When Mother's Day Makes You Miserable

One thing I never realized before our miscarriages was how difficult certain holidays can be for those in the midst of grief. One holiday, in particular, that tends to be difficult for those of us who have angel babies is Mother's Day.

I have two living children whom I adore. Mother's Day is special for me because of them. On the other hand, it's nonetheless a reminder that my home is not complete. Three of my children aren't here. Do I treasure my three-year-old and six-month-old? Absolutely. But one child does not negate another. Regardless of any future children I pray we are able to have, there is still a piece of  my heart that longs for my babies in heaven. My guess is, this longing will always be a part of my life on this earth.

I also know that many women aren't as lucky as I. I have two living children-two squirmy, goofy boys that I get to laugh with and cuddle. Some babyloss mothers don't have any surviving children. Then there are other women who have never been able to get pregnant-women who have tried for years, gone through infertility testing, maybe even pursued adoption, all to leave them empty-handed.

Please remember these women on Mother's Day. I'm not asking you to cover up your own happiness or stuff your own joy. But I am asking you to care about those around you, to mourn with those who mourn, as Paul wrote. This Mother's Day, reach out to those women in your circles who don't get to hold any babies, who don't get to celebrate, who maybe aren't even treated like mothers. Reach out to the moms with empty arms. 

2012: The Year of . . .

Photo Courtesy of Petr Kratochvil/ freestockphotos.biz

In January of 2011, I asked the Lord to give us a year of rainbows. As I read that post this morning, I felt the pain all over again. At that point, I had only had one miscarriage. Two more followed in the months to come. Looking back now, 2011 was not the year of rainbows I hoped for. In fact, the majority of the year was pretty painful. More storms than clear skies.

This year, I'm not asking God to give me rainbows. That way, if he doesn't, I won't be crushed like I was last year. I am asking for something else, though.

The faith to take whatever the year sends my way. Do I want a pain-free year? Absolutely. Do I long for a healthy pregnancy? Sure. But this year, I know there are no guarantees. God never promised me a carefree life. He never promised health. Never promised the easy road. What he did promise was this: that he would be with me through it all.

So 2012, I'm claiming you as the year of faith. May I be faithful, regardless of the weather of my life.

Dealing with Grief Over the Holidays

Last year, I found out I was pregnant right around Christmas. Then I miscarried on New Year's Day. Nothing like a miscarriage to start the year off, right? Needless to say, the holidays were difficult for me last year. If you're in a similar spot this year, here are a few things that might help you deal with grief over the holidays:

When Mother's Day Doesn't Feel Like a Celebration

My miscarriage story is different than some. I have one healthy child whom I adore. But I also have two children that no one will ever meet this side of heaven. Mother's Day is an interesting holiday for me. It's a reminder of the blessing I have in Rylan, but it's also a reminder of the two babies I'll never get to hold.

I don't think I can really be sad, because I'm so incredibly thankful for the opportunity to be Rylan's mom. But I also don't think I can be completely happy, because I miss Eden and Jesse so much.

This weekend, while you celebrate your mother and all the other mothers in your life, take time to pray for those who are grieving-those mothers who never got to hold their babies and those women who have longed to hold a baby in their arms only to be told they probably never can. These women, though they might not have living children, deserve our respect just as much as any other mother out there.

Dreading Easter?

I'm dreading Easter this year. Eden was due on April 27th, three days after Easter Sunday. The closer we get to that date, the more difficult it becomes. There's just something about the due date. I guess it's because it's the day I should be holding my baby. It's the day I should be introducing her to family members. It's the day I should be rocking her to sleep or changing her diaper fifteen times a day.

Am I excited about Jesus' resurrection? Absolutely. His resurrection is the only thing that gives me hope of ever holding my babies. Am I excited to see how the Lord uses this holiday to reach out to new people? Certainly.

But that doesn't take away the pain. It doesn't remove the reminder.

Although...maybe it's a blessing in disguise. Maybe instead of dreading Easter, I should be thankful that her due date was near the holiday. Yes, Easter will probably always be somewhat difficult for me now. But what better holiday to remember a baby on than the one that promises I'll get to see her again?

Christmas Tears

Holidays are hard. I think it's because I have this idea in my head that they're supposed to be joyful. No sadness, no pain, all smiles. Now that I've lost a child, my outlook on holidays is different. Yes, I'm still happy for the family I have. I'm still excited about seeing those I haven't seen in awhile. I'm still glad we get to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. But now there's someone missing at every holiday gathering. Every picture we take is a reminder that she's not in it. And never will be.

This Christmas was especially difficult. When we first found out we were pregnant, I looked at a calendar to see when we would know the gender-the middle of December. Perfect timing! I planned to tell everyone at Christmas. I even thought about doing some special announcement (like getting a cake with either pink or blue inside-they wouldn't know until we cut it). That didn't happen this year. . . obviously. I wish it would have. Instead of digging into what I think would have been pink cake, I had to fight back Christmas tears all weekend. So to my family who loved me even when I wasn't my normal self, thank you. And I'm sorry. I hope to be normal again someday.