Dear Miss Gabby...

Dear Miss Gabriela Marie,

Well, my love, you had it your way. Eight days ago, you decided it was finally your time. We talked you out of it for six weeks, but in the end, you made your grand entrance into the world on your own time and in your own way. It's sort of your thing - living life your own way. Some say it is important to always remember that your reputation precedes you. In your case, this is exactly how I want it to stay. Because you're a fighter. And a mover. And a total shaker. And the doctors and nurses are in awe of you. For the record, they will have to get in line. So, while I wish I could have convinced you to stay inside a little longer, just know you have me mesmerized. I am so madly and deeply in love with every inch of who you are, and so very, very, very grateful that you are here, safe and sound. So here begins our first of many heart-to-hearts. Brace yourself, sweet baby girl, because this mama has some stuff to say.

The last seven weeks have been what some would call a journey. I remember vividly screaming at the Universe when I thought we were going to lose you, "What exactly am I supposed to learn here?" Apparently a lot. Like a lot-a lot. About perspective. And strength. And humanity. And faith. And about all the places God lives. This is a lot of lessons to be taught by a 2 pound, 9 ounce, 15 inch being. But it is exactly what you have done for me, and I want you to know I listened. I totally listened.

Like how in normal life, we don't often see the value of a single day. We take lots of days for granted. But when you're forced to lie in bed, day after day, because someone's life depends on it, well let me tell you, every single day matters. Even if you claim it doesn't to you, it does to someone else. It doesn't mean the day will be a good one or a fun one or an easy one. But it still matters. It's about perspective, my love. And God knows you gave me a grand ol' dose of just that.

I also didn't know how strong I am. Or how strong your daddy is. And your brothers. And you. I just didn't know that as a unit, we had this tenacity, this ability to pick ourselves up from the very bottom of our bootstraps and persevere. Your brothers have amazed me with how well they adjusted to having me in bed. Your daddy has rocked it, day in and day out, like it's 1999. And I did it. I really did it. I didn't know I could do it. And then you came, and in the last eight days, you have put our combined strength to shame. Your doctor says you act like a 38-week-old baby, not a 28-week-old one. Your nurses tell me you are perfection. You're a pistol, Gabby Marie, and I love it. I'm obsessed with it. Damn, we're strong. You taught us that.

And then there's humanity. And faith. And the places God lives. Perhaps they are all one in the same. Perhaps they manifest themselves differently for different people and different times. Nonetheless, this little journey has brought out the best in people, from their actions to their words. People are so, so good, so much of the time, and these people - this village we have somehow created for ourselves - are waiting for you to come home. They are the very best people I know. And they have never left me. Or you. Not once. Between them and you, my faith has grown - in people and in God. Maybe that's one in the same, too, but we will try and leave the super heavy stuff for a little later. The funny thing is, lots of people right now are talking about this famous TV guy who said some really not-so-nice stuff about groups of people as if they weren't human. And somehow, some people think God lives in his words. I think some people should spend some time in the NICU. Maybe then they will see where God really lives. Just sayin', my girl. Just sayin'. I guess it's about perspective again, huh? Life often comes full circle, sweet pea. It's funny that way.

I love you, Gabby Marie, more than words can express. You are the very best parts of all of us, and I am in awe of you. Of all of you. You have forever changed us, in every way for the better, and are truly a miracle. May you never forget your worth, your strength, and your ability to move mountains. Welcome to the world, sweet baby girl. Welcome.You complete us. 

Love,

Your Mama



One Month

 

It just hit me. It's been one month today. We have made it one whole month, and I am not sure I have ever felt more accomplished in my whole life.

 

That's a big statement coming from someone who has spent this one whole month lying in bed. I used to fantasize about lying in bed. I dreamed of it. I yearned for it. Now I would do anything to get out of this damn thing.

 

But we have made it one whole month, baby girl and I, and I couldn't be more humbled, more grateful, more in awe of people's humanity, and some days, perhaps more grumpy. But whatever.

 

And oh, the lessons I have learned. Lessons I will never, ever forget.

 

Like lessons about my people - you know, those people that make up that village we so often refer to in poetry - are the best people I know. My people have fed us for the last month. My people have called and texted and written cards and dropped by just to say hi. They have listened to me cry and reminded me to breathe. Sometimes my people bring Dilly Bars and books and blankets and brownies and hot chocolates and burgers and movies, and they sit in my bed beside me to shoot the shit. You have no idea how much shooting the shit in bed means to someone who can't get out of bed. My people have watched my kids and picked up my kids and taken my kids to get a Christmas tree and taken my kids to make Christmas ornaments and most importantly of all, loved my kids like I do. This is, after all, how you ultimately know who your real people are.

