I blame a lot of things on my children. The dark, puffy circles under my eyes. The pudgy bulge of skin surrounding my waistline. My inability to remember anything for longer than 5 minutes. But there is one thing that I blame on them that I honestly believe they contribute to – missing objects in the Clemens home.
I HATE losing stuff. When something is lost — and I am aware that it’s missing — I turn into a human hurricane blowing through the house leaving a trail of destruction as I scramble until the object is found. For some reason I become completely obsessed, lapsing into an I-can’t-do-anything-else-until-I-find-that-stupid-thing panic mode.
You should have seen me last spring when I lost my 2-year-old’s baby book. I stayed up looking for it until midnight to no avail. I felt so bad that I bought a new book and tried to re-record every baby milestone that I could remember. A couple months later I found the stupid thing in the bottom of my dresser. Now he has two baby books.
Then there was the time last week when I was stressed out of my mind because “we” had misplaced my oldest son’s giant shark-tooth fossil. Don’t worry it was in his closet.
I worry about losing stuff, and stuff that I can’t find, 24 hours a day. You’d think that while my children were sleeping I could put my mind at ease. But half of the time they lose stuff in the dark of the night. They insist on sleeping with certain toys and I agree only with the hope that letting them lay by their toy will help them go to sleep faster and stay asleep longer. But somehow toys get lost in their sea of covers or stuck down the impossible-to-get-to crack between their beds and wall. For the past several weeks I have found my 2-year-old’s metal toy gun in the gap between his bedrail and mattress. I’ve trained myself to check that spot each morning before breakfast.
I think part of my losing-stuff paranoia stems from my concern of what others might think of me. Laugh if you must, but deep down I think that if I lose anything that means I am a sloppy, unorganized maniac. I worry that if I tell a friend something is lost, they’ll imagine my home as a hoarder’s paradise where objects frequently go missing in my mountainous junk piles.
I promise you that I keep a tidy home, but if I was organized and my house was clean I wouldn’t lose anything, right?
Well, maybe if I didn’t have sons with sticky fingers. A lot of my “lost” objects wouldn’t be “lost” without their help. The 2-year-old is the worst. He thinks it’s hilarious to toss random objects in random places. I can’t do any laundry these days without first checking to see if he’s thrown anything into my basket.
Take my planner for example. I lost it a couple of months ago, and therefore lost my calendar, contact information and lists of everything I might possibly need to do for the next year or so. I kid you not, on the day that I was heading to the store to buy another one I found the little blue notebook in the back of my boys’ closet. It was shoved behind the swords and guns. Ironically I was looking for a “lost” toy at the time. I am sure that the little man threw it back there.
I wish our lost objects only got lost at home. But my children have an annoying habit of taking toys with them wherever we go. I don’t know how many times I have had to run back into my mom’s house to search for something after I have already buckled them into the car. And who knows how many things we’ve left at Wal-Mart.
I think I am losing my mind. Maybe I need to get on some losing-stuff stress-reducing medicine. Maybe I just need to realize I’m not going to be able to hang on to everything and even if it kills me, let some of the less important objects remain lost.
I was tired, I was huge and I was ready to have my baby boy. But not ready for the way it would all turn out. I would have happily carried him weeks beyond my due date if it meant he had a chance of being born alive.
Honestly? I wasn’t quite ready for a third child. I always wanted my kids close in age, but my two boys, ages 3 and 1, were a lot to handle. I was okay with waiting a while. But both my husband and I had strong impressions that we needed to try for another baby.
Despite those impressions, I was still extremely nervous about how I could be a good mom to three boys under the age of 3. Each day I grew, not only in circumference, but also in my confidence in being able to raise three tiny sprits.
On April 21, 2010 I had my 37-week check-up. Luca’s movement had been slowing down significantly for a while now and I was worried. I discussed my concerns with my doctor and we listened to his heartbeat, which appeared to be strong. So, my doctor and I decided that maybe little Luca was running out of room in my overcrowded womb.
The beginning of my pregnancy was a piece of cake. I felt better than I had with my other pregnancies and had virtually no morning sickness. But the end was pretty bad. I kept having sharp pains in my side and my muscles were aching.
Fearing the worst
My mother-in-law kept my other two boys while I went to my appointment so I decided to lie down and take a nap until she brought them home. That’s when I started panicking because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt Luca move.
I know what some of you are thinking? Why didn’t you rush to the hospital??? Knowing what I know now, my advice to any pregnant woman who is the least bit concerned about her baby, would be, GET TO THE HOSPTIAL, NOW. Speed if you have to. What are they going to do? Tell you your baby’s fine and send you home? Hopefully. Laugh in your face about your unnecessary worries? Never. In all reality, even if I had been in labor and delivery when Luca’s heart stopped beating, they still wouldn’t have been able to save him. There wasn’t anything I could have done. I realize that now. But there are other reasons why babies stop moving. In my opinion it’s just better to get it checked out as soon as possible.
