Waves

It will always hurt, they said, but no one mentioned the second wave.

The one that came when she was supposed to be born. But wasn’t because I had a miscarriage seven months ago.

No one said pictures of newly born babies that have been flooding my Facebook page would knock me low, again. Or that all the online ads catered to me would be for maternity clothes and boxes of developmental toys.

That it would become difficult to get out of bed or make decisions or eat or spend quality time with my toddler.

That I would apologize to my husband because I want another child so badly that I stopped wanting him for him and started wanting him for what he could give me.

That I would feel guilty for all of the above and that comparing my pain to others’ for perspective would only make me feel worse.

I must have sounded more desperate than I thought, because my mother offered me a ticket to Virginia for a mini-vaca after I told her I was struggling.

A vacation might have refreshed me on the surface but it wouldn’t have solved anything deeper than my farmer’s tan. Instead, I opted to see a therapist.

During my first visit, I realized I never gave myself time to mourn.

The day we found out, we had already made an appointment to pick up a new car the dealership had been holding for us for two weeks. Pinochle club was that night and we needed ugly Christmas sweaters to wear. Christmas festivities and company and a vacation to ring in the new year came next.

By then, everyone — including myself — expected me to be over it, I rationalized, burying the grief.

I didn’t bury it deeply enough, though, and it started to resurface a month or so ago with the flood of baby photos. Then, I found out I (still) am not pregnant and I dissolved.

I’m supposed to be having a baby too.

But she’s not here and I’m exhausted from pretending that someone we love didn’t die just because it’s hard to talk about her. I can’t live in this dark anymore. I can’t miss out on my toddler and my husband and the good things God has blessed us with anymore.

Maybe it was as simple as telling the therapist, a total stranger, all the details, or maybe it was the conversation I had with my husband afterward when he gave me a piece of stained glass as a memorial, or maybe a combination. Whatever it was, I’ve given myself permission to just say it.

So the next time you ask me when we’re planning on giving Squidget a sibling, be prepared to hear the truth.

We’re still recovering from a miscarriage, I’ll say.

I don’t want you to be sad for us. I just want to acknowledge the life we love but never met.

 

 

Thankful

What are you thankful for, the pastor asked Sunday.

One woman said she was thankful for the help she received that made moving her trailer home possible.

Are you going to say you’re thankful for moving here, too, husband asked.

Yes, but to do so would take longer than a second sermon, and I probably wouldn’t be able to make it through the first two words without tears.

On the surface, it looks like I’m crazy.

I traded in a town with a children’s museum, carousel and umpteen coffee shops for a town with 185 residents at last count, no museums and a half-hour drive to the nearest espresso. The region of Montana also is known for bitter temperatures pushed in by raging winds, with a lack of ski hills nearby.

This place, though, has become Squidget’s.

She is confident, outgoing and doesn’t need a museum, what with all the fun adventures she can get into in the sprawling barnyard. And I’m thankful for the time to enjoy those adventures with her.

I’m thankful for more than the move. I’m thankful for the kind of place that becomes part of your soul and that’s already part of Squidget’s heart.

 

 

 

A real sh8%$! day

My husband doesn’t understand why I’m always tired. After all, all I do all day is cook and clean. Our house is small and only three people live in it.

I’m tired because I spend each day on high alert, I tell him.

The moment I relax is the moment Squidget eats her own poop.

True story.

I was in her room grabbing clothes while she air dried after her bath.

What I found when I saw her again — a pile of poop on the carpet and more of it smeared over her face and hands — required a second bath.

And all this happened before 8 a.m.

So that poopy day you think you’re having, it could be just that — literally.

Reaping change

Motherhood was not for me.

Then, it happened.

Fine, but I’d never give up my career.

Then, I did.

No matter what my supportive boss’ or my intentions, being a reporter encroaches bit by bit on your life outside of the newsroom, especially when I have workaholic tendencies. I found myself breastfeeding Squidget while desperately typing an article with one hand to try and meet deadline and handing her to Jared as we passed each other on our ways to and from work.

Work demands coupled with breastfeeding supply issues and a turbulent daycare situation brought me to a breaking point.

So when my brother-in-law approached us about returning to the family farm, I was more receptive to the idea than I ever imagined I would be.

Becoming farmers meant big changes, including giving up both of our jobs (that we loved) and our house in a town in which we saw ourselves staying for decades.

The changes would have positives too: the opportunity to spend more meaningful time together, for Squidget to know her great grandparents, to see my East Coast family more than once or twice a year, and for us to travel.

Those opportunities won out.

I thought I would write again sooner, but it turns out it was easier to turn my back on my previous life as I embarked on my new one just as harvest time rolled around.

Here on the prairie, I hope to harvest more than wheat.

I hope to harvest time with my child and family; the precious, once-in-a-lifetime moments I was so afraid of missing when I still worked; new skills and interests; and adventures.

Already, Squidget is more secure and independent, and she loves the dirt, rocks, cows, four-wheelers and her cousins.

Seeing her flourish is enough to make the upheaval worthwhile, and Jared agrees that we have no regrets in the move.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not without emotional struggles of letting go of the identity I had cultivated before I donned my new persona of mom and farm wife.

These pages will be dedicated to the mayhem of motherhood and the process of, hopefully, coming through it all to have a good harvest.