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Blessed is
This last week has been one of wonders for me. So instead of a traditional blog with a story, I am going to just tell it in snippets with a few pictures thrown in for good measure.
Bliss is working together as a family for four days straight side-by-side to reach a common goal.
Celebration is seeing the chaos of your life begin to dissipate.
Awe is discovering that wayward tree growing in your lilac bushes is actually a mulberry tree your boys planted years ago on Arbor Day.
Happiness is realizing you didn’t cut it down when you first discovered its appearance above the hedge.
Wonder is spending forty-five minutes watching monarch caterpillars munch on milkweed leaves in your garden.
Satisfaction is realizing that when others thought you were weird for planting milkweed you were confident God would bring the butterflies.
Excitement is letting out a squeal of delight when you see the life-sized mechanical dinosaur move.
(Of course, this kind of delight may cause one of your best friends to almost run off the road.)
Thankfulness is knowing she loves you anyways – even if you are a science geek with a child-like love for dinosaurs.
Awe-inspiring is watching your little girl see a friend she met only once before walk hand-in-hand with that friend immediately while introducing her to her other friends.
Proud is watching the fruits of your friends’ labors create one of the most amazing small town open air markets I have ever enjoyed.
Tasty is bringing home those labors and enjoying every single bite.
Joy is watching your children smile – even in life’s smallest moments.
Amazement is being surrounded by your family and friends watching fireworks.
Rapture is swapping stories at our favorite viewing site.
Crazy is finding prairie roses in the ditch and wishing to bring them home to your garden.
Crazy love is a dear friend getting you the shovel.
Captivating is finding a killdeer nest in the community garden.
Nurturing is making little flags that warn others not to disturb the eggs.
Exuberance is espying the first lightning bug of the year!
Blessed is my life!
First world problems
A dear friend of mine has a wonderful blog, and she recently shared about her realization of how some of her quirks might need minor adjustments. http://www.nancyholte.com/blog/2013/07/762/
Before I go any farther, if you think that you don’t have any quirks and that I am judging my friend, rest assured I am not. We all have quirks –especially me (like my need to have all of my beverages completely filled with ice so that they are cold enough). Nine times out of ten, those personality characteristics are what I love the most about my friends. Trust me, I am not living over here in my glass house because I know many people the world over would love clean drinking water while I am complaining that my drink isn’t cold enough. I get it.
I am acutely aware that even despite the tragedies that have befallen our family I am still more blessed than 95% of the world’s population. That awareness is something that I am trying to instill in my children as they are becoming older and much more world savvy. No name brand or one singular item will define the character of your heart. Hard work and serving others is much more important than momentary thrill of a purchase. These aren’t just platitudes for me, and I am trying on a regular basis to let my life’s choices be an example to my children. Sometimes I don’t think they are listening.
I couldn’t be more wrong.
One day, our daughters were bickering in the van about something so trivial I cannot even remember what it was. They both had valid points, but in the end of the day, they were clothed, nourished physically and spiritually, and housed. The thing they were arguing about was not life threatening nor earth shaking; so I pointed out to them that their conflict was a “first world problem” suggesting that they should agree to disagree and move on.
They acquiesced, and our whole family started quoting lines from a family favorite video: Top 100 First World Problems by Scooter Magruder, as we continued on down to our destination. Upon arrival at the local big box hardware store, we made a quick double-check of our list to create a game plan for this excursion in the midst of our home remodeling.
As we opened the doors to the van, our littlest was searching for her shoes. Under the seat, next to the seat, in the back of the van, in my purse (as if they would be there), and on the ground – they were nowhere to be found. I know I grumbled a bit asking if she wore shoes to the store. She assured me she thought she did. My annoyance wouldn’t have been so bad if we hadn’t just gone through the same thing a week before when we drove THREE HOURS to pick up her brother from med school camp – only to discover she was sans shoes. We had to go to the Mecca of the South and buy shoes before the closing ceremonies, forcing us to enter late (something I detest doing).
There was no rescuing her this time; so, I scooped her up (which was a challenge as she is getting tall) and carried her into the store with bare piggies. On our way in, I was chiding her for not bringing shoes. I reminded her this was crazy, and she was old enough to be responsible for her own shoes.
