Wait Lifting

As I wait again in the family waiting area for a NICU surgery to wrap up, I'm reminded of the difficult lessons I'm learning. The first is patience. I'm learning that God has a timeline and I'm better off letting go of mine and embracing His. I have a matryoshka doll of "waits" bobbling in my mind. I have the big waits of wondering when my baby will be healed and when he will be home. I have littler waits nested within of when will the chest tube come out? and when will the doctors trust our breastfeeding to grow his body? There are surrounding waits of when will the NICU let us back in so I can see my baby? and when will the doctor tell me about the last scan?

My whole day is a succession of waits, big and small. I'm not good at waiting, at least not through all these unknowns. If God could just send me a messenger to say, "Elijah will be fine and you will be home together soon," I could wait in peace; If I knew it would all work out, I could endure almost anything in the meanwhile. Over the last 8 weeks, I think I've been decompressing a bit. My 6-week hopeful mental deadline came and went with no homecoming. I've let go of trying to guess when we'll have him back and have relaxed into knowing he is where he should be. He'll leave when the time is right. I'm trying to lift my waits to God and believe that the "whens" don't matter next to God's will. Our world is in His hands.

As I sit here moping, I tear up a bit when I see a father across the room hang up his cell phone and burst into a relieved cry, "She's okay!" The family circles up for hugs and a prayer of thanksgiving. It was his daughter's surgery I was waiting on to get back to see my son. He was waiting for her life. As my waits are put in perspective, I want to jump up and join the group hug to celebrate with them.

My second, and equally-challenging lesson is relinquishing my self-reliance. Floods of offers for help have come in from friends, family and acquaintances. For the first weeks, I couldn't think of what I needed, aside from stability for our boys, which family was providing. I wasn't sure there was anything to need. I felt bad because I could tell people genuinely want to help, but I've been so autonomous I couldn't come up with anything. Finally, someone, not knowing the wisdom of her actions, practically forced help upon us. We, very uncomfortably, accepted lunch for a week from near-strangers.

I felt very humbled, if not a little uneasy, to have meals delivered to the hospital each day by people who spent the time, effort and money to cook or order them. Quickly, though, the blessing manifested itself. The warmth of a tasty meal, delivered in love, nourished our hearts and bellies. We had something wonderful and reliable to look forward to each day. That gave me the courage and humility to ask our devoted church members for a few meals we could keep in our deep freezer for those evenings when we don't have enough juice left to cook. Someone passed out 42 casserole pans in church and from that day we have not had to cook a single dinner!  What a blessing and a relief!

I don't know why I developed my independent nature. It's been too important to me to solve my own problems and meet my own needs. It doesn't make much sense to me, because in the other direction, I'll do just about anything for just about anybody for the sheer joy of helping someone. I like to be a contributor. So, why is it so hard to be a recipient? Why is it so uncomfortable for me to feel so indebted to so many people and to know I could probably never repay each person, and *gulp* could probably not even list each person that has helped us. Why do I feel the need to repay deeds that were done without expectation, and perhaps even causing offense if I tried? If I were to think as a giver, I would want my recipient to feel at peace with my gift - to feel relief from the burden that has been lifted by my gift - and to go about her day, free to focus on what matters.

As I write these words, I'm seeing a big blinking arrow pointing to some important truths. People need people. We weren't meant to handle everything on our own. Sometimes a harder lesson than learning to give is learning to receive - to accept what we need from those who freely give. Most importantly, I'm reminded to daily accept the gift of life that God had freely given. We each need to accept it with gratitude and peace, understanding that we will never deserve it, earn it, or be able to repay it. We owe no debts; we've been freed to focus on loving Him and each other. What a blessing and a relief! 

Pleasantly Bored

Okay, so how many different ways can I document my daily routine? Got up. Pumped. Got dressed. Ate. Stuffed frozen milk in a cooler. Got kisses from the boys. Said goodbye. Said goodbye some more. More kisses. Said goodbye one more time. Drove to hospital. Pumped. Woke up munchkin at 11:45. Changed diaper. Detangled wires. Attempted breastfeeding. Put sleeping munchkin back. Pumped. Went to lunch. Woke up munchkin at 2:45. Changed diaper. Detangled wires. Attempted breastfeeding. Put sleeping munchin back. Pumped. Mildewed (Huh? OK, when I was growing up, every time I asked my dad what he was doing, he said "mildewing". I never "got" it, but I think I'm catching on now). Woke up munchkin at 4:45. Changed diaper. Detangled wires. Attempted breastfeeding. Put sleeping munchkin back. Pumped. Got slightly reprimanding looks for encroaching on shift change. Grabbed drink and snack from caf. Drove home. Ate dinner. Pumped. Crammed in playtime with boys. Got ready for bed. Pumped. Read stories. ZZZzzz.

