but i will hold on hope

Before I became a mom, I was pretty naive as to how the whole thing worked. I thought that there were two steps to bringing home a baby: get pregnant, have baby. Both of these steps, of course, were easy. Isn't that what they teach you in high school? How easy it is to make a baby? It just takes one time? As a parent, I have seen the reality of it all unfold rather quickly. I struggle to think of one person I know who had things happen this easy or naturally. One person who didn't experience some kind of stress or trauma in getting pregnant, being pregnant or staying pregnant. Conceiving Ethan or Wylie was the easy part for us, though we have had many friends struggle month after month with it just not happening for them. My pregnancy with Ethan was physically hard and it was emotionally hard, too. I was supposed to be preparing for this new, exciting role as a mom but yet was on bedrest with preeclampsia, unable to do much but worry. Ethan had to be born at 36 weeks but, luckily, he was just fine. After losing Wylie so late in the pregnancy game, I started hearing from other people who have also experienced loss. It turns out there are many of them -- more than I imagined.

Whether it was trouble getting pregnant, a problematic pregnancy, a traumatic delivery, an early loss, a late term loss, several losses -- it seems like these things happen more frequently than I thought they did. I always thought I was the unnatural one for feeling that pregnancy was the most unnatural thing in the world, but now I see that it's not just me. Whereas I left Wylie's viewing feeling alone, I now see just a month and change later that I am surrounded by so many others who are the same. It's the reason that I write. It's the reason that I am hellbent on over-sharing every little detail, in the hopes maybe my words can make others feel less alone. In hopes that maybe by traveling with us on our journey, someone else will feel inspired to continue living theirs. I'm not a secretive person and I'm not someone who really cares much about privacy. I do better when I share, when I write, when I sort of let my life read a little more like an open book. It's like I told my doctor: if there is any silver lining to any of this, it's that I have the ability to help someone else. At this point, that's all I could possibly want.

I had an appointment with my perinatologist this afternoon. It was the one appointment so far that I was truly panicked about. It was the appointment I wanted, the one I begged my OB to help me set up, but the one I was so nervous to actually have. This was, of course, the building where I learned Wylie was sick. It's sort of hard to let any light in when your mind goes dark.

I brought my planner with the intent to jot down notes in case my mind was too fuzzy to truly comprehend the words that doctor was speaking, but I never actually used it. I just sort of started blurting out my fears and concerns and anticipating the worst. I've said it countless times but we hit the Doctor Jackpot and I don't know what I would do without the medical team we have on our side. I walked into my appointment all but shaking from anxiety and ready to break down at any moment, but within moments I realized that this appointment was a good thing. Our doctor had only good things to say. Hopeful things, happy things. Words of promise and a future for our family to expand the way I know it is meant to. Every bad feeling riding on my back sort of let go and jumped off and my entire being felt pounds lighter as I sat there and listened to our amazing doctor explain things in a brighter light than I anticipated. Our perinatologist estimated our risk to be lower than the 3% that I had previously quoted and it was as if every ball of anxiety in my veins just sort of dissipated in that moment. I've been trying so hard all of this time to cling to hope but never having a very good grasp. Today I perfected that. Today I sort of flung myself into the hope that I didn't know how to fully reach.

I go back and forth with being frustrated about there being no explanation why what happened to Wylie happened to Wylie. I'm supposed to accept that nature made some tragic, terrible, ugly mistake in the body of my beautiful, perfect daughter and figure out a way to move on, which is easier said than done. On the flipside, knowing that it isn't something genetic and knowing that the pain of this loss isn't something Ethan will one day have to go through with his own children, it's also a reassurance. Knowing that one day in our future when we decide the time is right, we can most likely bring a healthy baby home, it's a weight lifted off my own heart. It's hope. It's promise. It's some light to look forward to on the days that still feel a little dark. I don't think I will ever be satisfied with there being no explanation for why I lost my daughter, but right now, this hope is good enough to keep us pushing forward as a family. It has to be. And I know she's part of the light that guided us and kept us going.

Our perinatologist referred to Wylie as Ethan's sister today. She said it in passing and I know she didn't even think about it, but it meant more to me than I could ever begin to express to her. Wylie is Ethan's sister and she always will be, even if she isn't here anymore. It seems like a simple enough concept but so many other people are quick to act like she never existed, like she is somehow no longer a part of our family because the idea of her being so is supposed to be painful. At the end of the day, I am most grateful for the team of doctors we have. I know that I have the best people on the other end of the line when it comes time to say "let's do this." And because of their guidance, because of their hope and love, I know that time will come and that together we can bring a baby home awake one day.

tummy trouble pops

Ethan has had a little bit of tummy upset recently. I'm not sure if it's some little bug or just from having chugged so much pool water -- the timing of it all leads to either option. Either way, he has been feeling fine otherwise and it's been hard to keep denying his request for fruits, cheese or other snacks that in no way coordinate with the BRAT (bananas, rice, applesauce and toast) diet. Here's the thing about the BRAT diet: my kid is a total brat about it. He will eat anything you put in front of him but the only foods he won't touch are bananas, rice, applesauce or toast -- though I did manage to force a couple of small pieces of toast in him thanks to shaping the bread with cookie cutters and adding a little bit of peanut butter.

