We conclude "Old News Weekend" with the final, edited family photos from Elisha Snow's fabulous photo shoot with my extended family a month ago.
The whole gang.
Just the grandkids.
My parents and their six kids (clockwise from my dad, we go oldest to youngest).
My big brother and his crew.
The Lucas clan.
My little brother and his family.
My sister and her entourage.
Jeremy and Keira—my little lovelies.
Breaking News! Today, May 30, 2011, I am blogging at Write.Click.Scrapbook. And I'm blogging there tomorrow too. I'm done living in the past. Come check out the fun ideas I have to share. Happy Memorial Day!
We continue "old news weekend" with an update about Angie's half-marathon from last month.
"Who cares about that any more?" more than one blog reader thought to herself when this headline popped up in her reader. But Angie feels compelled to share this because she made such a big deal about it before the race. (Trust us, this is far more interesting news than the more recent flower-bed weeding adventure from this afternoon.)
Lynsey and I at the train station at the start of the race at an unbearably early hour. We managed to sardine ourselves into the very last train heading to the start line. (Sorry, Lynsey, for always cutting things so close!)
Ready to run. Yes, I do call what I do "running," even though it may not appear much faster than a jog to the naked eye.
I do love the snap-a-photo-while-running technique. Everyone looks so chipper still, here at mile 3. (Wait until mile 10.)
Five down. We've all got that pep in our step and determined gleam in our eyes still.
At just a little over halfway, we're all extremely grateful for the extra downhill slope during this stretch. We can do it...
Mile 10. We're feeling the burn, and it shows in our strides.
Except this guy. He's the marathon winner, and he's already run 23 miles to our 10, and he looks like he'd be fine for 23 more.
The finish line. The blessed, glorious finish line.
Hell yeah I'm going to post this picture! I sweated through 13.1 miles and paid $26 for it (plus another extremely unflattering mid-stride shot), with an obscene extra $8.95 for shipping that they secretly tack on when you're not looking. Race photos—it's a racket.
And here we are at the end, looking only a little worse for wear. We rode the train straight to Johanna's Kitchen (in our sweaty race gear, medals, and all) to consume omelettes and scones in honor of the Lucas family's April birthdays. We miscalculated our travel time and couldn't make it home to shower; meanwhile the whole family was waiting on us. Upon our arrival, I was both relieved and puzzled to see that we weren't the only patrons who went straight from race finish-line to local diner without showering in between.
My time two years ago: 2 hours, 23 minutes, and 48 seconds
My time this year: 2 hours, 31 minutes, and 04 seconds.
In 2009, I faithfully ran every run on my training schedule. I did not have 7 extra pounds of "baby weight" to carry around. I did not have an infant at home, which inspired me to miss at least one training one per week with no regrets. So I'll wear the extra 7 minutes proudly—it's really only 30 extra seconds per mile.
Besides, I placed 102nd out of 236 in my age/gender division, and 3,477th out of 4,444 overall. I can run faster than at least 1,000 of my fellow Utahans, and that's not so bad. :)
Journaling Prompt What's some "old news" you've been meaning to write about? Pull out your journal and get it down on paper, whatever it is. (Or, heck, blog about it. There's no shame in that.) Can't think of something? Write about your most recent accomplishment—anything you've done that makes you feel proud.
Welcome to "Old News Weekend." Or, in honor of the vintage craze, let's call the next few posts "Vintage News." I'm trying to keep up with everything folks, I really am. And better late than never is a motto I live by.
In any case, Keira Jane Lucas turned 7 months old on May 2, 2011, which means it's almost time to take her 8 month photos! Here's how cute she was 3 weeks ago.
"I'm not very good at the numbers thing yet, but this is a pretty big one. I'm 7 months? Already?"
"Let me check the belly sticker package...yep, that's right! It says right here...7 months old."
"I've got an idea! Hand me your camera lens cover, mommy, and I promise not to cry. Now if you take it away from me, I WILL cry, I'm just warning you. But as long as I have it in my hand, I'll look at the camera and cooperate. Deal?"
"You didn't think I was serious, did you? This shows you just how serious I am. (And by the way, do you like my teeth?)"
"I've got the lens cap, but I'm still a little but upset. Give me a second while I collect myself."
"There. How's this? This is me, pontificating. I've got big plans and dreams on my mind right now. This lens cap really helps me think. Thanks for understanding."
"There. And here's my sweet-as-an-angel sidelong glance, with my hand raised in perfect, delicate, baby chubbiness. Also, I've decided Nikon doesn't need quite so much free press."
Journaling Prompt Try the technique above with photos of your own! Choose a set of photos and study them for a second to imagine what the subject would say if he, she, or it could talk. It's especially fun with baby or pet photos, but it can also be quite rewarding with photos of one's spouse who may or may not be very comfortable sharing "feelings" or whatever—just share them for him!
Disaster Disclaimer I always feel awkward blogging about happy things when there are people suffering so much—both close to home and far away. I don't know about you, but it is a constant struggle for me to empathise truly and sincerely without dissolving into a quivering heap of sadness when I think of all the misery in the world.
