A Baby And Her Bottle

July 5, 2018

“If she won’t take the medicine with a syringe, try putting it in the bottle. Some babies will chug it, because they’re hungry”, the kind lady at the hospital told us prior to discharge. She went over all the instructions on how to care for our baby who was now officially being treated for cluster seizures. our sweet girl had been through enough. We were ready to go home.

In the next couple of days, we found giving our baby medication 2 times a day was very challenging. She would block the medicine with her tongue and would cry. If she could just understand this is for her good, I thought. Out of desperation, we followed the recommendation and placed the medicine in the bottle. She didn’t go for it. Then, we tried mixing it with milk. Then, more milk. Then, chocolate milk. Nothing. We ended up having to still give her the medication via syringe, but now we had a new problem: she would no longer take a bottle. She no longer trusted her bottle and was too smart to be fooled. This was a big problem for a 9 month old that was so petite that she wasn’t even on the growth chart. And a problem for a baby whose mom had to work part time.

Everything was fine when I was home. But feeding her when I was at work became like trying to solve the Rubik’s Cube in the dark. She was taking the saying “breast is best” a bit too far. We consulted her doctors, who reassured us to not panic and that she’ll eat if she’s hungry. We tried everything they suggested and even ideas of our own: different family members feeding her, tried both formula and breast milk, bought new expensive bottles with the large nipples, tried various sippy cups that looked nothing like bottles. I even tried doing the switcheroo. You know, where you, in the middle of nursing, try to have baby unlatch and then latch to the bottle. Nope. She would push the bottle away in her sleep and continue nursing.

Then, I thought of a great idea. I will slowly expose her to bottle feeding until she’s no longer turned off from the bottle. If it works for phobias, systematic desensitization has to work with a baby terrified of drinking from her bottle. I got this! I gave her the bottle nipples without the bottle attached to play with. Overtime, success. Then, gave her the nipple with the ring attached. After a while, success. Then, attached it to an empty bottle. Success. “Look, she’s happy with her bottle”, patting myself on the back. I’m one bad mama. As soon as a little milk went in it, she would push it away and not go near it. Attempt after attempt. She would not go for it. Systematic desensitization fail. She would not forget her betrayal.

In the meantime, I was driving home on breaks just to nurse her and was spreading out my work schedule even more throughout the week. Talk about anxiety knowing your baby is probably hungry but only wants you. And you’re not home. We introduced more baby cereal and baby food, which wasn’t her favorite, but she was willing to eat some from a spoon. Other than that, she would wait until she heard my voice when I got home. Right when she would sense my presence came the hysterics. Talk about working mom guilt! “If I could only stay home!”, I cried.

Out of desperation, my husband thought of his great idea. It was no therapy technique I’ve ever studied and definitely not in any text book I’ve ever read. He took his T-shirt and cut a hole big enough for the nipple of her bottle to go through. “Hey, if it works for Mom, it’s got to work for Dad”, he thought. He got the milk ready, placed the bottle in his t-shirt, brought baby up to his chest, and she started to happily drink her milk. Success. He was on his way to being hailed Dad Of The Year. The Superest Superdad There Ever Was. That was until the bottle suddenly slipped through the hole and freaked our baby girl out, causing her to be even more disgusted by her bottle. At least, he gave it a shot.

This story would have ended nicely if Superdad swept in and saved the day. But sometimes in the world of parenting, we try everything, and things don’t quite resolve so easily. We aren’t handed a book with all the answers, but we end up writing the book and write a different one for each child. Sometimes, we just have to hang in there, creatively use our resources, and be patient. And just hope and pray. We cannot demand that our children just get with the program, because sometimes they don’t understand the program. Instead of expecting our children to rise up to our level of understanding, we have to kindly reach down to their level and lovingly see life from their point of view. She eventually warmed back up to the bottle and took every feeding while I was gone. I took away from that experience some priceless lessons I’ll never forget: never ever mess with a baby’s bottle, and I’m a much better parent than I think I am.

