Get Me Off The Ship

I am full-force into the nausea of the first trimester, and here is what it feels like: have you ever been seasick on a ship? Dave and I took a boat out to snorkel in Molokini Crater during our honeymoon, and I remember seeing a young couple huddled at the back of the boat. The girl was obviously seasick; the guy had his arm around her hunched back, and she barely moved the whole trip. They didn't eat the buffet spread, or swim with the fishes, or probably register the gorgeous views.

I feel like I'm that girl. The nausea is not bad enough to make me actually puke ever, but it never really goes away, so I go through each day mentally hunched over, in a mild daze. Unpredictable things make it worse: the feeling of air blowing across any part of my body. Dave moving the bed at night. The smell of the kids' hair after a bath. The artificial-sweetener aftertaste of a soda. The sound of a burp. Having to talk louder than a faint whisper ("WHAT?" everyone is always saying).

It's hard to really focus on much, between the nausea and the fatigue. I feel like most of the world just passes me by: I know the sink is accumulating hairs, but I can't be bothered enough to swipe them away. I look dumbly at the sticky spots on the floor and the stray Lego wedged behind the couch. It feels like a Herculanean effort to get up and do the most basic things: look at food long enough to pack myself a lunch. Actually help poor Dave with childcare.

The problem is, I still look normal from the outside. I'm still my old size (and unfortunately, too sick to really enjoy it while it lasts). And I'm realizing what most people with chronic illness probably realize: after a while, no one really wants to hear about your pain. No one really understands it. When "how are you feeling?" is met with the same "bad" or variation thereof every time, even you get tired of hearing about yourself.

I also struggle with questions that most people with chronic illness probably do: why is this happening? what does feeling nauseous have to do with growing new life? I know, the progesterone or whatever-- but why does it have to relate? And I have the benefit of knowing this sickness is both temporary and towards a good end, which many don't.

Maybe God is teaching me empathy for my patients who suffer from chronic discomfort. Maybe he is showing me the people in my life who love and support me unconditionally. Maybe he wants to challenge me to some new level of selflessness. Maybe he just wants me to be willing to dwell in an uncomfortable place and trust in his sovereignty.

But mostly, I just want to get off the ship. I want to press the fast-forward button for the next four to eight weeks. I want to wake up in a world where I'm not nauseous anymore and I actually have interest in things again.

(written September 30, 2014)

Birthday Letter

Dear Elijah,

You turned one a few days ago. Of course you had no idea. We celebrated by making you wear a hat which you didn’t like very much—the string kept getting wedged in your folds of chin chub—and taking a proper photograph.

You’ve grown so much just in the past few months. You took your first steps just the day before you turned one. You can follow simple directions. You grab your own food in the high chair. You are the best sleeper; your bedtime routine is about five seconds long and if you cry at all it’s just for a few moments. You take two real good naps and sleep ten hours overnight without making a sound (these of course are the things that matter).

You are our most fearless baby. You love the water! You want to jump right into the pool, and don’t mind getting water on your face in the tub. You shimmy right up the steps so often we actually understand now why people get stair gates. You love catching balls, and you throw them with so much accuracy your dad believes you have quite an athletic future ahead of you.

You also seem to be a mostly easy-going baby. Your infanthood was such a joy to us. Mommy took care of you all by herself, days and nights, after you were born, and it wasn’t even that bad. You took the bottle when you had to. You slept through the night pretty early. You adapt your naps to our family schedule without much complaining.

Your life revolves a lot around your older brother and sister, who both love you fiercely and loudly. Ellie grabs you around your middle and hoists you around the house (you seem to like that). Eric likes to push his face up to yours and shout really loudly, or drape his blankets on top of your head, or lie on you (you don’t seem to like that). Unfortunately a lot of your energy centers around trying to play with the elaborate toy set-ups that the two of them don’t want you to disturb.

Daddy has a very special love for you. He really treasured your infancy in a way I’ve never seen before. He used to hold you for hours at night, just walking around the house, and maybe as a result you’ve never preferred me to him. He always talks about how cute you are, and he really misses you at the end of a work day.

We love you, buh-bee. Happy first birthday!

Love,

Mommy

Birthday Letter

Dear Eric,

You turn three years old tomorrow. You seem quite uninterested in the whole age thing; every time I bring it up (“do you know how old you’re turning?”) you change the subject (“mommy, is this crocodile good or bad?”), but we finally managed to get you to repeat that you are turning three. You can’t really stick up three fingers yet.

We all went to the store and you picked out T-Rex balloons for your birthday. You didn’t want anything else. Lately you’ve been really into Legos—you’ll play for hours by yourself, setting up your own little arrangements and then stashing them on shelves, probably so Elijah can’t get to them—so we got you some pirate Legos, and Laura got you a Peter Pan set with a crocodile. You were really excited about the strawberry cake with the candle. Right now Ellie is upstairs making you a “surprise” present and you’re asking every three seconds, “and now is it ready?” and she keeps saying, “no, I’ll show you tomorrow.”

You are still so adorable. You have the palest, softest skin and that dimple on your left cheek and you still smile when you talk. You talk, all the time, mostly in English, and you speak with careful, precise enunciation. You ask why about everything (“mommy, why… why… WHY…”), and it really seems like you and Ellie never stop talking to each other (or over each other). Daddy says you are the perfect size to cuddle, not so chubby anymore, but not all angles either, and you really enjoy being tossed around. Daddy usually hugs you real hard while Ellie is praying at night for bedtime.

You’ve thrown some new challenges at us this year, too. Mostly it involves a pretty strong will, which takes the form of not wanting to change out of your diaper or pajamas, or not wanting to leave the house, or not being able to be distracted, cajoled, or reasoned out of anything you’ve make up your mind about. We are all praying really hard that God uses your strong sense of self and will to do some amazing things in the future, and in the meanwhile, we’re grateful that your phase of more frequent tantrums seems to have passed.

Here are the things you like: saying certain phrases (“we have to go to church!”) and copying things your sister just said (“can I be a pregnant baby puppy?”). Pirates, swords, crocodiles, dinosaurs. Practically any kind of food, including spinach and capers. Being naked, or in perpetual pajamas. Listening to your sister read books not-from-imagination, even though it takes a while. “Hugging” your baby brother in an alarmingly enthusiastic and loud fashion. Lugging around ten white security blankets. The knuffle bunny story. Drawing—you finally can draw real figures now (debuted with a family portrait drawn with pen on the glider footrest in your room). Acting out all kinds of imaginary stories, mostly involving animals with nests or hiding from bad guys.

You can be loud, talkative, and silly, but most of the time you are still your quiet, thoughtful, cautious self. I really like watching how serious and quiet you are when you play by yourself, building elaborate Lego arrangements or neatly lining up blocks. I like the way you say, “I love you real bad” and how you like kisses and hugs and how even after a tantrum you really just want us to hold you for a while. You are such a wonderful, gifted, special little boy. We love you, real bad, forever and ever.

Love,

Mommy