Today, I spent the afternoon with a 7-year-old little girl whose needs just broke my heart. I have an extended family member who's in extreme distress. I got an email from a friend of a friend of a friend living near Joplin, Missouri, that made me want to hop in my car immediately and help in the rescue and clean-up efforts. And my chest tightens whenever I think of the devastation in Japan.
Yes, sometimes I feel the weight of the world so acutely.
So I remind myself that saving the world at large is not my job. But there are certain people at certain times who are my job, and I pray I'll always know who they are and be able (and willing) to help. Right now, I have a baby and a stepson (now living with us full time) who have very real needs, and I'm humbled and honored that I have the calling and the capacity to meet those needs daily. So I serve them with all my heart, and I do what I can in my own little corner of the world. Then, with what's left over, I reach out when and where I can.
For everyone else, I'm grateful for prayer and miracles, hope and helping hands. May they find their way to those in the greatest need tonight.
Keira and Wendy and I got back from our jaunt to Wyoming a week ago—to visit our friend, Elizabeth Dillow and her family. And once again, I failed to take an adequate number of pictures. But nonetheless, I ended up with some truly adorable shots.
I want a sign like this for my yard. (But with my name on it of course.)
I'm helping Bridget learn the ropes of Pocket God on my iPhone while feeding the baby. The best kind of multitasking ever!
Gracie cuddles Keira while feeding her all on her own.
Be still my heart. How adorable is this?
A mini herd of antelope between the two blue minivans. Adorable? Maybe not. But awesome for sure.
You might assume from these pictures that all Keira did was eat. Not so. Feeding time was just the only time everyone was holding still. Well, sort of.
Nothing says "Wyoming" like a buffalo chandelier!
This is quite possibly my favorite.
Elizabeth jokes that life on the Air Force base is like stepping back into 1953. She couldn't be more right.
And here's a final adorable shot, taken after we returned home.
Now I'm up for another road trip! This time to Idaho to visit my grandparents, with my baby girl and my little sister in tow.
As I've reflected about mothers and motherhood, I've had other thoughts swirling in my head as well. Among them is compassion and sorrow for so many who are still in the throes of infertility. It's a grueling place to be.
There's the guilt that perhaps you're not relaxed enough, not trying hard enough, not in impeccable health, not young enough, not being aggressive enough with your doctor, and not confident about whether medical intervention or adoption is the path you should pursue.
For me, the guilt and self-doubt has been the worst part.
And I have to acknowledge that the struggle isn't necessarily over for me yet.
I attended an adoption conference last summer, which was a mandatory step to get qualified through our agency. I was skeptical about the title of one class I attended, called "The Joy of Infertility." But so much of what was shared has lodged permanently in my soul.
I needed that class more than I knew. The instructor was named Laurieann Thorpe, and as soon as she started speaking, sharing quotes from author Anna Quindlen and poems that I found unbearably beautiful, I wished she lived next door to me. This is someone I would be friends with for sure.
From her, a woman with one son via adoption, I learned that adoption does not cure infertility. It cures childlessness. This was a revelation.
Don't get me wrong; having my childnessess cured was certainly wonderful. For so many years, I just knew deep down that I was meant to be a mom, but I was terrified of how long I'd have to wait. I did try (and succeed) to live a happy and fulfilled life in the meantime, but there were some things I was putting on hold—certain projects I wouldn't commit to "just in case." The would-be nursery just sat there as an extra room that we never did anything with, because I couldn't bear to devote it to another purpose. And I couldn't bear to turn it into an official nursery quite yet either. And there were other things too. I was perpetually trying not to plan vacations or other things too far in advance, just in case. It's an unsettling spot to be in.
And then, when Keira Jane came along, I finally felt complete, like this is the life I was supposed to be living all along. Yes, I can most assuredly say that having my childlessness cured has been wonderful.
But in that class, I was warned (or prepared, I should say) that sorrow over infertility will rear its ugly head again at some point in the future. For me, it might be sorrow about not being able to give Keira another sibling, or the sorrow of never passing my genes on to another person, of being a genetic dead end.
I learned that infertility can be grouped in with miscarraige and even the loss birthmoms feel in something called "disenfranchised grief" or "ambiguous loss" or "the continuous presence of an absence."(That last phrase was from Anna Quindlen, and it's the perfect description.) You're not mourning for a loved one you had grown to love over years and years. You're mourning the loss of the dream you had of someone. And it's still real grief, although it's not publicly acknowledged or widely understood.
For the last couple of years before Keira arrived, I'd been waiting to "get over" infertility and make my peace with it before I pursued adoption. But I've realized that I'll never be over it all the way. It's a sadness that will hit me now and then, all throughout my life. Now that I know to expect that, I can stop thinking there's something wrong with me for still being sad sometimes, and I'm more prepared for what will come.
Laurieann Thorpe shared a hilarious video that I think many of us, whether infertile or not, can relate to. Feeling sad about not being able to start your family? Well stop it! Get over it! Isn't that what you feel like the world is telling you to do? It's not that simple.