Lean Into It

May 10, 2018

“Lean into it.” I heard a female voice say. I was in transition and trying not to completely lose it. I was in my zone and successfully tuning out much of the world around me except for that occasional female voice that would guide me. I can’t tell you for some of my births or even parts of each birth whose voice it was or how many were actually in the room. Trying to breathe felt impossible, while the pain took my breath away and took over my whole body, my mind, and my whole being. “Lean into it” was a gentle reminder to work with my body and not fight against it. To allow this excruciatingly painful process to bring my baby into my arms. They say if you tense up in labor, it can make the process much harder and longer. I’ve heard plenty of horror stories of this (I’ll spare gruesome details). Fighting a necessary process only makes it more difficult.

For my first baby, I wasn’t even close to going into labor on my own when I met the fill in midwife to discuss beginning the induction process that evening. I was terrified, because for one, my own midwife was out, and secondly, I needed at least a 2 step induction. I had taken all the supplements, followed all recommendations, and prayed pleading tearful prayers everyday. Still nothing. She informed me that it was more dangerous to wait and that this was medically necessary for the well being of my baby. My solution was to go Black Friday shopping and walk my baby out. She told me if I wanted to go into labor on my own, I should go home and have sex instead. She replied to our disappointed looks with “well, I didn’t say it had to be with him (pointing at my husband), you can go find George Clooney if you want.” Wow, this woman must be a miracle worker, because I suddenly felt at ease. Needless to say, we finished our Christmas shopping and met her that evening to begin the induction. I’m not a George Clooney kind of girl, anyway. And labor was a long, slow, painful road.

You also hear of these legendary stories of women that had enough strength or faith or whatever it may be to have a pain free labor without pain meds. I’ll spare you the details, because, well, I can’t relate. I experienced every bit of the pain. Which in and of itself is a complete miracle. Trusting that you’ll make it on the other side of the pain in triumph. That’s the money, right there.

This isn’t about pain meds or no pain meds, completely natural or Cesarean birth, biological parents or adoption. It’s about the pain we face to be moms. It’s not an easy road. It’s not about the glam and Instagram. It’s about the everyday things and the things only we feel. The things only we know. It’s about the sacrifice we make to carry the name “Mom”. We are sometimes sold that if you do these certain steps, believe enough, know the right things, or have the right resources that we can escape the pain. But none of us can escape the pain. Not if we want to be mom. The pain is the cost of the call. It earns us the right to claim our name and earns us the prize of beauty. No pain, no gain. You can’t get the glory for something you don’t own, and you won’t truly get it for the work you didn’t complete. And if you try, it’s just plagiarism or stealing. There is no glory in that. You get what you pay for.

Your mom, your spouse, your best friend, your doctor. They can’t take your cup. Not even if you wanted them to. Or begged them to. Or paid them to. It’s not their pain, and it’s not their glory. It’s all yours. To have the glory of being called Mom by the precious people you love the most will cost you everything. But lean into it. From the countless months waiting to conceive, the barfing, the labor, sleepless nights, the mom guilt, decisions about school, school drama, first dates, and more sleepless nights. It’s all your pain. And you’ll earn the glory. Lean into it. Don’t give up no matter how hard it is. Every step of the way, it’s yours. You’ve got this, you’ve earned it. Keep going and you’ll be on the other side. You’ll feel the pride of a job well done. And, oh, the stories you’ll tell. The hugs, love, affirmation, and admiration is yours. But first, you must lean into it.