I literally worried all night about my Luca’s movement. I think the strong feelings and confirmations I had received that I was supposed to have another baby kept me waiting for his little legs to kick or his fists to punch. Luca’s pregnancy was my only pregnancy I haven’t run into problems conceiving. I thought that was a sure sign that this truly was meant to be. It was meant to be, just not in the way I hoped or expected.
I waited, and waited for him to move. Finally at about 2:30 a.m. I couldn’t take it any longer. I got up and sat in the bathtub for a long time. Travis came in and convinced me to go to the hospital. My mom came over to sit with my boys so we could run up to the hospital. When I got there, they hooked me up to a monitor and we found the baby’s heartbeat. Well, at least we thought we did — turns out the sound of my own heartbeat was reverberating back. We didn’t know that for sure until they hooked me up to a basic ultra sound machine and zoomed in on the heart. I knew immediately that my son had died. I looked at my husband and he knew it too. We had seen a number of live, beating hearts in ultrasounds. This one was still.
But the nurses said nothing. They tried to remain calm as they called my doctor and asked him to come in. He arrived at about 4 a.m. to confirm my baby’s death. We all cried — nurses included. He told me I could go home and come back later to deliver my baby or he could induce me right away.
The thought of leaving the hospital knowing that I was carrying my dead child made me cringe. I knew that having a stillborn was going to be the worst thing I had ever experienced. Delaying it wouldn’t change anything. They wheeled me into a corner room and posted a grieving sign on the door.
Shortly thereafter we started calling family members to let them know they were going to have to come in sometime that day to simultaneously tell Luca “hello” and “goodbye.”
Sharing the Heart-Breaking News
My poor mother. She was the first to hear of his death. And she had to take the news while watching over my other two little ones in my quiet, lonely home. I can’t imagine how alone she must have felt. She texted me a while after I called to tell her he had died, asking what she should tell my other boys when they woke up. That literally broke my heart. What did I want her to tell them?
We didn’t want to tell him that their brother was “sleeping” or that he was “gone.” We decided to tell them the truth. That he had died. They were sad, but their grief was expressed differently than an adult. They didn’t cry much but they did throw more tantrums and asked to be held a lot more.
Telling people and hearing their reactions was one of the hardest things for me. I could handle the pain that I was going to have to bear, but having to inflict some of that pain on others made me so sad. It still makes me sad.
Our family members started gathering at the hospital and at our home waiting for the time when they would meet Luca. I knew we would only ever have a few hours with him and so I prepared to face my nightmare with a smile on my face. This was the only time I was going to hold my baby. The only time I could take pictures of his beautiful face. I wasn’t going to let my grief overcome my ability to make the moments meaningful.
I don’t know if it’s all in my head, but I don’t think I had the full power of my epidural during his delivery. It was by far my most painful delivery. Not only emotionally, but physically. Maybe that’s because I didn’t have the anticipation of meeting my healthy baby to pull me through. With each painful push, I knew I was a step closer to meeting a baby I wouldn’t take home. I’ll never forget the shock in my doctor and nurses voices and faces as Luca was born. They all gasped in unison. He had suffered a cord accident that was visible the moment he was delivered. The cord was wrapped around his neck several times and it contained a true knot. Umbilical cord knots are extremely rare and knots resulting in a baby’s death are even more rare. Although I will never be grateful for what happened to my son, there is something I am extremely grateful for: The fact that we found out why he died.
He was born at 5:13 p.m. and weighed 5 pounds 13 ounces. He was beautiful with curly reddish brown hair and rosy red cheeks. We each took turns holding him and taking pictures. Utah Share came and casted molds of his hands and feet. Pat Wimpee came and took dozens of priceless photos of him and our family. I don’t know what I’d do without those photos. I think I would forget the details of his face. The wrinkles of his toes. The size of his tiny fingers. At times I stared at his little body, waiting for his chest to rise or his eyes to open. He literally was perfect.
We had Luca in our hospital room for five short hours. My legs were still numb from my epidural, so I was forced to watch everyone’s encounters with him from the comfort of my hospital bed. That was really hard for me. I wanted to hug and comfort everyone and yet I was stuck on the sidelines. I am sure that those who came to the hospital to meet him will forever be changed. There was such a special spirit in the room. It was a terribly sad, yet wonderfully peaceful experience.
The next several days were a blur. I left the hospital on a Friday morning. That afternoon I sat in the mortuary office preparing a funeral. We had a very small service on Monday, just four days after I delivered. Thank heavens for pain medications. Without those my traditional delivery pains coupled with the pain of my milk coming in, would have been unbearable. I buried my baby and part of my heart on April 26, 2010.
How am I dealing with his death?
I believe, as my religion teaches, that I will raise little Luca someday. Sometimes that thought brings great comfort, other times it is little solace for a grieving mother who longs to hold her angel infant now. Although he is in a better place, free from sorrow and sin, I wanted the challenge of raising him in this crazy world. Wanted to see him wrestle with his older brothers or hear him giggle as the three of them cooked up mischief. I hate that we don’t get to have him now.
