Much Ado About Nothing

Our van was packed, the radio was blaring, and we were all in a good mood. We were talking over each other about the fun weekend that the kids had just experienced at the mountain retreat where they hung out with their cousins and spent time with their friends.

Down the bumpy gravel road we drove. We admired the horses grazing in the pasture, and Liberty told us about the horses she had spent time with over the weekend. Unlike me, she notices their personalities.

The younger kids loved the group games lead by the teens during their classes. Even more than that, they loved the elaborate playground that included a teepee which sparked their imagination.

We turned onto the paved road that eventually leads to the highway.  I felt good. Approaching the tavern I remembered how fun it was to play hooky from the teaching time to drink a pint with fellow ditchers. Drinking that cider was probably the highlight of the weekend.

But I awoke from my reverie to the chorus of, "Where's Pearl?"

"What do you mean, 'Where's Pearl?'" I countered.

"She's not in the car!" one kid yelled.

"Well then, where is she?" I asked stupidly, afraid that I had done the unthinkable. Did I have so many children that I had lost track them and left one behind?

"I don't know," they all answered. "Back at the retreat center?"

My heart sank. Where did we leave her? Was she Ok? More importantly, did any of the other parents know that I've lost a child?

Quickly, I turned the van around and fumbled with my phone. Why didn't I have anyone's number? Who of her friends' parents could I call to ask if she was with them?

Big, bouncy gravel turned to fast shaking as we tore back to the lodge. On the phone I got ahold of a family who was keeping Pearl for me until I returned.

I was hoping beyond hope that Pearl didn't know we had left her. Maybe she was preoccupied with her friends and didn't notice we were gone. Maybe she was petting the horses through the fence. Maybe she was taking a walk to the playground?

No such luck. I found her with red eyes and hunched shoulders. Surrounded by two families, I could see that the moms were trying to comfort her. She had noticed we left her and she was very upset. Rightly so. She figured out that we didn't notice she was missing when we left. 

As bad as I felt for her, I was just so embarrassed that I was "one of those parents." And I wasn't just one of those parents in the privacy of my own home. No, my girl had to uncover me in front of a church group.

Forgetting a child? Wasn't that just the fodder people needed to accuse me of being careless? Now, I know that everyone makes mistakes, still, I feel under scrutiny by people since I'm a single mom. I'm driven to prove to everyone that I can take care of the kids. I want people to not just think I'm capable but that I'm doing a darn good job.

Because of that fear, I didn't to talk about it. I didn't want to remind anyone that it happened. I didn't laugh about with my kids. And I sure didn't want to include it on this blog.

But I was thinking about it all wrong. Instead, I should of thought about the movie Home Alone. After all, haven't enough parents overlooked a child here or there to the point where Hollywood figured they could make that forgetfulness into a believable movie setting? While Hollywood's version is a hyperbole, I can name more than a handful of parents who've forgotten a child somewhere.

As for Pearl, she's laughs about the incident. While I was worried about scarring her, she's the one who asked me to chronicle this story on the blog in order to remember it. She thinks it funny and occasionally asks me to tell her about that time I forgot her at the retreat center.

Guess I was really worried about nothing.

Christmas 2.0

As a child, it wasn't Christmas until we went to my grandparents' home in Haddonfield, NJ. There, my grandmother left no stone undecorated. From the mantel to the bathroom, every surface was covered with Christmas cheer.

We always left the day classes let out and arrived at her house for a late dinner. After quickly eating our meal, we kids excitedly decorated her second tree in the back room. She always left one tree bare so that we could cover it with our childish, homemade ornaments. Basking in the glow of the twinkling tree lights and the glow from the fire, we sipped hot chocolate crowded with giant marshmallows.

My grandmother died 20 years ago, and the holidays have never regained the magic that she created for us. Unable to know my grandmother, I'm glad that they can at least have a taste of her mastery.

This year we made the journey north to visit my aunt. Like my grandmother, she works hard to give the kids a magical experience. From the Christmas decorations that adorn every corner of the house to the crafts prepared to the outings planned, my kids have been spoiled by her Christmassy thoughtfulness.

The Birds and the Bees (and the Kittens)

One of these cats is not like the other.

All these kittens inevitably leads to the question of who the father is and what role the daddy has in making kittens.

While we were at the beach, my sister had the opportunity to talk to my 8 year old about what role the daddy cat plays in making kittens. Voicing what we all were wondering, my sister asked, "Do you know who the father is? Do the kittens' looks give you any clue as to which cat is the dad?"