Then it came: wisdom wrapped up in a long-legged, curly-headed, freckled-face eight year old little girl.
“You know, Momma. This is a first world problem. Lots of kids around the world don’t even have shoes.”
Touché, my little Sally Gal. Touché.
They are listening. They are always listening. Be mindful of what you say, and even more mindful of what your actions speak. I know I am definitely trying to be much more particular!
By the way if you need a chuckle, check out Scooter’s video on youtube. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXCsRlpbqPM
Coming Soon!
Blog Coming Soon!
Blossom and bloom
Nowatzki Family Homestead by Neil Nowatzki (All Rights Reserved)
Twenty – two years is a relatively long time to spend with one person by some standards. Over the course of those years, I am so glad that we have lost some of the formality of titles. At some point, I just started calling his people – MY PEOPLE! When I talk about my cousins (like Ellen or Amy) or sisters (Mary, Rita, or Lori), I don’t mention the words in-laws any longer. First of all it is exhausting and complicated to explain the relationships, and second, in God’s eyes we are all family. Frankly, I don’t like to say, “Well this is so-n-so and she is married to Daniel’s cousin”, because honestly we are closer than our husbands; therefore, we ARE the cousins! Along with my own people, I quite possibly have one of the biggest families around.
Woven into the fabric of families are traditions and treasures. I recently finished the memoirs of an adopted grandma (Here I go again! My FAMILY is HUGE!), and cradled in her words were examples of those sweet time-honored traditions like the ebb and flow of life on the South Dakota prairie. While it might get missed by the careless reader, one such tradition shared over and over was that of lunch twice a day. (I could write a whole book on colloquialisms of the word lunch, but on the prairie that meant coffee about nine or nine-thirty and again at two. Just roll with it, if that’s not your definition of lunch.) When I read her words, I was surrounded by the warm cozy feeling you get when wrapped in a favorite old quilt.
On Friday, I had my own blessed encounter – shared with my beloved – regarding a treasure that originated in his family. Said treasure is a rose bush that started out on the family homestead in Wales, North Dakota. This was the home where my other Mom and her siblings were raised in the backyard of the Canadian border. As my understanding goes, cuttings from the rose followed the family into town, and later into the yards and gardens of the children and grandchildren of Grandpa and Grandma Nowatzki.
A few years back, we asked Mom if we could have a cutting for our front yard garden. She said that we could, but the time of year wasn’t the best to make one. Unbeknownst to us, she and Rita lovingly and tenderly drove the cuttings down to Minnesota later that summer. Promptly, we planted it right outside our bedroom window, where we nursed, fertilized, and generally loved on that plant.
More than once, I was moved to tears because she never looked like she held much promise. I felt like such a failure when it came to the Wales rose (clearly not her trade name, but as my sister Mary says, it’s her name now). In fact, one time a friend came to help me do some landscaping and declared our family treasure – a stick. I vehemently argued that she was, indeed, NOT a stick. How could she think such a thing? I explained it was a family heirloom and exhorted that I was disappointed that she couldn’t see its beauty inherent. The slight shrug of her shoulders indicated she wasn’t convinced.
Over the weekend, we were a demolition crew, home remodelers, landscape architects, and home organizers, all wrapped into one big team. During the landscaping portion of our home improvement, I was beckoned to come quickly by my sweetie watering the garden bed between our house and the neighbors. There was urgency in his voice that I don’t normally hear. I jumped up and came running. Upon arrival, all I saw were some zinnia cotyledons and beautiful clematis flowers (both of which I had seen all week). My perplexed eyebrows must have given a hint at my annoyance of being called away from Reed’s garden. A quick head nod indicating around the corner of the house to the front garden changed my outlook. I moved over a few footsteps and was stopped breathlessly in my tracks. There were two of the most beautiful blossoms on our prized Wales rosebush.
I smiled in the middle of happy tears at two thoughts. We finally did it – loved her enough to blossom! Followed by how much love one man could give, fully knowing that simple sight would make my day! He knows this because he also knows that none of my childhood favorites would survive the harsh winters of Minnesota; therefore, I had to adopt one of his.