For those of you going through this right now, I want to share two more quotes that were shared that day that helped me so much. I hope they help you.
A quote by Anna Quindlen, from her essay collection, Loud and Clear:
"Grief remains one of the few things that has the power to silence us. It is a whisper in the world and a clamor within. More than sex, more than faith, even more than its usher death, grief is unspoken, publicly ignored except for those moments at the funeral that are over too quickly, or the conversations among the cognoscenti, those of us who recognize in one another a kindred chasm deep in the center of who we are.
"Maybe we do not speak of it because death will mark all of us, sooner or later. Or maybe it is unspoken because grief is only the first part of it. After a time it becomes something less sharp but larger, too, a more enduring thing called loss.
"Perhaps that is why this is the least explored passage: because it has no end. The world loves closure, loves a thing that can, as they say, be gotten through. This is why it comes as a great surprise to find that loss is forever, that two decades after the event there are those occasions when something in you cries out at the continuous presence of an absence, 'An awful leisure,' Emily Dickinson once called what the living have after death."
And a poem by Billy Collins:
"She stopped at a page of clouds aloft in a pale sky, tinged with red and gold. This one is my favorite, she said, even though it was only a detail, a corner of a larger painting which she had never seen. Nor did she want to see the countryside below or the portrayal of some myth in order for the billowing clouds to seem complete.
''This was enough, this fraction of the whole, just as the leafy scene in the windows was enough now that the light was growing dim, as was she enough, perfectly by herself somewhere in the enormous mural of the world.''
You are enough. Perfectly by yourself. As I am. As we all are. And you're not alone.
p.s. Just now, I found a note written in the adoption conference program, while I was trying to decide if adoption was really truly right for us. It says "Something I need to get over: the feeling that I don't want to share." After what I wrote on Saturday, I'm happy to say that I have.
My eyes instantly welled up when I opened this sweet card from my sister-in-law earlier this week. Oh yeah, Mother's Day gets to be about ME this year.
I was surprised at how much that mattered to me. It was unexpected because, although many infertile women get the blues around Mother's Day, I never really did. I never got sad about my childlessness on scheduled holidays or specific times of the year. It would just hit me out of nowhere, here and there, without warning—that empty ache in my heart.
So imagine my surprise at feeling such pleasure over a simple card.
And Keira decided to commemorate my first Mother's Day by staying awake and screaming from 11 p.m. to 3:30 a.m. She's making sure I earn my motherhood stripes just in time for the big holiday. The poor little thing has a cold, she was a bit irregular (if you get my drift), and her teeth were bothering her, too.
But oh how I love the way she cuddles into me when she doesn't feel well, trying to soak in all the love and comfort she can.
She had an even worse cold, with an ear infection, the week before Easter, which was also the week before our big day of family pictures, her name & blessing, and her LDS temple sealing that I blogged about last week. I took her to the doctor the morning before the big day, and she was miserable. But miracle of miracles, she was in a perfect and happy mood all day--during pictures, at the church, and at the temple. (In the temple, she was beaming in a way that told us some part of her knew exactly what was going on.)
Only after we returned home did her little eyes begin to water again, and her nose start to drain, and her little hand reach back up to tug on her ear.
So many things about her are miraculous. From the way she came into our lives to the way she captures the heart of everyone she meets. I am amazed every day that I was given this gift.
If my last few posts are any indication, you might eventually see all 140 pictures Elisha Snow took for us at an ampitheater near my house. I love them!
But in adoption circles (particularly in open adoption circles), the Saturday before is designated as Birth Mother's Day.
The first time I heard about this holiday-before-the-holiday, I selfishly thought "but...I don't want to share!" This is the same thought I had the very first time I heard about open adoption itself.
But throughout this process, and after meeting Keira's birthmom, I learned something profound. The only reason I have a little darling in owl pajamas snuggled into the crook of my arm right now is because someone else was willing to share with me. So who am I to say "mine, mine, mine"?
None of us has sole "ownership" of any baby--ours to do whatever we please with. No. I believe that all children are first and foremost God's children, and they are entrusted to us for a time to love and nurture, to teach and be taught by.
I honor birthmothers everywhere today. Every time I meet a woman who has placed her own tiny baby in another woman's arms or discover that someone I've known for years was a birthmom long ago, I feel love, compassion, and admiration for her. And gratitude.
And with the sure knowledge that I am Keira's mother, the mother who will be with her for all of life's milestones, big and small, the mother who has the responsibility for her health and happiness every day, it is no sacrifice at all to share this holiday weekend.
Anneliese was her first mother. I find it very appropriate to honor her first, the day before I can enjoy the honor of my first Mother's Day.
Journaling Prompt If you're a mother, write in your journal about the journey (whether physical, legal, emotional, or spirtual) you went through to bring each of your children into your life.
If you're hoping and praying to be a mother, write about the journey you're on right now. What are your hopes? What are your fears? How do you feel?
If you don't expect to become a mother at all, write about your own journey into your mother's arms. If you don't know enough of the details, take the time tomorrow to ask her or someone else who knows the story.