The one thing Ethan can't turn down would be popsicles. Or ice cream. Popsicles that are rich and creamy like ice cream are an even better bet. I used my Mom Genius and my trusty Blendtec to make some BRAT diet popsicles that helped Ethan's tummy and that he inhaled without second thought. As another plus, these popsicles were way easier to make than trying to trick him into eating rice by sculpting it into a koala or trying to arrange a baked potato into the shape of a cat. Desperate times, people. Desperate times.

Just Bananas
- 2 bananas
- 1 tablespoon all-natural peanut butter
- 2-3 splashes of unflavored Pedialyte

Rice & Apples
- 1/2 banana
- 1/4c all-natural applesauce
- 1/4c cooked brown rice
- 2-3 splashes of unflavored Pedialyte to thin
- 1 teaspoon cinnamon

Of course, with either recipe, blend all ingredients in a blender, pour into popsicle molds and freeze!

when they're not just shoes

Before having Ethan, I wore a 6 1/2 shoe. By the end of my pregnancy, I was wearing an 8. My feet didn't just get fat, they actually grew longer. It was one of those bizarre things no one ever warned me could happen. (I later learned that one of my friends grew three inches taller at the end of her first pregnancy and I was secretly jealous. At five feet, I could have used those three inches!) Luckily for me, I'm not a shoe person. I'm one of the rare women who wants nothing to do with shoes. One pair of flip-flops and one pair of sneakers and I'm good. If a fancy event called, I would just borrow my sister's shoes because her closet looks like a small shoe store. Unluckily for me, my new role as Bigfoot rendered me no longer able to borrow shoes from my sister so I had to bite the bullet and buy a pair of plain black flats for those times that warrant shoes other than flip-flops or sneakers. Rambling aside, you get the point, I'm not a shoe person. Still, I had one pair of flip-flops I wore every day from Ethan's birth onward. They were my go-to pair of shoes. And then they broke.

"They're just shoes," my husband said with fear in his eyes as I sat sobbing on the couch, tears streaming down my cheeks with the injustice of it all. "You don't get it," I told him. He didn't argue. He didn't get it. No one got it. Not even the employee at Ross who stared with concern as my eyes welled up with tears when none of their women's flip-flops fit my feet. "Our shipment comes in next Monday," she said slowly. I shoved my feet into my lone pair of sneakers and sniffled my way out of the store with a "thanks anyway." You see, after my pregnancy with Wylie, my shoes don't fit again. My feet are still a little fatter than normal, but they're also a little longer. Just the tiniest bit. Every store I went to, I ran into the same problem: the size eights no longer fit, my heel sticking just so off the back or they were too narrow. I spent the morning of the 4th of July running from store to store, hiking my way through the mall in hopes no one would see me and in hopes I wouldn't have an emotional breakdown. Eventually, I found a pair of women's 8 1/2 flip-flops at PacSun that saved me. My hands were all but trembling as I placed them on the counter. "These will be a little uncomfortable at first," explained the cashier, "but they're Rainbow and that means once you wear them in they'll be comfortable forever." I bit my lip, nodded and hurried my way out of the store. A whole half-size bigger. I had a baby and all I have to show for it is an increased shoe size.

They're just shoes. They're just pants. They're just shirts. They're just things but they're things that are amiss solely because I was pregnant with Wylie and now she's not here anymore. I walk a weird line with trying to figure out how to balance all of it, these little reminders of loss and change and also my acknowledgement that I am forever changed regardless of whether or not my old shoes still fit. Her room is still locked up and unchanged, filled with baby gear and clothes in the closet that I'm not ready to look at again, let alone do something with. Whenever I feel that I'm making progress towards a normal life -- like the Orange Theory exercise classes I've masochistically signed up for -- I feel like I also take a giant leap backwards. Because maybe they are just shoes. But somehow they also aren't.

We closed out yesterday with our city's annual display of fireworks. It was Ethan's first year staying awake long enough to see the fireworks and it took a lot of energy on my part to get him to stay awake that long. He was terrified at first and then as we slowly backed away from the outskirts of the park to a nearby lot, he declared that he had loved them. "This is a great show," he exclaimed, smiling up towards the sky. I never liked the 4th of July. I don't like the noise and the chaos and the fireworks. "This is just magical," Ethan said, and that was all I needed to appreciate it a little more. To savor every moment of standing outside in the sticky South Florida summer heat with my family, watching the fireworks up in the sky, my new shoes on my feet and Wylie inside all of us. We are all different now, but we are better for having loved her.

"daddy is 3."

My husband turned 29 yesterday. We weren't able to celebrate yesterday because we're smack dab in the middle of his busy time at work, but he received today off last minute and Ethan couldn't wait to celebrate. Probably because I had promised him we could make daddy a cake and, well, the kid sure loves cake. But also probably because it's been a good week since he's seen his daddy.