Later as I got ready for bed, I saw those beautiful blooms outside my window. I felt my heart stirring. I’m probably a whole lot like that rosebush to God. When, at times in my life, I have been the stick, He just kept on coaxing and nudging – hoping that I would bloom. (If you have ever read The Shack, the Holy Spirit as a gardener fits here perfectly.) He didn’t give up when others declared – she is just a stick with thorns. Nope! He saw the potentiality, the promise, the HOPE he had for me and my future. I definitely needed pruning (don’t we all?) along the way, but there, at the core, was God’s beauty just waiting for the perfect timing to bloom.
I saw God at the prom
The jokes of blue tuxes, boot casts for shoes, and forgetting the corsage were staples around our house leading up to the first prom for our son. A little good natured ribbing is a part of the fabric that makes up our family; so the jokes were just the norm. As the mother of the young man in the couple, my traditional role was to help pay for the tux (which after seeing the final bill made me think that creating one out of duct tape might not have been a bad idea after all). As shared in a previous blog, my gift of love for the young couple was to make them a coursed meal from scratch. http://kandynolesstevens.com/2013/04/30/one-tired-momma-and-lots-of-fun/ While definitely a labor of love, it was worth every scrumptious bite.
This was the first prom for both Sawyer and Rachel, but given their big hearts, it definitely was one to remember. It all began much earlier as our sweet kids decided that they wanted to invite a friend of Reed’s to the prom. (This would have been Reed’s senior prom, and thus, it would have been for B as well. I think the video the kids made tells that story better than I ever could.
What they don’t tell you in the video is that Sawyer was just released from the hospital having his 7th surgery since the bus crash; hence, the jokes about the boot cast. From that moment on, those two kids made sure that every decision they made was to honor Brayden. In their minds, it was his last prom, and they still a chance to attend more. They kept his family in the loop for tuxes and colors, bought two boutonnieres, and found the perfect vehicle to attend the drive-up (which was totally foreign to this momma). A lot about prom in Minnesota was different than the proms I attended in Florida. While other kids arrived in muscle cars, decked out trucks, or vintage roadsters, the awesome trio arrived in a fully equipped motorhome so that Brayden would be able to arrive in comfort.
They put a lot of thought into their entrance, recruiting a couple little girls (one sister and one friend) to carry a banner that said “Live a Life of Love” as the RV pulled up to the red carpet. They entered as a trio after Brayden and his wheelchair were sashayed down the ramp from the camper. The three marched through Grand March, and, at least from the three families involved, there wasn’t a dry eye among us when Brayden had the biggest smile on his face at the photo stops. He knew that he was the Prince of the Ball, and no one could deny it. It is a good thing that B loves lights because his paparazzi rivaled that of a celebrity on that night!
At one point, Reed’s best girl friend came running over and wanted to make sure that the four of them were in a picture together. It was hard to keep the tears in, because in my heart I knew that if Reed were here, it would have been all five of them in the picture as I am certain that young lady would have been his date.
Although not the typical start of the prom, we all waited to watch Brayden’s first dance because he wouldn’t be staying much longer. After cooling off for a while outside, B and his entourage (parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, workers) went inside to find Sawyer waiting for his arrival with a quick thumbs up. He wheeled Brayden out to the floor, only to discover that Rachel had stepped away to visit her friends.
What could have been an odd moment was completely changed as Reed and Brayden’s classmates: girls first, followed by the boys, surrounded both young men on the dance floor. That magical moment is one I will never forget as the whole group all danced together with the Beau of the Ball.
Huge tears streaked down my cheeks as I witnessed quite possibly the most, tender moment – EVER. Originally, I had been a little uncomfortable peeking in at that time-honored moment of teenage revelry because I felt they deserved their privacy, but I am so glad I pushed past my comfort zone of Southern tradition.
Because if I hadn’t stayed, I would have missed seeing God’s love at the prom. A love that shone brightly through the gift of one amazing friend who blessed us all!