The awesome part is sometimes I mix it up a bit and change a diaper after breastfeeding or get a lunch date with a brave and kind soul who stopped by. There are also cool little details I didn't bore you with, like, I took his temperature. Ooh today he gets an Xray. Say, maybe I'll change his clothes.


At the hospital, a boring day is a great day. Today is a really, really great day. The less action this boy can stir up, the sooner he'll be home.

Home. Home. Where my other funny little boys are. I have more fun with these little guys in the sliver of time I get with them during the week. Last night we read The Monster At The End of This Book. That was always one of my favorites as a kid. Last time we had read it was shortly after Christmas, and I think Isaac was a little scared of it. Maybe it was Dad's voices that did it. This time, Brian read it once and Isaac took it and "read" each page, saying "Monter at end of tory. (Looks at Brian) Turn page?" After a few more stories and clicking off the light, snuffly little Ian volunteered to pray. "Dear God. Fank you for God. Please bless everyfing. I want mommy to clean my nose. Bless the trucks. Aaaamen!"

The Bees Knees

I'm pretty stoked today. Elijah has been in a good mood and has breastfed for 20 minutes at every feeding that I've been here for - yay! Brian and I were discussing that we are in dire need of a vacation. We need to scoop our THREE boys up and go somewhere to veg for a bit. Just waiting for Elijah to hatch his escape plan.

There is definitely something lovable about my days; there is plenty to keep me busy. During the majority of it, I have the pleasure of snuggling my little guy in my arms. I can think of nothing better! Otherwise, I'm pacing the cafeteria lines, deciding if it's a mooshy veggie or fried cheese stick day. On the front door of the hospital, there is a warning sign saying there is secret audio and/or video surveillance. Maybe there is a bored security guard keeping tally of how many times I snub the green beans. Sometimes, I wave at random cracks in the ceiling tiles, just in case someone behind a monitor is feeling lonely. 

I miss my bigger boys. Even if they were allowed in here, they'd probably be miserable after the first 15 minutes of trying drive the IV pole around. They're better off at home with Grandma, where Ian is striking up conversations between his cars, and Isaac is learning to say "contaminated pants". They build tents, walk to the park and have all sorts of fun. Brian's mom says the boys even crawl into a bed or tent and fall asleep without protest for their naps. I think I need video proof of that. 

I don't know what I'm going to do when they get bigger. I keep popping out babies, but they won't stay put. I'm not sure whether to keep at it or resign myself to the fact that they are just going to grow. I love their innocence. The perfect image of that is my memory of Ian when he was just settling into toddlerhood. One of his favorite "jobs" was to bobble to the mailbox with me to get the mail. One day, as we were approaching the mailbox, scruffily decorated with annuals, Ian reached out with one little finger and petted a big, fuzzy bumblebee. The bee didn't know, didn't care or didn't think him a threat, but I was immediately tensed, ready to scoop and run. Something about that transaction burned it into my memory, and I admired my son all the more. 

He's a little more "wise" now. I can't say if he'd try to get friendly with any other stinger-laden insects, but he thinks he knows a thing or two.  Brian was reading him a Dr. Seuss book last night and Ian noticed one of the female characters looked mad. Brian asked him what she was mad about. Ian replied, "She's mad about mans". Sometimes I have to wonder just what exactly he picks up on and what is coincidence, but I'm starting to think kids are pretty adept psychologists.

I'm nagged by motherly guilt regarding Isaac, the poor victim of Second Child Syndrome. He is just as hilarious as Ian, but usually in such an indescribable, nuanced way that words wouldn't do it justice. He's making leaps in his verbal skills, but isn't in position to blurt out the quotables yet, like his older brother. Still, it  seems he ought to get some space on the page, too. I have nary a record of most of his milestones. I couldn't tell you when his top-left molar came in. Apparently, I had way too much time on my hands when I had only one child. But, for the record and my conscience, Isaac rocks!   :o)