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Love is Always Worth More

When I was three months old, the Christmas tree fell on me.

I was lying on a blanket underneath the fir, apparently fascinated by the twinkling lights and sparkling ornaments. My mother only left the room for a moment. And it was then, for whatever reason, the tree toppled. With me underneath.

As my mom rushed back into the room, she saw the fallen tree, couldn’t hear me making any noise and immediately assumed the worst.

Fortunately, I was fine. Not a scratch, not a bruise. The branches of the tree had landed perfectly on either side of me. I was just chilling amidst the boughs, unaware of what had happened. My mom always credited an angel for that one. Read more

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The Gift of Being Seen

It doesn’t matter who they are. As soon as she sees them walking towards her, the little hand pops up over the edge of the stroller, waving hello.

She sees them.

The neighbours. The dog walkers. The ones busily shouting into their phones. The ones walking alone. Old. Young. The ones I’d chose to avoid eye-contact with.

She sees all of them.

And I can’t help but wonder what life would be like if I stopped to truly see them too.

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The Longest of Nights

These are the early days. The nights when the baby fusses and you awake every half-hour, bleary-eyed and exhausted. When you’re no longer able to string cognizant sentences together and your nightshirt smells like spit-up and baby lotion.

You’re tired. Oh-so-tired.

If you could wish these nights away, you would. They’re exhausting and mind-numbing: this endless cycle of sleeping, eating and changing.

And yet, you find yourself inexplicably passing up moments of sleep to stop and marvel at this new child in your arms. You kiss the top of their downy head and soak in the syrupy smell of milk and baby. You watch them sleep with wonder.

The little one’s breath comes soft and quick after months spent immersed within. The squeaks and gurgles, murmurs and bubbles from within the bassinet make for a noisy roommate. But when they quiet, you peek your face over the edge of her bed. Your hand hovers over her chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of new life. For now, life slows.

Yes, these weeks and months are draining. But through these longest of nights, we hear the never-ending whispers of a mother’s love.

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When Motherhood Isn’t Instagram-Worthy

#motherhood

Scrolling through my Instagram feed the other day, I decided to check out the hashtag, “motherhood.” It was everything I thought it would be: babies sleeping peacefully on their mother’s flat postpartum bellies, children laughing as they run through sprinklers and lick perfectly swirled ice-cream cones, the sun setting behind smiling mothers and toddlers clad in matching outfits. The photos are clean and mess free, full of smiles and daydreams, perfect lighting and one-off shots. It’s not real and yet, according to Instagram, this is what “mom life” looks like.

It’s a definition that’s gotten a little twisted along the way – one that I, myself, am guilty of contributing to. My living room floor is currently a maze of dirty laundry piles, carrot-muffin crumbs, and crayons. I ate a cookie for breakfast, my toddler watches far too many Paw Patrol episodes, and last week, there was that faint but persistent smell of milk emanating from somewhere deep within my son’s room. But if you look through my Instagram, you’ll notice that I have never posted a photo of any of that. After all, who wants to look at reality when we can carefully craft fiction?

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Each Week With You

**I started writing this while pregnant with our little Avonlea. It is nothing more than the scribblings of a newly-expectant mother, the beat of my heart written out upon a page. My womb emptied before I had the chance to finish putting words to the experience; and so, this post remains short and sweet and complete all on its own – much like our daughter’s life. I share it with you today, in memory of each of our babes gone too soon.**

Each week with you is a miracle.

A small poppy seed lies in my belly, growing and blossoming with each day; a peppercorn, a blueberry, who knows how big you’ll become. No one sees you yet, this tiny knot of cells that have buried their way into my womb and clear through to my heart, but you’re there.

I don’t know how long we have together. I don’t know whether you’re the one whose forehead I will kiss as I rock to sleep, or whose toes I will tickle just to hear the sound of your laugh. I don’t know if we will name you in the first trimester as we say good-bye, or if we will proudly announce your height and weight on birth announcements for the world to see. I don’t know if a lifetime of memories with you means weeks, or months, or decades. All I know is right now.