Tears of Joy
photo found at buzzle.com
Two months ago, I had the opportunity to speak at a church not far from my hometown. I spoke on the topic of forgiveness – which is a draining conversation we all need to hear. So moved by the experience, it has taken me this long to be able to put into words the transformation that took place in my life that day.
I did write about my experience with God in the Wal-mart bathroom that afternoon (http://kandynolesstevens.com/2013/04/17/just-when-i-thought-i-was-safe/) but something much larger occurred that I have kept hidden in my heart until now. Something I didn’t know would ever be possible again.
I will confess that I did not ask one important question prior to the talk. I had spoken at several MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) groups previously, and each had the same format. I spoke for about forty-five minutes, after which the mommas broke into small groups for discussion and prayer. (The old adage about assuming applied here because this group expected me to talk for about an hour and half.)
I shared my talk on forgiveness, and it is an exhausting story. Being an innate hugger, I often want to stop and hug the women in the audience when they are crying at my retelling of events. They are crying with me and for me because my life story has touched something deep in their soul.
I know my story is powerful . . . even I am moved to tears at times when I speak because it is a challenge to look out and see no dry eyes. It is at those moments I realize that, “Wow God! I really did live this, and with your help we survived.”
When I realized that they desired for me to keep talking, I politely asked if I could share where my family was today and about how God was using our story. I shared about my children’s progress emotionally and physically. Then, I revealed snippets of my upcoming book, Notes from a Grieving Momma.
At the end, I opened the floor to questions. After hearing my story of forgiveness, I knew there would be many (why at the other MOPS events, I linger to answer, to hug, and to offer encouragement). It is difficult to describe that you could feel like you were catching-up with old friends whom you haven’t seen in a while when I was talking to strangers, but in God’s family the bonds grow strongly and quickly. We have a common Father, and we can sometimes skip over the small talk.
Then came the question that caused my knees to buckle. “You will let us know when we can pick up a copy of that book, right?” Followed by, “Please make sure that we can get a copy easily – this is a small town after all.” When I looked around the room every face was now smiling and nodding.
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
As if on cue, immediately following my talk, my cell phone rang. The caller was the other person who could give these talks if he at all cared to speak in front of others – he does not – but his perspective would be equally life changing. My sweet husband waited patiently, timing when to call and ask, “So how did it go?”
I told him about the wonderful food, the engaged audience of mommas, meeting their adorable babes, the gift of love they gave me . . .
and then, I burst into tears.
I could hear in his voice concern. He knows the story having walked alongside me each step of the way. Was I crying because it was such a hard topic? Was I crying because I once again went back and relived it? What brought on the torrential downpour of salinated drops?
It took me a few moments before I could put it into one word.
Joy!
Joy? I could tell from his voice that he had bigger concerns like had I lost my mind.
You know when God tells us that he wants – NO! he YEARNS – to give us the desires of our hearts, He MEANS IT. That day I knew what that felt like. Every synapse in my brain, every cell in my body, and every stirring of my soul was alive with God’s message for my life.
He allowed my faux pas to be used in a way that spoke loudly and clearly to my heart. I knew from early on that God does not give void to those whom he loves, and I knew that some way somehow God was going to use the pain of our lives’ stories to help others. How else would any of this make sense?
I knew never that it would come in the form of my desire to be a blessing to others. I never knew how deeply I needed the affirmations of strangers (now sisters) to tell me that God wants my (well, our) book and ministry to touch the lives of others.
I sat in my van, sobbing, confessing to my husband that flood gates to my heart had been opened – because even I didn’t know if I would ever truly be able to cry tears of joy again.
It was an amazing feeling!
Adding purple to my color wheel
Yesterday I alluded to a time where I had a really bad start to a project. One summer while travelling back to my childhood home, I asked one of my two grandmothers to teach me to crochet. I had just started knitting, and everyone remarked that crocheting was so much easier, implying that I should have started there. Both of my grandmothers are talented when it comes to cooking, sewing, crocheting, and quilting. Nanny dabbled in just about every craft imaginable and was an amazing florist, and Mama was a professional seamstress who now crochets to keep her hands busy. The amazing thing is that both share the same birthday (albeit 5 years apart) – today.