The Elegant Elephant

April 26, 2018

“I think I need an ambulance. My baby is having seizures”, I told the dispatcher. My extra petite 7 month old, this sweet little girl that we prayed endless prayers for during my pregnancy, was starting to have seizures one right after the other. She had this happen before, and her doctors believed they identified the possible triggers. But this time, there were no predictors. And this time, I was alone with the kids. The first responders came, and sent us to a local hospital, where my husband met us. Our baby had numerous tests and attempts at blood draws. My dad was also in the hospital for having seizures and was not doing well. My mom had just made a concerning call to me days prior, and, now, I was making a concerning call to her. While focused on her medical care, we were also arranging for who would keep our other children, get one off to school, and care for our dog. This was not what we had planned that week at all. Two family emergencies within days of each other is beyond complicated and exhausting. My dad and my infant daughter. My mind was filled with worry. 

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Several hours later, we were transferred to a children’s hospital.  When we arrived at the hospital, we noticed several things: the friendly staff, top notch medical care, several options for food, and murals and sculptures to make the stay more pleasant. No matter the effort, you are still left with the understanding that you are not at a children’s park, museum, or zoo. You are certainly in a hospital. A children’s hospital: the saddest place you hope to never be. There are many reminders of this. The frequent visits by numerous staff, the repeated retelling of information, the wires, the IVs, the cage bed, the uncomfortable cots, the exhaustion, the lack of sleep. And the uncertainty. What would they find? Were the seizures related to her small size? Was all this related to symptoms they saw during my pregnancy? Would she be in her grandpa’s shoes one day? We would find out more answers after more tests, which required fasting. I was dreading this challenge as she still nursed every 2.5 hours and mostly wanted me.

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There came the time that she woke up while fasting and wanted to nurse. My husband told me to go to the lounge so he can try to calm her. Even if a nursing baby can’t see mom, baby still knows mom is there and will cry until satisfied in mom’s embrace. There I went hearing my hungry baby crying for only me while my husband rocked her and cradled her closely in his arms. I groggily walked with my crappy cup of coffee down the hall passed the other screaming baby, passed the other families, and passed the children alone whose parents had to go home. There are no words for what you see.

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I sat in the lounge while waiting thinking about how my dad was doing. Hoping that no one accidentally told him his granddaughter was in the hospital while he fought to recover basic functioning. Wondering how my other kids were doing. Wishing God would let me take the place of my baby in anguish. Praying that she could go back to sleep and make it through the test until she could be with her mom again. And I got the text. The baby was sleeping. Her dad was able to rock her to sleep despite being hungry and longing for her mom. She was able to find comfort in her father’s arms. A sense of relief swept over my heart. Sometimes, we can not take our children’s pain or challenges away. Sometimes, we can not give them what they are crying out for. Sometimes, our love seems to fall short in these moments when they hurt the most. But where our human ability ends, the Heavenly Father’s ability is only beginning. In His infallible arms, He can take away pain, give comfort, and give peace that goes beyond any understanding. The Father’s arms do not end there, they extend to us parents as well. He strengthens us, and graces us. He gives us wisdom, and endurance. He fathers us while we mother and father our own children. And we are always within His reach. We are always within the Father’s arms: the most comforting place we could ever want to be.

My Husband’s Mom

March 19, 2018

Whenever I’m around my girlfriends, I hear them talk about their mother-in-laws. All the things they do for them and the kids. The sleep overs, shopping, crafts, the birthday party planning, and celebrations together. The advice they get and the stories they hear about their husbands when they were little.

When I listen to them share, I don’t think about my mother-in-law but about my own mother. And how she does mother-in-law type things for my husband and the stories she tells him about me. All embarrassing of course. I think about how we celebrate together and how we appreciate the relationship she has with our kids. I grew up with having fun this time of year as my mom’s birthday and mine are only days apart. We’ll be celebrating my mom in a couple of weeks. It’s the same day that, several years ago, a little boy was mourning the loss of his mom. I listened when he told me about how his mom was diagnosed and passed away months later in the spring. “That’s my mom’s birthday”. I remember the exact moment when we discovered that our moms shared a significant day.

