On a Dark and Stormy Night.

He had done this to her. The man who stood in the corner, quiet and still, he had brought her to this god forsaken place. She begged for mercy. The tears had long dried upon her face, the pain was too much to even cry about. "I can't...please" she whispered her plea, begging for a reprieve. But he didn't move a muscle, didn't budge from his stubborn perch in the corner. It was his deep blue eyes that betrayed his emotions. They were filled with excitement and a touch of fear, his hands shook at the very prospect of what was about to be. She knew he wouldn't help her, indeed he couldn't.

Her screams bounced off the lime green walls. Their dingy, peeling paint a testament to the hard life they had led and witnessed. The myriads of women who had suffered at the hands of men was a secret these walls whispered amongst themselves years after the screams had faded and the memories were forgotten. The floors, a distant cousin, had tasted blood and known the agony first hand. It held it's own secrets but dare not whisper it like the walls did. Some secrets were better left unspoken.

Her blood pooled under the table beneath her. The woman's agony heard and tasted by the quiet witnesses of the cold, hard concrete that surrounded her. The man had finally moved and stood next to her bedside. He held her hand as the pain rippled through her sore and tortured body. She found comfort in his touch, despite what he had forced her to endure. She gave one final push and her child emerged, his screams matching hers. Suddenly the woman's pain seemed to be forgotten; comforting this squirming, screaming mass was all that mattered. The tears that had long dried up, flowed from her again. Love replaced pain and once more the walls whispered the names of all who had come before them.

Her son was born that dark and stormy night, but it would not be the last time those cold, concrete witnesses would observe the secrets that all women held within them. Life isn't born, it is forced and wrenched into being by a love that knows no bounds. A woman's power can never be matched as it is by her will alone that life is allowed to exist, and indeed, flourish.

Tiny Feet. For Kris.

"There is no footprint too small, that it cannot leave an imprint on this world".

Dear Chance,

October 15th, 2007, you were born into our family. You never took your first breath to exhale your first cry, but rest assured baby boy, this was done for you by your mom, and your dad. They say a picture says a thousand words, but a thousand tears will speak infinitely more. Your mom's tears tell a story of incredible love and unbearable pain. You see baby boy, as mothers we all share the same dreams. Before our babies take their first breath we imagine...

We imagine the first cries, and the first steps. We wonder about the first words, and what our child's laugh will sound like. We live your entire lifetime inside our own heads, within our own imaginations, before our baby's ever enter this world.

Your mommy dreamed of the day she could hold you, and kiss you, and cuddle your tiny body to hers. But she imagined your lungs would be full of deep and beautiful breaths. She imagined the cries they would expel and how it would be her arms that would be your comfort. Never in her wildest dreams would she imagine your body so still; or that your eyes would never seek hers. She could never imagine a world without you in it.

Oh but baby boy, you would be so proud of her. Somehow she found the strength to walk out of that hospital without you bundled in her arms. She made it through, one painful day at a time, and when she was as healed as a mother could be, she created her second miracle. She went through your brother's pregnancy scared and a little unsure. Her dreams for Gage put on hold until she could be sure, that his tiny feet, would do more than walk beside yours.

But don't worry baby. You haven't been replaced. You will always be her first born, and you will never be forgotten. And on occasion, when she looks at Gage, she can see you. She can hear your laugh, and envision the amusement in your eyes. She can almost see, the way you would play with your little brother, giggling at his army crawl and trying to hold his hand for his first steps. Her love for you will always imagine the life you should have had, a curse and a blessing, if ever there was one. You see because your life counts, it held impact, and on the day you meet again, maybe you can show her that all those dreams she had weren't wasted, and you lived them alongside her all those many years.

You would be three years old today, Chance. Happy Birthday baby boy. I'll light a candle just for you. And your mom will pick up your brother, and cuddle him a little more close and she'll imagine...