One is celebrating her first birthday surrounded by loved ones in heaven, and the other celebrates 89 young years. This baby afghan started six years ago almost never came to fruition. Following the passing of Nanny in December, I just couldn’t let it lie unfinished.
When I started the project, I was visiting at Mama’s house, and asked her to teach me to crochet. A quick trip to the Mecca of the South provided tutor and pupil with the needed supplies. I don’t know what in the world possessed me to buy purple yarn – because it was and still is my least favorite color. (Sorry to my Minnesota neighbors, Vikings colors and all.)
While my grandmothers are equally special in my heart, they couldn’t be any more different. One is just a plain old purple girl, and the other is definitely a mauve maven. As different as they are, they share a love of the color purple. Maybe their shared love is what guided that yarn purchase, but other than to make a Vikings scarf, I have never had much interest in purple yarn since.
When we sat down to start our lesson, I tried as hard as I could but didn’t find it easy or enjoyable. This isn’t a condemnation of the teacher, because she was as patient as Job. No matter what I did, my motor muscle memory was still in training for two needles – not one hook. I completed maybe 2 or 3 inches of the afghan before it was time to load up the minivan with suitcases, coolers, and oh yes, kiddos to head on down to Florida.
At Nanny’s house, she critiqued the work and gushed about the color. She wanted to see how many stitches Mama suggested to create the ripple pattern. She, too, offered encouragement, but even her tutelage really wasn’t getting me anywhere. At this point, five inches total were done.
One not to give in too quickly, I took the whole works on a 4-H trip, working while we traversed by Amtrak from Minnesota to New York. After that trip, the whole kit and caboodle (all seven inches) went in the recesses of the craft buckets, not to be seen again until this last December.
Like a beacon from a lighthouse providing hope and guidance to wayward sailors, the afghan became a vestige of hope for a brokenhearted granddaughter, one who would never this side of heaven be able to work collectively with both of them again. After tackling the Granny squares mentioned yesterday, I was equipped with more confidence and ready to complete the long forgotten baby blanket.
The resurgence of new found interest was not without problems. Thankfully, I could phone a friend (Mama) and get a few more tidbits of instruction. Also, when you start a project six years earlier, most likely dye lots have changed on the yarn. So rather than one seamless project it became a tribute to all things purple in memory of Nanny and in honor of Mama.
One evening as I was close to finishing the afghan, my sweet little Clo climbed up in my lap and asked the most beautiful question.
“Momma, who is going to get this blanket?”
My response was one of uncertainty. Her cherubic face and inquiry brought me to tears.
“Since I love purple, I have been thinking. Someday, I am going to have a little girl of my own. Could we save this afghan for her?”
The snuggled up view.
With tears streaming down my face, I agreed to that request, knowing in my heart when I meet this future granddaughter I am going to tell her all about her great-great- grandmothers and how amazingly colorful they both were, in the life of girl who needed just a little more purple.
Happy 84th Birthday in Heaven, Nanny! Happy 89th Birthday in Alabama, Mama!
The Year of Crochet
At some Chinese restaurants, you can spend your time while waiting analyzing which animal and corresponding attributes from the Chinese zodiac (Shēngxiào) align according to your birth year. Recently, I giggled at myself for creating my own “Year of Crafts” calendar. No purported benefits have been found, other than self-satisfaction and a methodology to be a gift bearer (0ne of my very favorite things to do). I have a lifelong goal of learning a new skill each year. My list of goals includes other non-creative endeavors, but thus far, my attention has been focused on crafts. My concerted efforts to this end began at our family goals and dreams meeting on New Year’s 2007.
Each year after watching the final sunset of the year, we put to pen and paper (or sometimes other mediums), a list of our dreams for that year. In my recollections, this is the first time that I audibly announced that I was going to try to learn a new skill annually.
