welcoming smiles of my cherubic children.  I know people with an amazing ability to arise and accomplish all of these things, and I wish I could be one of them.


But, dear friends, I know the real reason why I get up in the morning...and it's not pretty.  As much as I love my children and have the best of intentions to greet each day with a grateful smile, months of sleep-deprivation breed an ugly monster inside of me I never knew existed until motherhood...and 6 a.m.  Whether it's the baby crying, the toddler jumping on me, or the sneeze in my face that gives a whole new meaning to a morning shower, oh I know why I get up in the morning.  Because there's nothing quite like a race down the hall when a loud, "Hey PJ!  Look! me's peein' off my bed!" roars through the monitor and springs my weary bones into action.  And because sometimes a dirty diaper waits for no snooze.  And because of those magical moments when my eldest son crawls into bed next to me, snuggling for seven glorious seconds before unleashing the "Me's hungry.  Go downstairs now?  How about now?  How about now?  How about now?...".  I admit I'm a bit jealous of my husband's alarm clock.  At least he gets to pound it a few times before rolling out to face the day.


I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the blessings I've been given.  There was once a time when we were uncertain children would be in our future, and I will always remember that test of faith.  Three years later, however, that test has morphed into a new challenge--getting up in the morning.  And while I praise the Lord for "the pitter-patter of little feet," I confess it's much easier to sing that song by the light of the sun, not the moon. 

 So why do I get up in the morning?  Maybe I finally need to question my driving ambition.  If I can force myself to stretch beyond the status of zombie and stop comparing myself to the sunrise pixies, I believe the subtext of my actions will surprise me.  Underneath the baggy eyes, greasy hair, and shuffling feet, there really is a woman trying to provide for the needs of her family.  A woman who cares that her children are fed, clothed, and allowed to thrive in a healthy home.  Who understands the merit of a clean diaper.  Who cares that they explore, learn, and enjoy their childhood.  And while during these toddler years she will most likely still greet 6 a.m. with a snarl instead of a smile, have to pry her eyes open and pray she doesn't drop the baby while stumbling down the steps, serve cold cereal instead of a Denver omelette...if she is doing this with the faith that Lord will give her strength and bless the lives and future of her family, perhaps she is not such a monster after all.


So thank you, Lord, for my family, children, and home.  But please help me hang on until naptime.

Floating on the Ordinary

I once heard a woman exclaim, "I feel like I'm drowning in motherhood."  I know exactly what she means.  It's not always life's major catastrophes that break me, it's the daily grind.  The routine.  The constancy.  Yes, even the rut.  It's the toddler who refuses to obey.  It's the baby whose radar monitors mommy's sweet drift to sleep with astounding accuracy.  It's the oatmeal mashed into the freshly-cleaned carpet; the tantrum when a request for Cheerios apparently meant Cinnamon Life.  It's the constant clattering, chattering, and battering the mommy when all I really need is five minutes to clear my head, nevermind the constantly cluttered house.  And how many Hot Wheels could one possibly trip over in a lifetime?!  Some days, life feels like it just never stops.  Battle after battle.  Day after day.  Chugging along on three consistent hours of sleep (or less).


But somewhere within this tsunami of motherhood, a little life preserver appears on the stormy waves.  I see a mother give me a knowing smile when I corral two squirmy children into the grocery store.  I recognize the light in an old man's eyes when my little red-headed Pudgie charms him with a smile.  I feel the forgiveness of many when I crash that darn, impossible-to-steer bus cart into yet another innocent ankle.  And most importantly, I cling to the precious pools of reminiscence in the eyes of a grandmother at the checkout, a once-young mother like me who smiles in remembrance of her ornery, red-headed son--a boy who undoubtedly mashed his oatmeal into the carpet and planted Hot Wheel land mines throughout the living room.  And my soul secretly pleads to them, "Tell me it gets better."


I know it won't be like this for long, but some days the clock refuses to budge.  On days like these, you can quote all the biblical promises of training up a child, but I've already heard them.  And I've already read the Proverbs-happy, supermom blogs boasting their power in fulfilling "a woman's highest calling"...with coupons and cupcakes to boot!   I am not always seeking a lifeboat, just a scrap of lumber assuring me my ship won't sink.  So today, I relish a subtle reassurance from the grocery store snippets of those who have weathered the storm.  The generation that has made it through, who have reached "Someday"--that proverbial day when they realized they could now look back at the tumultuous times and smile.  And while today is not "Someday" for me, if I can somehow allow that hope of the future peace of accomplishment to wash over me, I believe I can take a cleansing breath and stay afloat a little bit longer.

What Macaroni & Cheese Taught Me About Motherhood

I constantly battle that line between letting kids be kids and correcting destructive behavior.  When my strong-willed toddler insists on his independence, I hate the moment's point of truth that forces an immediate decision.  My introverted brain needs to process a plan of action, yet toddlers brake for no personality type.

Today's battle was macaroni and cheese.  Who knew that blue box could be so sinister.  My son insisted on trying to open it by himself.  The entire time, I cringed, "It's going to explode.  It's going to explode.  It's going to explode."  Sure enough, KABOOM!  Noodles clattered all over the kitchen floor.  I was irritated.  Will was horrified.

As we swept up the scattered elbows, I reminded myself that this is part of the learning process--for both Will and me.  While we could spend 99% of the day teaching him to obey mommy or to let mommy do the work, I need to recognize his need to make decisions and experience the results.  The hardest part is I usually know exactly what those results will be--an inconvenient mess. 

As I battle between guiding his decisions and letting him experiment, I have to be flexible enough to face the results.  I've learned that an exploding box of macaroni and cheese can be better than a boring, just-dump-it-in-the-water box.  Fortunately, my well-stocked cupboard yielded another blue savior, and we soon feasted on the orange goodness--with double the cheese!  Sometimes even the little stressors of the day can turn out extra yummy.

A Quilt Completed

It's finally finished!

I've been saving old jeans for the past six years because I have always wanted to make a denim quilt.  Since I never seem to complete anything for myself, I decided to make this one for Will.

It's a log cabin block design, which I arranged into a diamond pattern.  It was actually one of the easiest tops to piece, thank you chaining technique!  The hardest part was cutting apart piles of jeans and also threading the yarn ties.  I had "cherry fingers" for a few days after all that tying.

I love the creating and piecing part of quilting, but I'm not fond of binding.  This quilt was particularly difficult because my machine would not handle the denim's thickness.  Fortunately, the Upholsterer's Wife asked her upholsterer husband, and he blazed a trail of thread right through all layers with his industrial sewing machine.  Thanks, handsome upholstery man!

I know a quilt may not be very meaningful for a little boy right now, but I hope it endures years of cold winter nights, blanket forts, parachute landing mats, etc. so that one day he will treasure a special gift from his mom.