Ellery says.

"Here, mom, here. I'm bringing you your coffee. I'm being careful. Really careful, mom."

Slosh, slosh, slosh. 

"Uh-oh, mom, I got a ploblem."

This is the synopsis of my morning. 

Thankful through Exhaustion

On many occasions, when I am pondering motherhood, I become exhausted. Just thinking about it, I'm exhausted. 

It is not one sole act that leads to exhaustion. It's not the twenty thousand books we read a day, often, each one twice.

It is not the shoes left scattered in the yard. Not one pair, but three, that must be found in a difficult game of hide-and-seek before the coming storm.

And it certainly isn't the helpfulness of the toddler. The way she sweetly 'helps' make pancakes by creating a masterpiece of droplets of batter on the kitchen floor, followed by a proud proclamation of her accomplishments.

You see, it's the combination of everything the two-and-a-half year old darling does, on top of everything the ten month old needs.

Some days, if we're honest, it's just rather difficult.

Most days, if I am not consciously, actively, zealously looking for the good in the trenches of motherhood, I am pretty sure I'd overlook it altogether. But some days, those precious days, when both kids nap at the same time. When laundry has been folded and put away, dishes are clean, and I have approximately 30 minutes of quietness, I see it. I see the beauty as the toys lie motionless. The sound machine hums in the background, while my fingers hold fast to the chai tea steaming between them, and I smile. I smile as what I perceive as hectic, all fades away.

This leads me to my point.

This hectic moment, the days that pass quickly but seem to drag on forever, are supposed to be work, but this work, the work I am doing in my daughter's life, in my son's life, should be glorifying to the One Most Holy. Bringing him glory through the raising of my kids. 

You see, the shoes left strewn about the yard means there must have been playful, happy feet tromping over the grass just moments before. The pancake batter in puddles on the floor means there must have been a little girl wanting to be just like her momma, taking notes, and learning what life is all about, at the heels of the one who loves her most. The books, the thrill of reading, yearning to learn through imagination is what we all hope to inspire in our kids.

But how often do we see it that way? How often do we long for the messes to not happen, the shoes to just be put away, and the books to read themselves?

Perspective. Maybe I need a change in perspective. 

"In everything, give thanks, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:18

This is His will for me. 

My perspective should be with that focus. 

Motherhood. A fiesty two year old. A sweet son with spina bifida. There's a reason, and every hour, every minute, every moment of chaos, I must choose the perspective of joy. The perspective of thankfulness. The perspective of raising God-loving children by showing them how to love our Lord through every minute of craziness.

This is my prayer. 

Elam's Birth Story

Today, I sit down with the cursor flashing before me on this blank page. My blog, I have so desperately deserted you, and for that I am sorry. My heart is still overflowing with words, words that have been quite difficult to make public, to make open for everyone to read, including myself. Sometimes it is easier just to keep the words of your heart so locked away that you don't even recognize them when they finally come.

I keep shifting in my chair. Shifting back and forth, occasionally sipping on the glass of ice water I have before me. Thinking. I'm thinking of the appropriate introduction to a blog that is so intensely ingrained into every part of my being: Elam's birth story.

Elam's story is a little different than Ellery's. Although, the gist of it is the same: labor, delivery, baby. With him, emotionally, there is much more to it. Much more heart behind it. Much more terror. Much more awe laid out before me as God's grace covered me completely in my time of desperation.

June 20, 2013.

It began.

Unprepared and without a bag packed or plans for Ellery, I woke up at 5 am and used the restroom. I crawled back in bed and noticed something a little odd; I was leaking. A little curious, I went back to the restroom, continuing to leak. I was quite certain, although not completely positive, my water had broke.

I woke Justin up calmly, informed him I was going to the hospital to verify that, in fact, this was not a false alarm. I left, and he took charge of packing a bag, finding someone to watch Ellery, and being ready when I got home.

I arrived at the local hospital 5 minutes later, informing them upon arrival I would not be having our baby at their hospital, however I did need to make sure this was 'go time' before I drove to New Orleans. After being checked in and put in a room, I had already determined that this was 'it', but now I was stuck.  I was determined 'the hospital's property' and they did not want me to leave. They wanted me to stay, liability reasons, and have the baby with them - to which I proceeded to set them straight. All of my emotions and every ounce of fear were put aside as I was protecting my right to birth my baby in the best place possible for him. From what I remember, I asked for a release form, relieving them from any liability if anything was to happen to me or the baby upon leaving their hospital, and that was it.