From what I hear, my husband’s mom was unforgettable. She was incredibly funny, highly intelligent, loved God with every ounce of her soul, and loved her friends and family intensely. She was also not a woman to be messed with. My husband has told me numerous times about how she had words with the mom of the neighborhood boy that tried stealing my husband’s bike. She was a protector of those she loved. I’ve heard my husband reflect back at his life and say that certain things would have been different and would now be different if his mom were here. I believe that’s true. I feel it’s true. When the Pearson’s talk about how their dad has been gone longer than they had him, it resonates in our house. We live that reality. My husband has been missing his mom almost three times as long as she mothered him. This Is Us hits us where it hurts and gives us all the feels and way too many tears.

Even with just the time I’ve known him, there’s always an empty space. Someone else that’s missing and that we’re missing. Only one mom at the wedding, one mom at the birth of our kids, one mom at Grandparents’ Day, one mom at recitals and games, one mom at family emergencies. My mom doing double mom and double grandma duty. My husband has been blessed with a large and loving family of full of women with grandmas, aunts, and cousins. His aunt altering my wedding dress, his aunts lighting the unity candle, his aunts visiting our new baby, his grandma sending us meals, and his other grandma telling us how much our oldest daughter looks like her daughter: my husband’s mom. And now he has sister-in-laws, 4 nieces, a wife, a mother-in-law, a new step-mom, and three daughters. He has been surrounded by women that love him. But I know that no one is like your own mom. No one knows you like your own mom. No one loves you like your own mom.

My husband’s mom. She is dear to me, because she raised him to the fullest in the short time she had. The woman that will always on this side of Heaven be my husband’s mom and not my mother-in-law. I’m hoping I’m loving her son like she had prayed and raising her grandkids the way she hoped. One day, I won’t just have stories and pictures to know her by but will know her myself. I’ll hear her tell stories about her son. And I’ll have a few to share with her. When she’ll finally be my mother-in-law. Until, then, my husband’s mom, you are deeply missed. And not just on the big occasions, but every single day.

The Love Transition

March 4, 2018

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“Mommy, this mommy looks like you. Mom…why did you stop reading?” I was reading “Love You Forever” to my 6 year old. I was fighting tears and couldn’t get out another word. And I was only on the first few pages. It was all too much and feeling too real.

My dad, a completely unstoppable courageous man, was in the hospital and not doing well. He could not talk and was barely opening his eyes. He did not even respond to me when I called him “Dad”. I called his first name loudly, to which he opened his eyes briefly and closed them again. His doctors believed his condition was related to his seizures but were not sure why he was not recovering quickly. This was happening way too soon. My dad was only 60 years old. My mom, who was usually asking how she could help us, was now being asked by us how we could help her.

It’s a strange thing when roles start changing and when they start reversing. There are seemingly endless days in which our parents carry us and provide all of our needs. We slowly grow up and fly from the nest. One day, we begin to notice what had been slowly creeping up on us the entire time: our parents are getting older. It’s a painful, quiet transition I wish I could stop. But the transition is the fulfillment of a life filled with love.

We began discussing who was going to the hospital and when and how long we could sit with my dad. Did my mom need us to get her mail or mow the lawn? Did she need anything from the grocery store? As hard as it is to see our parents age, it’s even harder for them to rely on the ones they once looked after. The ones they once rocked to sleep. At the end of the day, I would hear the exhaustion in my mom’s voice telling me all the updates of what the doctors said and how she thought my dad was doing. I hoped that my dad would recover miraculously but also that my mom would feel the support and love from her kids. That she could feel the reward of raising kids that loved them back and were strong enough to lean upon. Before I would go to bed, I would rock my baby while nursing her to sleep. Hoping and praying that I’m loving her right, and wishing to put life on pause. Knowing one day that she’ll be my grown daughter looking out for me, taking care of me, and maybe even holding me. No matter how grown she is, my heart will always sing “as long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”

