Still with me?
Time does wonders. As the weeks passed, I gradually (albeit painfully) adjusted to the idea of a fall baby. It wouldn't be so bad. What was an extra month or two, out of all of eternity? I even began to feel almost embarrassed with myself for having been such a boob over something relatively minor. I was going to get pregnant again right away. . . right?
*****
I think we all agree (I hope) that some things are too personal for the Internet. As I've thought about the next part of the story, I realize this in one of them. Pretty lame of me, I know. I should have thought about that when I started. Actually, I did. I was hoping I would find some publicly appropriate way of explaining it. This whole time I've been really close to, if not over, the line of what-is-too-personal-to-share-with-the-entire-world. Right now I'm not comfortable crossing that line any farther. Some things are meant to be shared only in quiet conversation. Sorry. . .
I do, however, owe you the final surprise: There will be no fall baby. There will be no baby anytime soon. (So please, please don't spend the next year wondering if I'm pregnant again yet.)
[I am thinking about how recently some friends and I read a book by Salman Rushdie and how we all agreed that his climaxes fall flat. I am comforted knowing that I am not Mr. Best of the Booker. I am your friend or daughter or niece or sister-in-law, writing as quickly as I can on my little blog. My climaxes can fall flat. I can even erase them completely.]
I do also wish to share three things.
First:
For us Mormons, church is a family affair. We drag our children kicking and screaming (literally) to three consecutive hours of church every Sunday. Church attendance during those years (these years) when you have small children can be harrowing. I know Mormons aren't the only ones who struggle through church services with their children, so I suspect many of you, Mormon or not, know just what I'm talking about. Regular church attendance becomes an act of duty and faith because, let's face it, while you're wrestling a toddler in the pew, it's hard to squeeze in much listening, let alone spiritual enlightenment. (Please read here.) Ironic it may be, the last place I'm going to hear God talking to me is in church. But God always compensates us for our efforts, in one way or another. For me, one compensation is the temple. (My mom gets the credit for pointing this out to me.) On alternating months (which is all Greg and I can manage right now) I get two hours of sublime, luxurious, glorious peace and quiet in the temple of the Lord, perfectly suited for meditation of a spiritual nature. Perfectly suited for hearing God.
Second:
I might have been annoyed, impatient, and deeply disappointed just after my loss. But it was a month later that I truly mourned. What sadness I felt. But I was not the only one: "[A] man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief . . . Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows" (Isaiah 53:4-5).
Third:
I guess I am not the intensely private person I imagined myself to be. The last few months have been a roller coaster. I take that back. Last summer keeps its status as the wildest roller coaster of my life. This has been more like one of those 300-ft. high free fall rides. Fortunately, the brakes worked, every time. But not telling anyone about my ride was starting to make me ill at ease with everyone I care about. Eventually, a very small handful of people knew. (Note one truly Heaven-inspired phone call from Deanna.) Then one day I was talking to a friend who is very polite about pretending that my Spanish is better than her English, and I told her, in Spanish. I'm not sure what is was about struggling to explain it to her in my limited Spanish vocabulary, but I walked out of her house with such a burden lifted that I decided to tell everyone. That's where the Internet comes in. (Where did people confess private matters in the old days?)
Even though I left some gaping holes in the story, you do get the ending:
One recent evening I escaped to my bedroom just after dinner. Why is dinnertime such a difficult time of day? I climbed under a blanket on my bed. Hiding, from myself, mostly.
David soon bounded into the room.
"Mommy, it's not sleeping time! It's sunny, silly Mommy! What are you doing?"
"I'm resting."
"Why are you resting, Mommy?"
"Because I'm sad."
"Oh, Mommy, I'll make you happy," and he climbed up onto the bed with that bright guileless smile. "I'll give you tickles." Which he did. "You're happy now!" I was.
Then, never one to be left out, Mary toddled in, and demanded to be pulled up onto the bed with us.
We made a tent under the blanket. We sat in our tent and sang a little song: "I'm in a tent, I'm in a tent, I'm in a tent. Doodle-doodle-doo."
Underneath the blanket it was all blue eyes and brown eyes and giggles and kisses. My heart was full.
My life is full.
(For now.)
