Not Scarred For Life

This is a post that I've had whirling in my head for a long time. I need to hear this reminder frequently. Some other mom out there needs to hear it, too.

I was hospitalized before Little Brother was born due to pregnancy complications. After Little Brother was born, he was in the NICU for ten weeks. I spent all day every day at the hospital with him. It was almost as if I was hospitalized, too. There are a lot of musings from that time period about which I will write in the future. That story has to be told bit by bit by bit, the way it was experienced.

Today, though, as a friend is facing a similar trial, heavy on my heart is the part of the story that affected Big Brother. You see, he was not quite three years old and suddenly his life plunged into chaos. During that time, my heart broke to be apart from him. His third birthday came and went without much ado. Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's came and went… and his mommy was absent. He missed me. He wanted me to "snuggle" him on the couch. He would hold my hand to his cheek when he saw me, and close his eyes as if being near me was complete bliss.

I told some people how I felt about it, and everyone would say, "Well, at least he won't remember it!" I tried to comfort myself somehow with that thought - he was small enough that he wouldn't remember it. He wouldn't have to carry that burden his whole life. Isn't this what we do? We worry about how we are "scarring our children for life" with the things that we say and do or don't say and don't do. There is always guilt associated with every facet of motherhood… guilt associated with both sides of every single decision. 

God gave me a verse to which I clung in desperation throughout Little Brother's hospitalization and the months that followed his homecoming:

I fought fear every day. It was an excruciating, exhausting battle, but I reminded myself that He loved my boys so much more than I love them. I had to surrender them to Him time and time again.

I still clung to the hope that Big Brother wouldn't be scarred for life by my absence when Little Brother was born and hospitalized. Then, one day, just a few short months ago, I heard Big Brother say to Little Brother, "You were in the hospital for a LONG TIME. But don't worry. You don't have to go back there EVER AGAIN."

Tears stung my eyes, and my heart sunk with the realization that he had not forgotten. For a short time, I was tortured by this. I wondered how it was going to affect him in the future; I worried that he was "scarred for life."

Then something clicked in my head. I don't know if it was the Holy Spirit whispering to my heart or what, but these words came to me: Yes, he remembers. He remembers and he is okay. Quite simply, it was part of his journey, just like the things that have hurt me in my life were part of my journey. I realized that just as there is no part of my life, no hurt, no circumstance, that is beyond the redemption of Christ - that same truth applies to the hurts in the lives of my loved ones! He can redeem my mistakes as a mother and use them for good. Of course, it will be up to my boys, but it will be their choice. They do not have to be scarred for life.

Imperfectly Perfect Christmas

Being the idealist that I am, last year I had grand plans for the Christmas season, including lots of quality time with Big Brother, decorating, shopping, baking and doing crafts together. Then our lives blew up with the premature birth of Little Brother and suddenly I didn't care about any holidays at all. Fast forward through 2013. Every month I thought (and talked) about how I didn't get to have "last Christmas" the way that I had wanted. I thought (and talked!) about how this year would be different. I spun dream webs in my head of a perfectly decorated house, filled with the smells of freshly baked Christmas goodies; I saw Big Brother and I doing crafts together and discussing the Christmas story.

What IS this dream world in which I insist upon residing? Sometimes, I just need a smack in the head.

Obviously, my idealistic dreams have not been reality (and will continue to not be reality for the rest of my life, I'm sure). I'm not being defeatist here. I'm just admitting that what I want probably isn't what is best for me. Here is reality: the Christmas baking that I've attempted so far has been hastily done between interruptions that sound like this:

"STOP sitting on your brother!"
"Why are you crying? OH. You need your diaper changed!"
"Please take your hand out of your pants."
"STOP climbing on the ________."
"No, you may not watch more TV."
"No, you may not ________."

I'd love to bake a long list of traditional Christmas cookies, but all I've done so far (and I probably won't do any more) is to dip some pretzels in white chocolate, make peppermint bark, pecan tartlets and pizelles.

My tree, while pretty, isn't the way that I would want it. Part of this is due to the small hands that helped to decorate it. Part of it is due to the small hands that continually take ornaments OFF the tree (because they look delicious?). My Christmas decorations are limited to a tree, a nativity candle holder (which I love) and two stockings hung haphazardly high out of the reach of little hands. These items, I might add, are hung on an incomplete entertainment center.

My favorite nativity!

How our living room currently looks.

For a few days after we put up our tree, I was inwardly bemoaning the fact that the incompletion of our project (that's right; STILL not finished) has once again ruined my idealistic picture of how I wanted Christmas to be this year. Then, as I was lying on the floor in front of the tree, holding Little Brother in the air to make him laugh, I was reminded of something.

"Last year," I told him, still holding him aloft, "I would have given anything to have you home for Christmas, even with an incomplete house." Tears sprang to my eyes and I brought him to my chest for a big hug.

Attitude: adjusted.

Merry Christmas!

Turning Blue

The Downton Abbey craze hit me after Christmas. (Spoiler alert! Do not continue reading if you don't already know what happens in season 3.) My sister bought me seasons 1 and 2 on blu ray and I started watching them after Little Brother came home from the hospital. I fell in love with the characters and got caught up in the story line. Then I started watching season 3 and after the first episode, things started going downhill rather quickly. I'm not even excited about season 4. In fact, I doubt I'll watch it. I almost despise Downton Abbey now.

Lady Sybil (Photo Credit)

It started with Sybil, and turning blue.

Lady Sybil dies in a terrifying, excruciating childbirthing scene. The acting is beyond stellar. Essentially, she suffocates before her family's eyes, turning a devastating shade of blue that was all-too-familiar to me.

Little Brother turned that same shade of blue.

When Little Brother was in the NICU, I would hold him for a certain time period every day. They call it "skin-to-skin" or "Kangaroo Care" and it is mommy-baby bonding time. One day, as I was holding him, his Dr came to speak to us.

"He is doing really well," the Dr. said. "I think we may move him to the Special Care Nursery. He might even be home by Christmas!"

I was delighted by this, naturally! I could almost see the words "Home For Christmas" hanging in the air like a cartoonish speech bubble above the Dr.'s head. They didn't have time to evaporate in my imagination before Little Brother's monitor started beeping loudly.

While he was in the hospital, Little Brother was hooked up to all kinds of monitors. The one that had started beeping was his oxygen saturation monitor. As long as his oxygen levels stayed above 85%, all was well. His levels had dropped.

This, in itself, was not altogether startling. In fact, it happened all of the time. I turned to look at the monitor, trying to massage Little Brother's back at the same time to stimulate his breathing a bit. That usually worked.

Not this time. The oxygen saturation number dropped, and kept dropping, and Little Brother's face was blue and suddenly a nurse stepped in, whisked him from my arms and started helping him breathe with the dreaded green bag.

Time slowed, and the moment was burned into my brain. I could still see his little blue face, and all that I could do was watch helplessly. Please God, Please God, Please God, Please God... That was the only prayer I could come up with at the moment. I could almost hear the Holy Spirit groan.

It felt like an eternity passed, but the numbers on the monitor slowly began to rise and soon the monitor stopped its incessant alarm. He was safe.

This turning blue thing that Little Brother did happened more times than I care to count. Every time it happened, I was afraid. It was in those moments that I clung to Isaiah 49:16 and remembered Hannah, who gave Samuel to the Lord.

That's - partially - why I'm not a huge Downton Abbey fan any longer.



Today's Blogtember assignment was to tell about a time when I was afraid.