Picasso

I wonder, is it inherent in all people to want to create? Does everyone start off in the world as little artists and are only dissuaded through proclamations of talent, when compared to another, in which we give up this inherent want? I always enjoyed drawing and coloring, but realized at a young age that any people who possessed eyes could see that art was not my talent to wield.

My circles always look like ovals, my lines are never straight, all animals come out looking like disfigured dogs and I swear I have no idea how I passed geometry as any shape I drew came out looking hexagonish...

So as I sat on the floor this morning drawing and coloring alongside my kids...a thought dawned on me. My kids don't care that my pumpkins look like upside down icecream cones, or that the bats look like mice with wings! All they care about is that mom is creating with them, and that I think every crooked line, and oval circle is wonderfully beautiful. They drew and colored to their hearts content, only stopping to hang a picture on our mahogony cupboards.

Edie and Gabe became so focused on their projects that they never noticed how intently I watched them. Their art speaks volumes. Gabe is so careful in life. He's cautious and slow and never ventures far from his regular comfort zone. He looks before he leaps, and is much like his mother in this regard. But his art allows him a freedom I have never seen come from him. His strokes are bold and courageous. He's quick to color outside the lines leaving streaks of rainbows across my tiled floor. He bravely proclaims that his pictures are of his family and always points out the eyes on our faces. It's the one thing he's meticulous about drawing...Almost as though he knows that eyes are the windows to the soul, like he knows that love can be found there.

Edie is Gabe's polar opposite. She's never cautious in life and will no doubt be the first of our brood to break a body part. She'll always run before she walks and will never look before she leaps. She trusts that this fine line she travels is only worth taking if she journey's to its farthest edge, always perilously balanced on a cliff that could spell disaster or wonderous adrenaline...Oh, but her art! She's slow and careful and every stroke is measured with intense concentration. Every dot, and every line is placed there with exact precision. She adds colors only when it suits her, and only the exact color she deems is worthy. If her brother switches markers with her mid creation, she will throw a fit and refuse to add more to her picture until the color she requires is back in her hands.

Maybe that's what true art is...discovering a piece of ourselves so imbedded in our psyches that it can't escape otherwise! Or maybe i'm over thinking this, and it's just a whole lot of fun!

False Labour

Last night I was sitting on the couch watching Hawaii Five 0 (the episode I missed on Monday)"book em Danno" -heh so sexy- when it began. The pain started on my left side and radiated across my belly. Soon a pattern became discernible and my hips and back started to feel it too. I didn't panic right away, Hawaii Five 0 offered a distraction and I thought the false labour would be over after a few painful contractions. When it didn't stop by the time my show had ended I began to think that maybe this was the real deal. The contractions were coming quite frequently and lasting for longer than the braxton hicks allowance of 30 seconds. Given the pattern, the pain, and minute long contractions, I assessed the situation as possibly problematic. I drank a few glasses of water, hoping the labour was being brought on by dehydration.

After another ten minutes and two more painful contractions I told Scott we might want to figure out how to get me to the hospital without dragging the kids all over hells half acre (I live in a different city than the hospital I have chosen to deliver in). Why would you do that? The hospital I want to deliver in is brand new, has a NICU, and is really only 25 minutes from where I live! The need of a NICU seems to be a recurring theme in my pregnancies, so I figure its better to be safe than sorry!

I wandered upstairs and updated my Facebook status, looking for distraction and some encouragement from any friends crazy enough to be awake and online at 1130pm at night! After finding what I needed I paced the floor. I chewed my bottom lip to smithereens waiting for the labour to intensify or stop. My main worry at that point was the possibility of the contractions causing my water to break. Labour has a better chance of being stopped if your membranes are intact -of course- and with my history of PPROM I was more than a little concerned! After what seemed an eternity my false labour trickled to a stop. And right on cue...Edie began her endless crying campaign. I tell ya...if it's not one kid driving you insane with worry (thanks Finale), it's another driving you insane with no sleep!