I have experienced all of the traditional grief stages at least once. I have felt depressed, angry, honored, jealous, comforted, tired, rude, bitter, overwhelmed, out of control, anxious, stressed and unmotivated. There have been times I have sat on my couch, not wanting to do anything. Then other times that I feel an urgency to give back to others in honor of my son’s memory. I have yet to find a happy medium. I have heard people say that the first year is the hardest. I pray that’s true.
This past year has literally been the year from hell. Yet despite the darkness I have felt, there are a few things that have relieved my sorrows.
What do I do when the grief is too much to bear?
I take long soaks in the bathtub where I blast Pink on my radio and cry until my eyes are strawberry red.
I watch movies like Tangled and sob when I see Rapunzel reunited with her parents. I wish I only had to wait 18 years to meet my “lost” baby.
I take my boys fishing. Fresh air and the beauty of nature clear my head and remind me of my place in the world.
I lay by my other boys while they are sleeping. I put my hand on their chest to feel their heart beating and their lungs filling with air. That reminds me of the beautiful boys I do get to raise on Earth. I can’t let myself take them for granted.
I start finding something I can do for others. I know it sounds cheesy, but serving others has been my saving grace this month. I have sewn 20 baby blankets and crocheted a dozen beanies to give to other families whose babies die. I understand the need to be still and internalize my grief and emotions, but sometimes it’s overwhelming. I have to find a productive way to patch over my grief until my emotions settle and I’m able to digest them.
Finally, I write through my heartache. Writing has always been a way for me to work through life’s problems. I imagine I’ll write through this problem my entire life.
I just have to keep reminding myself that life is hard, life is good and life is necessary.
Why on earth would you teach your 18-month-old baby to read? You don’t teach someone to run before they can walk, so why teach someone to read before they can talk?
There is a commercial on my children’s favorite cartoon station for a learning program that claims it can teach any child to read. The commercial features a man showing an 18-month old flash cards with words on them like “foot.” The baby then points to her foot, demonstrating that she knows how to “read” that word. She can’t even talk. How can she “read”?
A doctor created the reading program for his daughter. But now it’s gone viral, penetrating every half-hour cartoon my children watch on this channel.
Seriously? So you teach your child to read before they are two. Then what? Do you force them into doing algebra by the time they are five? Are they speaking multiple languages at 10? Do they graduate from high school at 13? Enter college before they’ve hit puberty?
Don’t get me wrong I was ecstatic when my four-year-old read his first book a couple of months ago. He has now entered the exciting world of reading! A world I devote a lot of my time to. But the child is four, not 18 months.
I love my children. I want them to be smart. I want them to be successful. But I don’t want them to miss out on being children. There is a time and a season for all things.
Right now I want them to play in the mud looking for bugs. I want them to roll down the grassy hill in my back yard staining their knees. I want them to dump toys all over their bedroom floor in the name of fun. I even want them to pick their nose – as long as they don’t wipe boogers on my wall. That’s what kids do!
Sometimes I think we as parents worry that our children won’t be “smart” enough unless we invest in programs that push them intellectually. I think it’s important to encourage our children to learn and grow, but I don’t think we should force them to grow up too soon.
Personally I worry that if I shove learning down my kids’ throats I will prematurely catapult them from childhood. There will come a day when they are asked to turn in reading charts or meet reading-page quotas. For now we will have story time at our house on a regular basis, but I will do the reading.
Thank you for acting like a complete jerk when I asked you to help me find a simple jewelry-making item in your store. I am sure it was horribly rude for me to pull you away from setting up that amazing aisle display to see if you knew where a basic product was.
I really appreciated the way you looked at me like I was an alien recently landed from Mars. Oh, and I loved when you told me you “might” have what I was looking for and then turned back to your “work.”
I guess I can see a little bit where you are coming from. It must be hard to help customers when you have to focus on listening to that craft-store circuit radio headpiece. I bet it’s difficult for you to do that and hang up your aisle display at the same time.
I should never have interrupted. But I promise it won’t happen again.
My favorite part about our interaction was the why-in-the-world-did-you-bring-your-children-in-here? look you gave me. Do you seriously think I would have brought my 4- and 2-year-old boys into a crowded craft store to pick up one jewelry piece if I had a choice? Why in the heck do you think I was asking you to help me find something to begin with? I was hoping you would steer me in the right direction and I could avoid chasing my monsters down unnecessary aisles where the temptation to tear craft supplies from random shelves is uncontrollable.
Trust me it was in your best interest to help me, and help me quickly.
Maybe next time a busy mother comes in your store with two rowdy young children instead of looking at her with a rude, glazed-over stare and making her feel like a complete idiot you should put down your all-important “work,” check your pride at the door and actually muster up some customer service.
Boogers on the Wall 