My 8 year old was sort of surprised at this question. "No, we don't own a boy cat. We only have 2 girl cats."

My sister took the opportunity to explain to her the kitten version of the birds and the bees. Even though my daughter has heard this before in terms of chickens and humans, I think it takes a while for it to dawn on most kids that the reproductive process really isn't just how one species multiplies.

Following my sister's example, I provoked a conversation with my 5 year old. Walking on the beach that night, I asked her who she thought the daddy cat was. She gave me a similar response.

Her blank look said the same thing as the words that came out of her mouth, "Don't you know we only have 2 girl cats?"

"I know we don't own a boy, but there are boy cats in the neighborhood and our cats go outside. Did you know that the mommy cat needs a daddy cat in order to make kittens?"

"No."

"How did you think our kittens got pregnant."

Giggling. "They kissed?!"

And so I explained to her how kittens and humans are similar in this way. Intermittently, she'd run off to join her cousins and then run back and say, "Again." That was her signal to me to pick up in the explanation where I had left off. I explained it all and didn't even use euphemisms to label the body parts. She was fascinated.

But she's 5. She won't really understand all of what I said. However, I do want her and the rest of the kids to understand this: sex isn't a taboo topic with their mother. They can ask me anything knowing that I won't change the unpleasant subject or think they are bad for asking. Later on, friends will make comments about things they've never heard of before and I don't want my kids to be embarrassed to ask me about it.

All of this is well and good, but really, we need to find which cat in the neighborhood is responsible so that we can send him the kitten formula bills.

So Many Kitties!

This summer both cats gave birth to a litter of cats. As you know from a previous post, Con gave birth to kittens, but they kept dying. The only one to survive was named Lucky by my 4 year old the first time he saw him. Who knew that name would be so appropriate?

Lucky is now almost 2 months old and is in his fluffy, stop-you-in-your-tracks cute stage. His bright blue eyes are dulling into a green, and his tale looks less like a bald rat tail. His tail is as fluffy as the rest of him.

Feeding time for Lucky

Our other cat, Pip, gave birth while our family was on vacation. We knew she was pregnant from her huge bulging sides. One day she became stuck when she jumped onto the deck and tried to walk through the slats of the railings like she normally did. I found her meowing with her head and front paws through the slat. Her big, pregnant belly couldn't fit but she was afraid to jump backwards from the deck. I had to reach over the deck and carefully save the frightened cat without hurting the unborn kittens. Tricky!

So it was not really shocking that while we were on vacation, I received a call from our neighbor's 8 year old daughter. Excitedly, she recounted to me how she and her mom found the kittens, and every detail she relayed was eager absorbed by my kids. They were so anxious to see the new kittens that they almost wanted to end the beach week early.

Pip guarding her 4 kittens.

By the time we arrived home, one of the new kittens died. So in total, we have 2 momma cats, 1 Lucky, and 4 new kittens.

So...who wants a kitty cat?

Our Culture Needs Rituals for When Babies Die

***Last week was the 10th anniversary of my son's stillbirth. For me, it was a life changing experience, and I haven't yet fully recovered from the tremors of that quake which shook me to the core. On Facebook, I'd written this note last summer in response to an article I heard on NPR. As a way of keeping all of my children's written memories collected in one place, I've decided to include this piece on my blog.****

August 28, 2011

The summer after River's stillbirth, I remember listening to a reenactor describe the death rituals of the Civil War era.  Among them, she said, was to cast a mold of the dead baby's face or body.  While the other people in the group gasped in disgust at something so morbid, I understood.  These customs were instructions for the family and friends to know how to act during a sad time.  

A picture of our little River many hours after his stillbirth. When he looked too much like the corpse he was, holding him became too sad for me.

During my shock in the weeks after River died, I thought over and over how I had no idea how I was supposed to act or what to do. And many dear people around me didn't know what to say to me or how to show their concern because River was born dead which didn't allow anyone else to know him.  I was the only one who'd been with him for those 41 weeks of his life.  It was awkward.  We all needed a manual for how to act after a prenatal death as people's awkwardness hurt my feelings.  Thankfully, enough loved ones took charge and organized a funeral for his burial because I doubt anyone today could understand why Liz had cast a mold of her 9 1/2 lb. beauty.

This morning, I heard a previously aired NPR article about this father's silent grief after the miscarriage of his baby.  Until my own experiences with both a stillbirth and two miscarriages, I know that I would have continued to treat other people's loss as if it was "no big deal" because that is exactly what I thought of those losses before my own.  Now I know that in addition to the pain of the loss, the loneliness surrounding these events magnifies the grief.  While I'm clueless to offer any suggestions as to what we should do for parents to have an outlet for their pain, I know that a funeral really helped my family.  The people who attended the funeral validated River's life and my loss.  It was therapeutic.