Quote taken from “Love You Forever” by Robert Munsch Read More

Mommy Is Wonder Woman

December 10, 2017

“I’ll be Supergirl. Cady will be Batgirl. Baby will be Destroy Baby. Daddy will be Superman. And you’ll be Wonder Woman.” My 4 year old has recited this tale since she was not quite 3. She creates scenarios of her superhero family fighting the bad guys and helping each other. I find her name for me endearing and chuckle when I hear it. I don’t think of myself as fitting the Wonder Woman type. A mighty superhero would not come to mind if you met me. I’ve never been athletic, I’m kind of petite, and I’m quite the nerd. I don’t even consider myself to be a supermom. I’m not an overachiever, I’m never ready for a selfie, and my house is always a little messy. Supermom status is not something I’ll ever achieve nor is it something I covet. And here I was preparing to have my third surgery. It was something I was hoping not to have and was not on my Christmas list. I’ve had surgery after every baby simply because of the strain that pregnancy does to my body. Who else does this happen to? Certainly not Wonder Woman. I had known there was risk of surgery if I had a third baby but chose to anyway. Who does that? Quite possibly a mad woman.

As disappointed as I was, I started to focus on the reality that I couldn’t change it and wouldn’t change it. I had three beautiful babies that were worth every second of discomfort and pain. I would give my life for them, and I would make those choices again without hesitation. Sometimes, in life, we can’t choose our path, but we can choose how to walk it. I had to prepare for the worst and pray for the best. I began asking around for help during my recovery, completed much of our Christmas shopping, and went to town cleaning my house. I could be down for at least 2 weeks. My thought “of course this would happen” began to transform to “I can handle a week of complete misery. I’ve done it before.” My doctor informed me that my surgery could quite possibly be more invasive than the other two and that I may be out of work longer than before. That didn’t stop me from asking God for an easy surgery and fast recovery. Here’s to hoping for the best.

On the morning of my surgery, my 4 year old began to cry and asked to come along. She also asked if I would be ok. I knelt down and hugged her and said “Mommy is going to be fine. Remember? I’m Wonder Woman”. I had never called myself Wonder Woman, but in that moment I believed I was. No matter what I was facing, her mom was going to handle it.

At the hospital, I surprisingly felt very calm and peaceful. I joked around with the nurses about asking my doctor to throw in a tummy tuck, liposuction, and a boob lift. With my IV in and waiting to be wheeled in, I declared with a smile on my face “I’m ready”.

Moments later, I struggled to wake up and asked my husband what happened. I was anxious to hear how big the incisions were and how much extra time I would have to take off of work. He simply said, “you had the best case scenario.” I had a minimally invasive surgery, and my prognosis was a very quick recovery time. My doctor jokingly said it was a Christmas miracle. But for a mom, it was no joke. Sometimes, you get what you pray for, sometimes, you get what you fear, and sometimes, you get a strange mix of the two. I have the 10 scars to prove that.

So, when life throws some good punches, will I be Whiney Woman and feel badly for myself or will I be Wonder Woman and face the challenge, even with tears in my eyes? Will I believe in myself or believe my fear? We mothers are amazing. We can do things no one else can. We are superheroes in our children’s eyes. We can take away pain and fear. We bring life and magic. We give everything we have willingly. So, I may not be Wonder Woman to anyone else but to my 4 year old. And I’ll gladly live that role.

