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