Recharging the Battery

This week was about me trying of recharge, emotionally.  Before I tell you why I needed to recharge, in case you aren’t in the mood to read all of my words or to possibly ugly cry, I will cut to the chase and tell you it didn’t happen.  I’m still spent and I’m headed into more chaos this weekend, but I digress.  

Sean and I, and our poor (mostly cooperative) children have been on a non-stop ride this month.  The fact that we are in the homestretch of May already blows my mind, yet here we are.  

My cousin got married on Cinco de Mayo on Long Island and it was all of the things.  A day filled with incredible small moments (I want to remember my baby girl putting makeup on my grandma as we were getting her ready until I draw my last breath), an enormous amount of love (there is literally nothing better than watching the groom see his girl walking down the aisle), a tremendous act of generosity and more fun than my aching feet could stand.  Needless to say it was a long car ride back up state.

My sweet girl turned SIX on the tenth and, you want to talk ugly crying?!  After being up late, cutting up about 10lbs of fruit for a fruit salad because “Mama, I want fruit salad for my birthday treat in school but not the kind they make at the grocery store-just the stuff I like” and munchkins don’t cut it for my girl, Facebook mercilessly provided me with a video of her newly-two-year-old self singing, “happy birthday to me,” and I was done.  It is all going too fast; so fast it sometimes takes my breath away.  Her birthday was kind of a rush deal, birthday waffles before school, cupcakes and a few gifts after and then back to school to show off her year’s work to her adoring audience of three.  

The weekend brought us to my little brother’s college graduation. It really, truly was a celebration. This boy committed to earning his bachelors degree and taught us all what grit looks like.  Six years later, a man held his head high and walked across the stage to receive is diploma, and then the little boy peeked through for a moment as he raised both of his hands overhead in celebratory fashion.  I couldn’t have been more proud of him. There was an undeniable stress I could feel building beneath the surface but I tried to force it from my mind.  We went to a nearby casino for a nice dinner and some fun and we really did enjoy ourselves; so much so that I almost forgot what the next day was.  Almost.

I went to bed with a hope in my heart that this year would feel different but from the moment I opened my eyes I knew that it wasn’t so. My heart felt heavy, like I couldn’t get myself going.  I tried to force myself to finish the weekend on a positive note but Mother’s Day is just a tough day for me.  I didn’t want it to feel that way this year.  I have an amazing girl that, though she is challenging and fiery, is becoming such a wonderful little human. I have a beautiful baby boy to hold in my arms and he has made my life so bright, brought a smile back to my face and I don’t know what words to use in order to best explain how grateful I am for him. But all of that does not change the fact that it doesn’t feel like enough; and that makes me feel guilty and unappreciative and so incredibly sad.  One of my children is gone, and on Mother’s Day I feel that so much more acutely. All I wanted to do was go to the cemetery and be with my boy.  I just wanted to have all of my kids together.  And so we went and Kennedy talked to Jack and told him, “Uncle Dyl is done with college!” and Carter sat in the grass and this beautiful man I am so lucky to still have by my side, asked if I wanted a picture with the kids. And he said it so effortlessly that it didn’t feel strange, and it was everything I needed.  I wanted this year to be different, and it was, but what I really want to feel different, I suspect never will.  It will always hurt that Jack is gone, especially on Mother’s Day.

So this week has flown by and dragged on at the same time.  I started it emotionally drained and I am ending it feeling like I have nothing left in my tank.  Something I was really hoping for didn’t work out and it really hit me hard.  I am feeling like I am going to have to let some of this emotion out sooner rather than later but there just isn’t any time.  There is a momentum propelling me forward and it is really the only thing getting me through this weekend.  Next up on the docket is Kennedy’s carnival birthday party and a quick work trip to Boston.

It’ll be next week before I can blink. And so as I said about four thousand words ago, I need to recharge.  Maybe next week?

A quick side note:  I sat with Carter in bed last night and he was “talking” and playing and all of the sudden he looked quickly over at the pictures of Jack on the wall in my room and he smiled a great, big, gummy smile.  I had all of the feels and all of the goose bumps.  I don’t know if it means anything but I’d like to think it does.