Over the last 9 years I've seen more support groups, memorial services, and online webpages where people can memorialize their babies who were lost either in the neonatal or postnatal stage.  Hopefully, this trend of an open display of emotions will influence our culture to reach out to those parents grieving the loss of a baby that no one ever had the chance to meet.

This is the transcript that I listened to.
From NPR's All Things Considered:

August 19, 2011

Ken Harbaugh is a former Navy pilot and an NPR commentator. 

 It has been three months since the miscarriage. We weren't far along, still in the first trimester, so only our closest friends knew we were expecting.

Annmarie, my wife, is fine. At least, her body is fine. There is something broken in both of us, though.

My wife and I have every reason to be grateful. The miscarriage happened early on. Annmarie was never in danger. We have two beautiful girls already. If we want, we can still have more. But the whole experience left us wondering how one deals with a tragedy that happens quietly at home.

A few weeks before we lost the baby, my wife's grandfather died. His funeral, like any other, was solemn. But also beautiful. Everyone came — all 10 kids, from across the country. Distant relatives, co-workers, people from church stopped by to pay their respects. They mourned alongside the family. We buried Grandpa Kel that afternoon, and woke the next morning with the memory of a beautiful send-off.

There is a reason that such ceremonies exist. Who knows if it meant anything to Grandpa, lying in his coffin, but it meant a lot to everyone else. I gave him my gold Navy wings, pinned to an American flag laid on his chest. He was the only other Navy pilot in the family, and I felt the need to solemnize that connection. Others said goodbye in their own way. Some talked to him, some knelt for a while by his side. Most important, we all said farewell together.

A miscarriage is tragic enough by itself. What makes it worse is the fact that no social custom has evolved to help us through the loss. There is no ceremony, no coming together, no ritualized support. Annmarie and I suffered alone, in silence. Most of our friends had no idea we were grieving. It took me two weeks to tell my own mom.

And it's not as if life stopped, or even slowed down to allow us a moment to reflect. We had jobs to get to, kids to take care of. Real sadness seemed an indulgence we could not afford.

In the months since, I have learned something about this kind of grief. It is not a luxury, but an essential part of healing. So this weekend, after the kids are in bed, Annmarie and I will do something that may seem a little crazy. We will head into the garden with a bulb we've been saving. We will bury it, say a few words, and hold each other. We will finally have our ceremony.

I suspect that watching the first green shoot push up through the earth will hurt. Every time we see it, we will be reminded of what happened to us. But that's alright. Grief cannot be buried forever. With enough time, and a little sunlight, it might just transform itself into something that aches a little less.

Here's the link if you'd like to listen to the father read his article:
http://www.npr.org/2011/08/19/139650471/after-miscarriage-missing-the-luxury-of-grieving

Part II of Our Kittens: Some Died

Our happiness over the kittens arrival was short lived.  Two days later, my oldest discovered that one of the dark grey kittens was dead.  Dutifully, she went out to our growing pet cemetery to shovel a new grave.  By the time she came back from burying that kitten, another one had died.

Alarmed, she didn't even take time to bury this second kitten. With the dark grey little sack of stiff bones in her pocket, we rushed out to Petco to purchase kitten formula. That's right, kitten formula. Just like babies, our kittens drank formula mixed with water and dispensed through tiny little rubber nipples on baby doll sized bottled.

That night, another kitten died followed by a fourth kitten's death. After those 4 deaths, we are left with 2 kittens that we hope will continue to thrive.

Part I of Our Kittens: Newborns

Our cat, Con, gave birth to 6 kittens on Saturday, June 9. Like a true animal, she waited until we were all out of the house so that we wouldn't disturb her. If I were about to birth 6 at one time, you can be sure that everyone would know it, and I would demand that as many people as possible wait on me.

I only found out about the birth because I followed the sound of what I thought was a mouse in the basement. Instead of finding a mouse, I found an orange looking mouse with a bare tale and matted fur blindly trying to find its way back to momma. The cat chose to give birth under the guest bedroom bed, and this hours old kitten somehow was on the other side of the bedspread going in the wrong direction of Con.

I scooped up up the Tabby, lifted the bedspread, and found 5 more kittens: 3 mostly black and 2 more tabbies. Con looked at me tiredly, and I knew she wasn't faking it. She lay there listlessly while I returned the newborn to the squirming pile of kittens looking for an available teet.