 Longer than it should have taken later, I was home telling Ellery good-bye for an undetermined amount of time, shaking as tears left my eyes. This wasn't supposed to be happening, not yet. My heart hurt as I embraced the mystery that laid before me. The mystery that left me feeling more out of control than anything else has ever come close.  Within ten minute of returning home, Justin and I were loaded in the car and headed to Ochsner. The two hour drive seemed like ten. Prayers for a safe delivery, prayers for strength, prayers for peace and knowledge that God was in control were breathed with every exhalation of my lungs. Tears continued to roll. Nervous tear. Excited tears. Finally, we start the second half of this journey, tears.

The drive was uncomfortable - as liquid continued to leave Elam's side and enter the world where he'd be welcomed soon. My doctor was expecting me, and we were escorted directly to a room upon our arrival.

I did the typical change from my everyday clothes to my laboring gown and positioned myself in bed. It was a little after nine in the morning at this time and I was 3 cm dilated. Since this was an unusual case and several people were to be in the operating room upon Elam's descent and entering, I was hooked up to Pitocin to help induce contractions.

At this point, I made my decision public that I did not want an epidural. This was my journey, a rollercoaster ride with my son, one where much joy and much pain had already been encountered, and this was the end of our time as one. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to experience every bit of our transition to something deeper, to something more beautiful - to life.

Looking out the window, I saw clouds rolling in over the Mississippi River. The clouds came, the sky grew dark, and it began to rain. Cars crossed the bridge that connected the shores. My heart was made full in the distraction God had placed before me. It was ominous, yet it was so very beautiful.

At this point, contractions were coming on strong and I was progressing pretty quickly. Justin never left my side once labor had truly started. He began to support me like he had during Ellery's birth by rocking me through the tightening, but this time around, I just needed to do it alone. I found a way to breathe through the intense moments, eyes closed and humming softly. When relief would come, my eyes would find Justin with his nose buried in the bible his grandparents gave him a long time ago. He'd read a verse aloud and God's presence would fill the room.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us. Ephesians 3:20

How those words sound so sweet.

A resident would occasionally come to monitor progression, but for the most part, we were left to peaceful laboring on our own. This continued until around 3 o' clock in the afternoon when Elam must have moved. Suddenly his heartbeat was being detected at an alarmingly slow rate, and all of the fiddling and adjusting of the external heartbeat monitor would not indicate that it was a false alarm. We tried changing positions and walking around, all of which was unsuccessful. The resident made the decision to place an internal monitor on the top of his head for a more accurate heart rate read.

That was the end of my peaceful labor.

The scare of something happening to Elam, after our already long journey, was unbearable. The heart rate was now within the normal range and all proved to be a false alarm, however, I couldn't get settled back down.

All of my nervousness came rushing back. Every thing I had put aside in order to enjoy the last moments being intimately one with my little boy invaded my every thought and breath. The devil was attacking me where I was weakest, and he was winning.

My progression stalled at 9 cm for two hours. Back labor controlled me. Swaying, humming, and dancing only brought tears of frustration, when finally Elam began to descend.

He was coming down face first, so the doctor decided it was best to manually manipulate and rotate him before we were wheeled down to the operating room to start pushing. This was 5:35 pm.

As we entered a room of solid white, medical professionals all around, needles and gauze, scrub hats and sterile everything, I was once again at peace. I wasn't thinking of his future surgeries. I wasn't thinking of everything we had to be afraid of. I was thinking about him. My son. The one I'd always fight for, always love, and always give everything I had to make this world a better place for him to live.

I began pushing at 5:40pm. I took a deep breath, I let my body control my movements. Three breaths later, Elam's little lungs filled air and our hearts transcended to a place of perfect love.

He was quickly taken away from us to a side operating room. They wrapped his back in temporary gauze, swaddled him tightly, and brought him back to me.

Chills ran through me, as tears filled my eyes. My face suddenly drenched with tears, the nurse asked if I wanted to hold him. Shaking with joy, I held him close as I  whispered, over and over, "I love you. I love you. You're perfect!"

He was everything we'd hoped for. He was our son; breathing, crying, beautiful.

Our time together lasted close to ten minutes. They eventually wheeled him up to the NICU and told us they'd call us when he was ready for us to visit. I headed back to my room.

We made the "He's here!" phone calls and announced his name. We loved, we ate, we were so happy.

Our 5 month journey of curiosity and uncertainty had just turned into a lifetime of it. A lifetime of 'I don't knows', medical interventions, and a million reasons to hit our knees daily in search of our loving Lord's grace and wisdom.

We went five days only being able to look at him.
We spent nine days in the NICU.
We made countless trips up and down the elevator and back and forth from the parking garage.

Every minute, every stress, every tear was worth it.

We're thankful for the way God shows up in the most beautiful of ways, in the exact moments you need His warmth the most.