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Trying Again After Loss

It feels like it’s taken me a long time to get here. To arrive at this in-between place where I’m finally ready to entertain the idea of ‘trying again.’

Another pregnancy. Another baby.

The thought volleys around in my head. Back and forth I debate whether I’m ready to get pregnant again – whether I even want to. Maybe we have already reached our family’s final number; maybe we will find new ways to grow, just the three of us.

But I know in my heart that I’m not satisfied with this ending.

Not that this wouldn’t be enough. Not that I wouldn’t be perfectly happy leaving things the way they are. But there’s more to this story – it’s not finished yet.

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Naming a Baby Lost in Miscarriage

At the edge of a grassy graveyard, surrounded by little bronze markers and drying flowers, sits my son’s gravestone. His name is boldly inscribed across the top: “Landon A. Mannegren.” This grave is a physical reminder of his short life, a place that marks his brief stay in this world. This tombstone is a declaration that he was here.

But none of that exists for my recent miscarriage.

I never felt this little one’s first kicks. I never knew their gender or held them in my arms. There is no birth certificate, no ultrasound photos, and no baby nursery. All I could give this precious babe was eight weeks of love snuggled up in my womb and a name to call their own.

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Alistair Turns TWO

To my sweet, little man; my sunshine, my Alistair,

Today you turn two. Just the thought of it evokes all the imaginable cliches about babies growing up too quickly. Because although you still refer to yourself in third person, “baby” has now graduated to “big boy.”

This was a big year for you: learning to walk, beginning to talk. You’re getting bolder as you maneuver the equipment at the playground. You dance and run, tiptoe and sing. If there was a toddler edition of “So You Think You Can Dance,” you would win hands down.

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To the Brave Ones, Thank You

I held the delicate, silver necklace up against the light and watched the baby birds sway on a branch; my heart burst with thankfulness for this unexpected reminder of my two boys. I hadn’t seen this pendant in over a year and yet, in that time, it had grown to mean all the more to me.

It had been an incredibly thoughtful gesture. A friend had pressed the necklace into my hand shortly after my son’s funeral: a visual reminder of a heart that would always carry two boys. But in the chaos of the following months, the necklace was somehow designated to a drawer full of tangled earrings and old bobby pins. As I stumbled once again across this gift, I questioned the strong, blinding grief that had caused me to gloss over such a beautiful gesture. Quietly, I began to wonder about all the other acts of love that had gone unacknowledged over the course of this past year.

That’s why this post is dedicated to you. The brave ones. The ones who loved us, each in their own way and their own time.

In an inadequate attempt to display the depth of my gratitude, this entry is for all those who have walked alongside us with patience, comforting arms, giving hearts, and listening ears. 

Because I need to say thanks.

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Happy Birthday Alistair!

To my dearest, sweetest, little man, Happy 1st Birthday!

Exactly one year ago, you and your brother surprised us with your unexpectedly early entrance. While I was busy envisioning September birthday parties amidst crunchy, fall leaves, God had an entirely different birth date in store.

And His plan was perfect!

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10 Things I’ve Learned being with You

When it comes to marriage, I’m in my infancy. Just barely out of the honeymoon stage and with only two years under my belt, I still find myself toddling around on occasionally wobbly feet. Like childhood, these early years offer exponential growth and steep learning curves. While this journey in togetherness has been teaching me oh-so-many things, I have yet to gather a collection of profound wisdom or great advice. But I do have are twenty-four months of stunningly beautiful memories and laughter, struggles, excitement and day to day life.

And so, entering into our third year as husband and wife, here is a quick glimpse (just barely scratching the surface here) into what this wonderful adventure has been teaching me:

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Celebrating Ali’s first Valentine’s Day

The other day, I took Alistair out for a walk in his jogging stroller. Usually, the instant his five point harness snaps shut, his eyes close with equal ferocity and he’s out for the duration of the stroll. But this time, his baby blues were open wide in amazement. Birds, trees, cars and tall buildings – these are pretty spectacular sights for someone who has previously only been able to see as far as his feet.

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