Grandpa Will Fix It

November 26, 2017

“Grandpa will fix it”, my 3 year old replied anytime something broke down. My dad can fix almost anything and has never been afraid to try to fix something new. Nothing stops him from trying, even if he has to do a little research and make a few attempts to succeed. The bravest thing I’ve ever seen him try to fix is his drinking. My dad began drinking at a young age. By the time he married my mom, he was an alcoholic. He did the things addicts did like saying and doing hurtful things, making excuses for his drinking, shifting blame, and lying. We would give him the message that we didn’t approve. Once, a can of beer got knocked over on accident, spilling beer on the carpet. My brother replied, honestly but humorously, “it wouldn’t have spilled if you weren’t drinking”. My dad even chuckled. He knew it was true. He was a good person, had a great job, was active in our church, loved God, and he loved us. I have amazing memories with my dad when I was a kid. But he had a problem, and his brain, processing alcohol differently than most, wouldn’t quit telling him to drink more. And more. He attempted leaving alcohol for good, and his sobriety would have a good run for a couple of months. But, then, small hands and small eyes would usually find the evidence. “But if I don’t say anything, maybe it won’t be true”, reasoned an innocent and hopeful heart. For my dad and his attempt at sobriety, there was more than one failed attempt. And our hearts grew sick.

Then, one day, he quit one final time. It was a day that seemed to come out of nowhere. We didn’t know then that it was the final time. But God knew. He poured out all of the beer into a bucket in his favorite drinking place: the garage. He was going to show my mom and make a declaration of a promise. On his way, he tripped and spilled the beer on himself. There was spilled beer again, but this time it came with tears of joy and amends. So, when he tried talking with her, she thought he was drunk. That was the rough beginning of his sobriety.

Recovery requires admitting your problem is bigger than you but not bigger than God. It involves taking an honest look at yourself and making amends. Rebuilding hope and rebuilding trust. It takes courage, transparency, risk, humility, and grace. Recovery is a lifelong battle but a daily choice. It doesn’t come easy, and it can take years to rebuild the things that were damaged. And sometimes you have to build a whole new thing. Pour a new foundation. It took a long time for my parents to learn how to be married as husband and wife instead of alcoholic and enabler. For us to have a dad that was connected and dependable. But my dad, no matter how difficult it was, never gave up. No, not this time. His run of sobriety has lasted 25 years and counting. He’s into repairing things now. He’s the handy man, the problem solver. He’s the one I call when I need strong, solid advice. And he’s dependable to answer. He continues to be transformed by his Heavenly Father to be more like Him. And when I hear my kids say, “Grandpa will fix it”, I hear a truth that is bigger than they realize. I hear that they confidently and without a doubt trust him with his word. No questions asked. When Grandpa says he will do something, he means it. And the father’s word is everything.

Missing Sweetie

October 7, 2017

“Where’s Sweetie?” That was the question we were asking several times a day. Sweetie was my toddler daughter’s soft, pale yellow and white giraffe she had since she was a newborn. She had three other giraffes, all with names, but Sweetie was her favorite. We couldn’t remember when we saw Sweetie last or where. We searched the house and vehicles several times. No Sweetie. We moved onto family members’ homes. Still, no Sweetie. I had become very much like the woman with the missing coin. I was not going to give up until it had been found and back home. It’s unlike me to lose things, so I was certain we would find Sweetie if we kept looking. So, we moved our search to public places we had been. We made phone calls and visits to the library, stores, and doctors’ offices. We had a couple of leads, but none of them were Sweetie. My heart was crushed. I felt responsible. I believed it was my fault we lost Sweetie.

How could this happen? I had been in a fog and didn’t quite realize Sweetie was missing. A couple of weeks prior, I had miscarried on my husband’s 30th birthday, unexpectedly. My mind had been busy replaying the moment where I awoke in a panic, stumbled with my jelly filled legs, as my eyes filled up with a dark, starry sky, and my weak body fell to the floor. I wasn’t just missing something: I was missing someone. And with losing Sweetie, I felt I had let two children down. I should have noticed Sweetie was gone. What if I had done something differently? Maybe, we would still have Sweetie. But no amount of mom guilt could change reality. Sweetie was gone. During those weeks, we began to search for a replacement Sweetie. We searched online and even emailed the manufacturer with no response. We discovered they no longer made Sweetie, and we couldn’t even find one used.
Those months were a delicate balancing act of acceptance and hope. I could not change the loss that happened, but I had hope that God could restore me and give me more than I had lost, even if that didn’t happen this side of Heaven. Sometimes, things happen outside of our control no matter how much we love and care for our children. Our love is bigger than circumstance and reaches beyond outcome. We must forgive ourselves where our motherhood fails and simply let go. Months later, I found out I was pregnant with what they call a rainbow baby. A promise fulfilled after a flood of tears. A couple of weeks after that, my husband glanced online and found someone selling a Sweetie in almost perfect condition. We bought it not caring that it cost more than double of the original. It would arrive just in time for Easter, and our baby was due just in time for Thanksgiving.