 

Like lessons about my family. It's funny how in times of crisis, you want your mom. I want my mom. And so she comes, with People magazines and newspapers and an unrelenting commitment to my boys to literally smother them in love. She is the giver of pep talks and the carrier of hope, and she loves me so deeply and so dearly that I just want her. I want my mom. You know how it goes. And my mother-in-law. I want her too. She brings me knitting projects and sandwiches and takes my cat to get groomed. Yes, groomed. I love this woman. And my father-in-law who finishes yard projects and runs to Costco and hauls hospital beds into my living room - yeah, I love him too. And my brother and sister and their families who come into town to run my children ragged and who call me all the time just to remind me they are there or to complain about the sound of Rachel Ray's voice - God, I love them so much.

 

Oh, and the lessons about marriage and about knowing you found the right one. You know those articles people pass around about  "The 10 Keys to a Successful Marriage"? The ones that say stupid crap like, "Never pee in front of each other" and "Do it all the time"? Yeah, they're stupid. So freaking stupid. And wrong. Because sometimes the shit hits the fan, and sometimes where and when you pee and how many times you manage to do it in a month mean SHIT. Yep, that's right. I said it. Because this husband of mine is a freaking warrior. He has taken the reigns with grace and strength and through exhaustion and stress, still manages to look me in the eye and say, "Love, I may have the busy part, but you have the hard part. Don't ever forget it." I love this man. I don't know what I did to deserve him. But I know I found the right one.

 

Perhaps the biggest lesson of all is the one about parenting. When you're in the trenches, it often feels like one failure after another. Why are they beating the crap out of each other with spatulas? You are seriously throwing yourself on the floor because I won't let you wear shorts? In 32 degree weather? Dude, is there a reason you are standing on top of your chest of drawers? When you are banished to the sidelines, you are forced to observe. And when you observe, you see the truth. The truth is, they are amazing and strong and resilient and kind. They say "thank you" and "please" and "I'll be gentle, mama." They still beat the crap out of each other with spatulas, but you know, they also have each other's backs in a way that is fierce and committed and real. They are brothers, through and through, and I am so very proud of who they are and who they are becoming. To say I love them feels inadequate. I love them so much it hurts.

 

And let's not forget the lessons that only weeks and weeks of bed rest can offer. Like 'Downton Abbey' might be the best all-time show ever made, and I don't understand why Matthew can't just come lay in bed with me. I just need a day. One day. Did you know there are people who spend $30,000 on wedding dresses? And that you could potentially fix an entire week of meals in one day? Did you know that online Christmas shopping is soooooooo much better than going to the stores? I love it. With a passion.

 

We have made it a month. A month of lessons and most importantly, of life.

 

Just three more to go.

 

 

 



Miracles

 

 

We have a daughter.

 

And we almost lost her.

 

In the last five days, I have been brought to my knees and humbled by the power of miracles. Because the thing is, she is still here, and that is indeed a miracle. Still, I pray for another one, and so  here I am, typing at my computer, praying for one more.

 

Late afternoon on Sunday, it became abundantly clear in a span of five seconds that something was wrong. That pressure I was feeling was my baby's sac, coming out. The terror I felt is indescribable, but I followed my instincts.

 

An ambulance ride later, Trevor and I were given devastating news. I was almost all the way dilated. There was very little cervix left. I was 22 1/2 weeks pregnant. Baby would probably not make it. But the doctor would try. We were given a 25% chance of success at the placement of an emergency cerclage. We took it.

 

I was put asleep and the surgery was performed. When I awoke, we were delivered our first miracle. The surgery went  remarkably well. The doctor was able to do the procedure with great success. Our chances of eventually delivering a healthy baby went to 80%.

 

It's a bit hard to fall to your knees when laying in a hospital bed in a recovery room, but in my mind and in my heart, I did. We were given a miracle. And I haven't stopped praying since.

 

The following morning, we had an ultrasound. Three - who was once announced as a he, is now most definitely a she.

 

We have a daughter. A daughter who is fighting to be here.

 

And I want to know her, with every fiber of my being.

 

So we wait. We wait for her to stay put, to grow, to arrive safely and healthily preferably in a few months time. But I understand that as I lay here on bed rest doing my part, the rest is in God's hands.

 

And so I pray for another miracle. The miracle to one day look my daughter in the eyes and say, "You have a way of making a point, my love."

 

I pray.

 

 

Transitions

 

It's November. And I have a knack for stating the obvious.

 

I do not know where time is going. I do know that we spend an awful lot of time in October on all things pumpkins and pumpkin patches and pumpkin donuts and pumpkin patch field trips and pumpkin craving and, of course, some good ol' fashioned tick-or-treating.

 



 

 

I love the fall. I love the switch to cooler mornings and crisper evenings. I love the greens turning to reds and yellows and oranges. I love the routine found at school with students finally settling in.

Those who know me best, however, would be able to verfiy with certainty that I do not, however, in general, love change. Transitioning is not my strong suit.

 

But fall. Fall I can do.

 

And I know I am biased, but my children are delicious. Delicious and hysterical and bouncing off the walls and so much freaking fun. I love them with every square millimeter of my body.