The Last Baby

For the last seven months there has been a thought swirling through my head.  I guess it would be better described as a realization than a thought; but in any case, I can’t shake it.  I’ve gone back and forth about whether it was something I’d write about or share but I figure I’ve literally shared just about everything else with you that this shouldn’t be the exception.  From the moment they placed my sweet, chubby Carter Fitzgerald in my arms I have not been able to stop thinking, “this is my last baby.” 

In all honesty I haven’t thought about it very often lately, but as we stood on the beach in North Carolina two weeks ago, visiting Sean’s dad for Easter, Carter’s first beach visit on a windy afternoon, it came rushing to the forefront of my mind; “This is my last baby.” And then suddenly it has been all I can think of.   Everything I am doing with him, everything he does for the first time, it all comes back to the same thing “This is the last first time I will see this.  This is my last baby.” 

Now, I know what you’re thinking because almost every time I’ve uttered that aloud in front of someone I hear the same response: “Oh, you never know! You may decide to have another one some day!“ But here’s the thing, and the is where I have been unsure if I should share: There will be no more babies.  Not that I give birth to.  Not that I will carry for nine months.  Sean and I made a decision about nine or ten months ago that this would be the last pregnancy.  My amazing OB talked with us in great lengths about it all and in the end I decided, for a number of reasons, that I would have my tubes removed.  You may be wondering if I grappled with the finality of it at all and I swear to God the answer is no.  I didn’t need to think about it at all-I knew deep in my bones and from the bottom of my heart that it would be my last pregnancy.  You see, I barely made it through with my sanity.  I felt like I had worked so hard to put myself back together into someone resembling the “old me” but the whole time I was pregnant, the fear built as I wondered what would it look like on the other side for me-would I end up a disaster again?  And so, I knew.  And I delivered my healthy baby without issue, heard his cries and could breathe again, and when the doctor asked one final time if I was sure, I said yes.  And I was.  I am.  But it just means that now when I think, “This is my last baby,” it’s true; I guess I just never anticipated all of the emotion that would come with this.

No baby is perfect, but this boy, he is damn close.  He’s happy, barely cries, he’s quiet, and, up until about two weeks ago, was sleeping through the night like a champ. And the way he looks at his sister, my god, could melt you to a puddle on the floor.  All of this, and so much more, makes you feel like you could have twenty more kids like him-that it would be easy, that you’d want to keep going back for more.  Don’t get me wrong- Kennedy makes my heart beat.   She kept a fire burning in me even when I felt like life was over-but I knew from the minute she started walking at eight months she would challenge me in all of the ways for a very long time to come-I could never handle another Kennedy; the world could not handle another Kennedy.  

The other day in the car I asked Sean if Carter made him feel like he wants another baby.  Now my husband is not a man that oozes with emotion so to ask him “feeling questions” can be perplexing.  He starts talking logistics: cost, where would we put another-we only have three bedrooms, etc., to which I, perhaps too emphatically, reiterated, “FEEL! I asked do you FEEL like you want another baby?” He simply said, “Yes.” I quickly responded with, “Well we can’t,” before I let any kind of regret creep into my mind because the fact is we are just both so in love by this sweet baby, our rainbow, and that’s what that whole exchange was speaking to.  Even if we were to have had any more kids they wouldn’t be like Carter; we all know there are no two kiddos alike.  But truth-be-told I'd be lying if I said I didn't from time to time worry we made a mistake.  It's enough to send me into a full blown panic but then in the next instant everything we went through with Jack and the memories of losing him come rushing forward and I am reassured that it was the right thing for me.  That, if anything over these last few years, I know myself well; I know what is best for me and I know what will keep me together and whole for my husband and babies.  This is my last baby. 

But here we have him, the last baby.  And so I find myself watching his every move so closely, committing everything I can to memory; wanting so badly to make sure I can remember it all clearly down the road, the further away we get from these moments.  I watch him play with Kennedy and think: He is everything she’s waited for. I’m so thankful and relieved we were brave enough to even try for him to begin with.  

I love every moment of him.  But there is something somewhat paralyzing in knowing that a baby is your last, like you don’t want to move forward but rather stay in these moments for as long as you possibly can.  So when I’ve found myself dwelling in this head space these last few weeks, I try to remind myself that though he may be the last baby, and we’re going through so many last Firsts, there is so much life ahead of us; so many firsts to look forward to-for both of my kids-and many more lasts too; and that it’s all ok.  Just as there is so much magic in all of the firsts, there is in the lasts too; maybe even a bit more. 