Sometimes, I still wonder what happened to Sweetie. But it is without fret, because I rest knowing our lost baby isn’t truly lost. He has been found in his eternal destination by the One who doesn’t give up searching for us until we’re found. And he’s peacefully waiting for us without fret.

Meant To Be

September 22, 2017

On our wedding day, our pastor had us repeat a phrase throughout our ceremony: “we were meant to be together”. This phrase has resonated in my heart throughout our marriage, even in moments when it has felt like we couldn’t be any more different. God brings people together. We participate in choosing our spouse, and most of the time, we have no choice in the children we have.

Several years into our marriage, we had two gorgeous girls and were happily expecting our third baby. But we found ourselves sitting in a waiting room of my specialist’s office after receiving news that something appeared to be wrong. We heard a number of concerning findings, potential diagnoses, and all the unsettling statistics. As we looked at the ultrasound pictures of our beautiful baby, we tearfully promised we would do whatever it took to care for our child, no matter the condition or disability. Finding out the gender ahead of time was not my thing. I enjoyed surprises, but this was not the surprise I was looking for. That day I couldn’t go home with just bad news but needed to go home with wonderful news. And that’s when we heard it. “It’s a girl!” All we could do was just laugh. My wonderful doctor replied, “it doesn’t matter. They all grow up and leave anyway.” He was wisely speaking from experience, as he raised three girls himself.

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Through all of our appointments, ultrasounds, good news, and concerning news, we had a beautiful image of hope. Anytime I was afraid for my baby, I would hold on to that image of that beautiful tiny girl. As we began sharing the good news, we heard a variety of condolences for her being another girl, especially for my husband. Her gender was the least of our worries. It wasn’t a worry at all. My baby could be born with a genetic abnormality or a serious health condition. Those are real worries. But even so, born healthy, with a disability or challenge, boy, or girl, who am I to argue with God about His wonderful craftsmanship, His ultimate plan, or His sovereignty? She was fearfully and wonderfully made. End of story. God gives us the children we are meant to have, and we are given as a gift to our children. What a wonderful exchange of gifts. Finally, the wonderful day came, and she was born healthy and amazingly beautiful. Another gorgeous girl. Thank you, Heavenly Father.

So, if you come across our simple little family with three girls, please don’t give your condolences. We have too much to celebrate for that. It feels too right for sympathies. I’m not a mom without a son. I’m a mom raising 3 amazing daughters. My husband is not a dad with a disappointment. He’s a man entrusted with three gifts. They aren’t girls without a brother. They are sisters that have each other. We are forever grateful and blessed, because we were meant to be together.

Enduring Love

August 27, 2017

My mom quietly and calmly pushed through the ER curtain to see our infant daughter, whom was being admitted for a medical concern. It was already a challenging week as my dad was in the ICU at another hospital. We had been reaching out in support to our mom and asking what she needed. Yet, there she was comforting me and my daughter, praying and offering kind words, singing our baby’s favorite song “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, and wiping little tears away as nurses struggled to get her IV in. She found the ability in her weary arms to extend love and strength to me, a distressed mom trying to comfort her own baby. What an amazing mom. What a wonderful grandma.

Love from a mom is a beautiful thing. It brings strength in our weakest of times. It is designed to reach when it’s been overextended. It gives peace during life’s unexpected storms. And most of all, the love of a mom never fades and never ends.