When my husband and I started dating, we were 15. Well, I was 15. My husband had turned 16 the month prior to us meeting. It's a little bit crazy to think how long it's been and how many birthdays we've been through and, when you think about all of that stuff, 29 seems a little bit whoa. I mean, when I spent hours after school each day making my saddest mix CD's titled after Juliana Theory songs as a teenager, sobbing over my inevitably unrequited crush on the bass player in Mr. Varsity, I would never believe that he and I would one day be celebrating birthday 29 together. Almost 30, over here. It's sort of surreal to think about, but in a good way.

As promised, Ethan went right to work and baking and decorating his daddy's birthday cake. I tried to help but Pastry Chef Ethan took matters into his own hands and, of course, nailed it.

A day late, but I'm wishing the happiest of 29th birthdays to my wonderful husband. It's been a long journey full of things I know I couldn't have gotten through with anyone else by my side. I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather grow up with or grow old with. I'd also like to thank him for being one step closer to 30 than I am -- because it makes me feel a little less old. Hey, it's the little things.

why, there is no perfect place, yes i know this is true; i'm just learning how to smile and that's not easy to do

I would be lying to you if I said I slept much last night. At least not intentionally. I dozed off a couple of times, but still recall watching most of the hours pass by. This morning was an appointment with my OB that I'd been dreading. On second thought, 'dreading' is a little harsh of a word. I was nervously anticipating walking through the door and being told that I should just tie my tubes because the sheer concept of my reproductive future is as extinct as the dinosaurs. The unknown in all of this -- and, believe me, there has been so much unknown -- is what has been eating away at me most when I try to will myself into recovery. Was I mourning the loss of not just my beautiful daughter but also any future children? It was this thought that began to haunt me the most. When people asked if Ethan was still in diapers, I nodded almost excitedly and protectively; it was as if I wasn't sure if I would ever have the opportunity to change diapers again and I wanted even that to be something I cherished. I was so nervous walking into my OB office that I excused myself to the bathroom twice before my name was even called by the nurse. My limbs were all but shaking. I joked with the nurse that I was going to break her blood pressure meter and I probably wasn't that far off. As soon as my doctor stepped into the room, I felt a little calmer.

We sort of hit the doctor lottery when it comes to our OB who is as kind as she is an amazing physician. I joke that I could never move because I'd miss the beach but, the truth is, I could never move because I'd just be returning to Florida for healthcare purposes since no one could ever remotely compare. I could see in her face that she wasn't about to tell me that a tubal ligation was the only thing left for my body to be put through and everything else just sort of melted away after that.

Of course, there are still risks. Any subsequent pregnancies will mean being under the watchful eye of a perinatologist and cardiologist just enough to probably make me a little crazy. Or crazier, since there's no possible way to go into a subsequent pregnancy with a clear mind and free of neurosis. ("Worry" was too mild a word.) But in my wonderful doctor's confidence, and in her care, and in the care of the amazing team of doctors we have backing us, I found more of my own confidence. I have been saying that in the back of my mind, I saw myself bringing home another little baby, a baby who was awake, but I was so nervous that would pan out to be a pipedream. I now feel free to let my mind wander to a place where everything isn't continually dark, cold, unknown, vacant. A tunnel to trek through on our journey to comfort, completion, solace. I know Wylie will be with on this journey because she is a part of our family. She always has been, and she always will be.

Of course, the idea of conception isn't an immediate reality for both medical reasons and emotional reasons. I have my ideas of when we would like to try again but I can't tell you for sure. As anyone who has experienced a loss like this before can tell you, it isn't easy to recover from and we all grieve differently. I need time to soak it all in and try to fumble my way back into normalcy.

Tonight Ethan and I spent the hours before dinnertime sitting at the skate park watching the children skate. This has long been our special bonding time, our mommy-and-son tradition, though when the school year is in the skate park tends to be dreadfully empty on most nights. The summertime is our time to sweat and breathe in the muggy air, swatting off gnats and watching the skateboarders do their thing. If I'm being honest, I'm usually watching Ethan and the joy and amazement that washes over his face with each trick by the skaters. This was my first step towards normalcy, my first push into trying to fit back into the place where we were before our loss. Not because we could ever forget her, or want to, but because life doesn't end just because you want it to. Life goes on and it somehow manages to still be beautiful, even when you have moments where you can only spot it's ugliness. It was hard to not sit on those bleachers and think I have so very much missed this, because I have. I don't want to miss things anymore. I want to be present and receptive to this fragile life that we live. I miss my daughter. She was taken from me by something with no rhyme or reason, a big "oops!" by nature and I'm never going to get an explanation. I'm never going to get her back. I am battling acceptance of this as can be proven by the seemingly permanent orange Doritos stains around my fingernails because I'm a stress eater. I try to squash those thoughts, breathe in Ethan's sweaty, sticky hair. I have so very much missed this, my heart says, as Ethan claps his hands together for the teenage boy who mastered the skateboarding trick he'd been trying to do for the past ten minutes.

I have realized that I can dwell on the ugliness or I can focus on the hope that I have been given today.

And I'm going to focus on the hope.