 

Speaking of tranisitions, the one growing inside me is a funny little bugger. I have decided I am naming him/her Ralph Macchio. 'Cause he/she is the next karate kid.

 

And yes, I said him/her. And he/she.

 

You think you're confused???

 

I realize I made a little announcement that looked a little something like this:

 

Well, let's just say a little trip to the Emergency Room for a little dehydration that came as the result of a little stomach flu resulted in a little ultrasound. And that little ultrasound resulted in a little conversation that went like this:

 

Doctor: Do you know what you are having?

Me: I think a boy!

Doctor: I wouldn't bet on that.

Me: What did you just say?

Doctor: I can't officially say anything, but do you see the thighs there?

Me: Yes.

Doctor: Well, there's "nothing" there. Make of it what you will.

Did I mention I don't do transitions well? Yeah, the Universe is a funny, funny Beast.

And yet, life is good and I know this, with all that I am.

I  love the fall, I love my babies, and I love Ralph Macchio.

The end.

 

 

 

 

Three

The possibility of three has resided in the back of my mind since Noah was born.

 

Three.

 

Perhaps because I am one of three. Perhaps because I love the two I have more than I knew was possible. Perhaps because I somehow forgot how miserably sick I was when pregnant with Noah, confirming my own suspicions that perhaps I am certifiably insanse, because  I do remember vowing that I would never, ever forget that.

 

Three.

 

Nine days after #1 turned 3 and three days before #2 turned 2, I demanded that Trevor run to Safeway to buy me The Test. It was 9 o'clock at night. I wasn't even late yet. But I knew. The way only a pregnant woman's boobs know. And so he went, returned with The Test, and I dropped trow and did what I was supposed to do.

 

One minute later, what I already knew suddenly became true.

 

Three.

 

 

All of my plans of documenting our summer adventures - of church camp and time with cousins and swimming and dirt piles and all things California, like Disneyland, the beach, Knott's Berry Farm, an enormous science center, and of course, more Disneyland - fell to the way side and this one fell to her knees.

 

Because, you see, Three has been a force to be reckoned with. Three has knocked this mama on her big fat behind. Nausea and vomiting and exhaustion have taken on whole new proportions. Sometimes I have thought I might not make it. Dramatic, but true. All the while, there have been lives to take care of and students to teach and life goes on whether you need to puke your guts out or not.

 

And today, we are still standing, Three and I. Which I suppose is all you can ask for sometimes.

 

And I love Three. Already. Which scares the begeezus out of me, but what can you do?

 

'Cause this is Three. At 12 weeks.

 

And this is Three at 16 1/2 weeks

 

And a week from today, Three will become a He or a She to us (my hunch is He...).

 

And I pray that five months from now, Three will join us, safely and soundly, as the Smith Grand Finale.

 

Three.  

 

The encore.

 

 The caboose.

 

The fat lady has sung.

 

 

 

Sometimes

Sometimes I wish I didn't know.

Because when you know, sometimes it consumes you.

And then sometimes you get scared for what it all means - for your neighborhood, for your community, for your world.

For their world.

 

 

Sometimes I wish it wasn't about black or white. Or about who loves who. Or about whose God is right. But often it seems to be. And so sometimes, it consumes me.

 

Because I just don't understand.

 

Several years ago, I went to a Bebo Norman concert with some friends. I love me some Bebo. And I loved him some more when he purported that what we should always ask ourselves is not where is God, but where are God's people?

 

I just don't understand. I do not understand how the same people who fight for life don't do the same when it involves a 17-year-old black boy who was just trying to walk home.

 

A 17-year-old black boy who didn't start the fight. Who didn't have the gun. Who was being followed by a stranger. And who clearly didn't have the right to defend himself. Not in life and not in death.

 

And this consumes me. Where are God's people? The same ones who fight for the sanctity of life? Does this sanctity end at birth? Does it end at a certain age? At a certain color? In a certain neighborhood?

 

Sometimes I cannot accept that this is our truth.

 

So sometimes I remind myself of my A.P. Junior English class this past year. Of the bright and beautiful lives that began my each and every day. In the very back of the classroom, sitting side by side, were a Muslim student in her hijab and a transgendered student in his camo pants and ball cap.

And they were friends. Good friends who shared inside jokes and copied each other's homework and treated each other with grace and dignity and respect.

 

God's people.

 

Sometimes it is so damn easy to worry about the world I am sending my sweet babies into.

 

Yes, it can be consuming.

 

But despite our different world views and our different perspectives of what the sanctity of life should look like, we have a choice everyday to either take our respective sides and hunker down, or to sit side by side with grace and dignity and respect.

 

Will we choose to try and be God? Or to be God's people?

 

Sometimes the answer seems so clear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Note to Self

Dear Self,

This letter is to inform you to never, ever sign up for a week-long teaching workshop smack dab in the middle of your summer home with your babies. Because you're kind of miserable and your heart hurts because all you can think about is, well, THIS: 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 See, all you can think about is them. So, in short, don't do that ever again. Like ever.

Sincerely,

The Management