Sweet dreams, Baby.

It's 8:38am, Saturday morning. It's quiet. Every one is sleeping. I can hear the different rhythm of each child's breathing. It's a peaceful sound. Listening and typing away behind the soft glow of my computer - it's peaceful.

I have my tree up. We'll decorate it while we make our Thanksgiving feast, which is actually our tradition, but it's been up a while. With gifts wrapped in lovely paper, bows, matching tags. Christmas is soothing to me. The lights of the tree soothes my nerves. Gifts under my tree represent love and joy, and the magic of childhood.

Christmas was not always like that for me. Living with my parents we were lucky to help decorate the tree, if that happened at all. We were not allowed in the living room, ever, to look at the tree. My parents were very unimpressed with the holiday. We were given very generic gifts - gloves, boots, socks - - all came in sets of threes, all the same color, same style. It didn't matter if you were a boy or girl. I don't remember a single toy my parents (or Santa) ever brought me. Not one. There was no joy behind gift giving and no joy behind shopping for that perfect gift. We were lucky to even have our look-a-like gifts - - my parents didn't think anything of doing away with holidays - - no trick or treating, no Easter baskets...... none of it.

All of the things my parents hated about Christmas, I ADORE. I love shopping for those I love. I love finding the perfect gift. I love pouring over toys and selecting ones I know my children will love. I love the hunt to maximize my money. I love gifts under the tree. Gifts, for me, represent love. They represent the love and joy I have over the holidays, over my family, over the magic of the season.

This Christmas represents the love I have for my God and for my Savior. I've had a hard time showing it. Feeling it even. When I listen to the stirring music of the season my heart thumps in my chest as a testimony I have. I find myself crying as I listen, as I feel the reason of the season. God lives. Christ lives. I identify with the sacrifice that was given. I gave up my boy. God did the same.

I miss my sweet Isaac with every breath that I have. Many times my heart hurts so that I fear that it will break from the physical pain I feel. I have a weary heart, sweet friends. Such a weary, sad heart.

The greatest gift I gave this year was life. I gave life to my boy, even though I knew he would die. His spirit was tenderly given a body, no matter how broken it was. He was - correction he IS - the most valiant and pure child - spirit, even - that I have ever been fortunate to come into contact with. I am thankful for him, for his life, for what he has given me. His sweet face will never be erased from my mind. Those full cheeks and loving eyes, and his mighty soul. I will never forget the mightiness of his spirit and the army angels he showed up with. He is my soldier in heaven. Always. And I am his Mama, always. No one, no one can ever change that.

Sweet dreams, sweet baby boy, but I have a feeling there is not sleeping to be had in heaven.

Love, Misty

PS: Come back soon, if you will. We're kicking off the holidays with a series of giveaways. The catch? Getting to KNOW you, my reader.

Still?

Isaac died April 8th. The morning of April 9th Andrew and I made the decision that by 8am, we would call the mortician to come for the baby. I remember feeling very angry when I spoke to the nurse about hospital protocol. She told me that Andrew and I would have to call the mortician to take IT away, that we would have to decide what time was best. I remember clutching Isaac to my chest and thinking how dare she call my baby an IT. She wouldn't be calling a LIVE baby an IT. What a bitch. I hurt too badly to do anything about it.

I had spent the night before beating myself up for being so tired. I was so frustrated with myself because I wanted to spend every second with Isaac that I could. I counted the hours down. I kept telling myself... I can hold him 8 more hours... then 5 more hours.... then two, then one. Then the moment came when Isaac was taken from my arms. Nothing has ever hurt me more. How could this be? How could this be that my baby was dead? That I was in these shoes? Not me. This was not for me. The craziness, where my mind went, the rocking back and forth until I fell against my pillow not being able to fight anymore. That. Was. Not. Me. Yet it was.

I asked the doctor to let me leave. I was able to the next morning. Lisa spent the night with me, Andrew was with the kids. All I could think about was how I was going to get the hell out of the hospital. Being stuck in that room. Listening to other new born babies cry. My baby was lieing dead and cold on some metal slab. I was stuck on the Mother Baby floor of the hospital like some sick joke.

Andrew came to take me home. I walked in like a zombie. Home. Not pregnant. No baby. Easter was a few days away. I phoned the funeral home, they could squeeze us in to dress the baby for burial. We had a 2 hour slot. I remember how fortunate I felt that we had 2 WHOLE hours. That seemed worth it's weight in gold. So off we went - Andrew, the children, and I. We walked in the small little room, and there Isaac lay, and he looked so perfect. He's beautiful, I told the mortician. The man that had cared for Isaac had done such a lovely job. He looked perfect. We took the children out, so that I could change Isaac's hat. We didn't want the children to see Isaac's missing head, and I was touched to see that the mortician had constructed the missing part of Isaac's head out of some sturdy material, so that his hat would fit nicely. We hadn't even asked for that. I was very touched by that gesture. Hannah and Ian wanted to help dress him, so I allowed that. We sat and held the baby, and Andrew took the children back to the car so that I could have a minute alone.

I laid Isaac on the table and fiddled with his blanket. He looked perfect to me. And yet there he was, lieing next to his casket. I picked him back up and held him close to my face and whispered to him how much I loved him. The man slipped back into the room, and asked if I wanted pictures with the baby. He took a couple. Sweet man.

I walked out of the room, in pain from my surgery, and stumbled to the car. Headed back home. Still no baby. Still empty arms. Still broken-hearted.

I relive that day still. Sometimes every day. It's still not me. How can this broken-hearted mother still be me?