Where I'm Supposed to Be

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

I’m learning that, in life, everyone will have these moments where they realize that they are exactly where they need to be.  I think it hits us at different times; some really huge moments and then at times where, if you aren't paying close attention, you could miss it altogether.

Two weeks ago was one of those moments for me.  Sean and I, with a lot of help from our wonderful family and friends, saw Jack’s Herd, Inc. host its Second Annual Cocktail Party and Silent Auction.  The build up for this is tremendous, months of planning and phone calls, asking for donation after donation, being shocked and overwhelmed when even more donations than we expected came in; it’s really an amazing process.  But the stress- oh the stress- it builds and I found myself wishing it would just hurry up and get here, not so I could rush it away, but so that I could slow down for a minute and take in everything that has happened since last year for the organization we started to honor the sweet boy that we couldn’t keep.

Putting it all together this year was hard for a lot of reasons.  The main one is a big-eyed, chubby cheeked little man that, though is as un-fussy as they come, makes it hard to do anything else; hard to want to do anything else.   You see, he’s six months already and time is going way too fast and, of this, I am constantly aware.  I already feel like my attention is pulled in so many different directions and I struggle to feel like I am giving enough to any of it, but when it comes to him and his sister, I feel that struggle so much more intensely.  And then I feel guilty, because this is all that Jack gets of us, a party thrown in his name once a year, and so it deserves my full attention.  So what does this all mean for me?  A lot of sleepless nights, a lot of nerve-induced tears, a lot of bickering with Sean and the rest of our board members about what would be best for Jack’s Herd and the event, but it’s this overwhelming sense of love that drove it all forward.  And then it was here. 

So when every single, solitary person you know will be at the same place as you and you’ve planned an adults-only party, what’s a mom to do with her kids?  You ask a friend to drive up from Long Island to help you out!  And what, you may ask, happens when said friend comes down with a big’ole stomach bug?  You beg your baby brother to watch your kids for you.  And what do you do, when said perpetual baby, states, “sure, but I can’t change diapers so…”?  You dress the baby up in his Easter outfit and bring him to a cocktail party. 

After a day of working, and setting up and putting on a pretty awesome rental dress, we were finally on our way, nervously chatting about what we thought the night would bring and be announcing that I scrapped my planned speech and would just wing it.  Needless to say, my stomach hurt and I was regretting the Taco Bell I’d caved and ate out of stress hours earlier.

The venue was beautiful, the auction was amazing and everyone looked great.   And so we stood around and waited.  And once it started it was absolutely incredible.  The turnout was everything I’d hoped for; the smiles on every face made it all worth it.  Sean and I walked to the front of the room to speak and I looked out to tell them what their support this last year did; that they’d helped over sixty grieving families in their worst moments and when I looked up to speak those words, I knew.  I knew I was right where I was supposed to be.  That somehow, these last three years and all of the heartache and healing that went with it had brought me to what I was supposed to do.  And so I opened my heart, wider than I had before in front of everyone, and told them what it all meant for these families, what it meant for mine.  I can’t tell you exactly what I said, though a friend of mine tells me I used the term “shitty consolation prize” which reminds me public speaking is not in my future, but I know my heart felt lighter when it was over.

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

 

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

 photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

And, my God, the support and generosity that was shown that night told me these beautiful people got it.  They understood why what we are trying to do is so important. We surpassed our fundraising goal and expectations.  I spoke with families who had been through something similar and heard about us and decided to be part of it.  I was where I was supposed to be. 

The rest of the days have been filled with thank you letters, and material orders, and attempting to get ourselves organized in our day-to-day life again.  It has been filled with family, and birthday parties for little people we love, and trying solids, and a special night out with my little girl; it has been filled with St. Patty’s Day celebrations-that look much different than they used to, and bridal showers and paint and sips.  It has been busy, and exhausting, and beautiful and it all brought me to where I found myself this morning.

I had the gym waiting for me, and a mound of dishes in the sink, and a pile of thank you notes to handwrite.  But I also had a little girl that came out into the living room after waking up asking to cuddle me, and a husband that was craving pancakes for breakfast, and a baby boy that lets me hold him close and touches my face and kisses his big sister full on the mouth that needed some loving.  And so, again, I stopped for a minute and realized that the rest of it could wait; that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.