Thy Will be Done.

I came across this last night:

All of the earth's Mothers were gathered at God's garden of flowers;

Those beautiful budding spirits

Who could someday come to earth

Were nurtured and tended in the Holy garden.

A Loving Father spoke to the Mothers of earth.

"See the works of my hands,

Someday you will be the mother's of these radiant spirits."

The Garden of God glowed with a mixture of all of the colors.

"Choose ye", He said.

Now in the East corner of the garden

Pure white roses stood as sentinels.

They were not so colorful as the rest,

But glowed with a kind of purity

Which set them apart.

One by One the Mothers stepped forward;

"I want the blue eyes one, the curly haired one,

Who will grow to maturity and be a mother in Zion."

Yet another chose a brown eyed brown haired boy,

Full of life and love

That would someday be a prince in a grand country.

The Garden buzzed with excitement as the others with their own special spirits

Those they would soon welcome into the warmth

And love of an earthy home.

Once again, Heavenly Father spoke;

"But who will take the White Roses,

The ones in the east corner of my garden?

These will return to me in purity and goodness.

They will not stay long in your home

For I must bring them back to my garden

For they belong to me

But they will gain bodies as planned

You will miss them

And Long for them

But I will personally care for them"

"NO!,NOT I" many of the earthly Mothers said in unison.

"I couldn’t bear to give one back so soon"

"Nor I" said other mothers.

We will take those who will remain and grow to maturity

and live long lives.

The Heavenly Father looked out across the multitude of Mothers

With longing in his eyes for someone to step forward

SILENCE!

Then Heavenly Father said;

"See the most pure white and perfect of all the white ones?

I chose him.

He will go down and be a sacrifice for all mankind.

He will be scorned, mocked and crucified.

He is my OWN,

Will not anyone choose like unto Him?"

A few mothers stepped forward

Yes Lord I will

Then another as well

And then some in unison said YES we will

Soon all the pure white roses were taken

And they rejoiced in the choice in their mothers.

Heavenly Father spoke again

"Oh blessed are you who chose the white roses.

Your pain will be a Heavy Cross to bear

But your joy will be exceeding

Beyond anything you can understand at this time."

The white one embraced their mothers

And so full was their purity and love

That it filled their souls with such excitement.

Each mother knew they could endure the tasks.

The GREATEST of all the white roses gathered them

As a hen gathers her chicks

And the out pouring of love surrounded each mother and child,

Consuming all the white ones and their mothers

As he prepared them for their task.

Each mother who bore the weight of the white rose

Felt the overwhelming Love of God

As they all shouted

"Thy Will be Done"

"Parents who have surrendered the sweetest and smallest flowers from the family's garden need to remember our Heavenly Father. He has promised a special reward to those who now suffer in silence, who spend long days and longer nights through their trying times of bereavement. Our Creator has promised glory. He said, 'For after much tribulation come the blessings. Wherefore the day cometh that ye shall be crowned with much glory; the hour is not yet, but nigh at hand.' (D&C 58:4) That promised glory includes the blessing of reunion with each child who has left the family circle to help surviving members of the family to draw nearer to God. Those children still live and are a heritage to the Lord." Russell M. Nelson

How do your shoes fit?

I am wearing a pair of shoes. They are ugly shoes. Uncomfortable shoes. I hate my shoes. Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair. Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step. Yet, I continue to wear them. I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy. I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs. They never talk about my shoes. To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable. To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them. But, once you put them on, you can never take them off. I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes. There are many pairs in this world. Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them. Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much. Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt. No woman deserves to wear these shoes. Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman. These shoes have given me the strength to face anything. They have made me who I am. I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.



-Author unknown

Hiding out.

I’ve been struggling with the right words to write – the right topics to share – the right depth of honesty to bring to the table.

I’ll admit I’ve been frustrated. I’ve been frustrated with the lack of understanding from person to person. The struggle to get pregnant is a very personal one. For someone to tell me to “be positive” about it is offensive. They don’t know my inner struggle with intimacy. They don’t know how desperate I feel about having another child. Trying to get pregnant after losing a child is different than plain old trying to get pregnant. Trying to get pregnant WITH fertility issues is different than trying to get pregnant without. Having gotten pregnant easily, right after your baby died, is different than waiting now 7 months to become pregnant after your baby died. Trying for 18 months, is different than trying for 7. It’s a touchy subject for me. I don’t necessarily want someone else’s opinion. You read that right - - I DON’T.

I don’t like to be asked if I’m pregnant yet. I don’t like someone to ask where I am in my cycle or treatment process. Looking back over the last couple months has made me evaluate how much I want to share – what is too much, and what is too little. I think it all really boils down to how I feel about it - - if I want someone to know about it, I’ll share. Otherwise, don’t bother bringing it up. Like it isn’t a smack in the face?? Like it’s your business??

I’m starting to feel more excited for the holidays. My heartache is so heavy and constant over Isaac being dead, but we’re finding ways to include him. He’s mine. He’s unique, he’s real. I would have done for him had he lived, why should I lose out on that now??

Below are the kids for Halloween. They are darling. They give me so much joy. I’ll admit I think about the blessing of being able to “start over” with a new baby ALL of the time, but it has not taken away how much I LOVE my older babies now. I cherish and enjoy each and every day with them - - because really, who is to say that this isn’t it for me, too?? Love who you have. All the time.

Love, Misty

In order:
Isaac's pumpkin.
Olivia as a clown.
Ian as a ninja.
Hannah as a butterfly.