2007 – The Year of Knitting
2008 – The Year of Quilting
2009 – The Year of the Digital Canvas (wall art)
2010 – The Year of Digital Storybook
2011 – The Year of Machine Embroidery
2012 – The Year of Crochet
My bemusement arose when I realized that each year most of my gifts had something to do with the new skill at hand, (pun intended this time). I love creating things with my hands, especially when it is meant to be a gift. With each stitch or mouse stroke, I think about the person who will be the final recipient from my heart and my hands.
So it was with the Year of Crochet (which may be special enough to warrant a repeat performance on the “Year of Crafts” cycle). I began a project back in October during some free time with full intention of blessing the newest upcoming arrival to our family tree. Of course, when I began the project she was still being knit together in her momma’s womb (Psalm 139:13).
Since I had never crocheted before (other than one really bad attempt to learn during the Year of Knitting), I went to the mecca of teachers (youtube) to learn how to make Granny Squares – those quaint Americana favorites that I have loved my whole life. I found a teacher that I enjoyed, and she didn’t mind if I had to rewind and play her over and over until I got the technique just right. I will admit that I never warmed up to her way of wrapping yarn for tension, but I think my improvised method worked for me. (The link to the first in a series of videos: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79zZJjXRfSM)
I chose my colors (an aqua reminiscent of the beaches of my childhood and a variegated aptly named ocean) and got to work, in the beginning saying my steps aloud so that my fingers would cooperate with my brain. Once they were in agreement, I “went to town” making squares, at first not having a plan of how many I would ultimately need. I just made stacks of squares. Stacks of squares. Stacks of squares.
Yarn colors and one of my many stacks of squares
Eventually, I needed a plan and not just stacks of Granny squares everywhere. I sat down with colored pencils and sketched out what my vision of the final product would be. That in mind, I now kept track of the number of squares in the two colors I had chosen. The bag of yarn, hooks, and scissors went with me everywhere – appointments, bleachers for basketball games, and travelling. As I made each one, I said prayers for the tiny baby that we were all waiting to meet – my first great-niece. Finally my magic number of squares (99) was reached, and it was time to piece the squares together. I researched various methods, settling on the one I liked the most.
Piecing together – which was much like quilting
Then it was time to finish the project. Possessing a thimble-full of knowledge on that topic, I did some research knowing enough to know what I didn’t want for a finished look. Another blogger came to my rescue, and I found a technique I could do that would allow the blanket to lay nice and flat. (http://bunnymummy-jacquie.blogspot.com/2011/06/how-to-make-flat-border-for-granny.html) One more trip to the store for a coordinating yarn – a nice lilac – followed by many practice tries – and away I went.
Completion of first round of edging.
Since the recipient of this blankie was to be a newborn baby, I wanted a super plush edging similar to the ones my own babies had nuzzled into in their early days. About the time I made this decision, it was D-Day. (Delivery Day arrived, and this auntie stayed up very late to pray for safe arrivals. Praying love into each and every stitch.)
After a night of prayer, the final touches were done.
Our sweet little girl arrived, and I waited patiently until I could personally deliver my labor of love. Little L lives just under 450 miles from my house; so, my visit had to be a planned one. My wait was worth it when I got to see God’s beautiful baby wrapped up in one of my favorite projects from the Year of Crochet!
Little L and her blanket made with love!
One tough girl
Dear Erin –
Today is your big day! (Not that we could forget since you provide us with exuberant reminders a few hundred times in June.) But it wouldn’t be the same if you didn’t, because that is you – our vibrant and energetic girl. I so clearly remember the day we met as your birth story is one that we will never forget.
Grandma, Granpa Junior, and Nanny all drove up to be here; so, we had a house full of love when we left for the hospital that day. Not one to sit around, Granpa organized the boys to help him with setting the footings for the deck; so, if you didn’t know this, the sliding door and deck are the same age as you are.
Most of the day at the hospital was pretty much the same as the boys’ stories – a lot of waiting. Nanny arrived at the hospital fairly early because she did not want to miss out on being the first to meet you – which was, of course, like her. At the same time we were at labor and delivery, our family nurse was having surgery. I overheard her talking in the hallway, and that was my first sign that something was not going quite right.
“This is her third baby. . . this shouldn’t be taking so long. What is going on?”
Neither she nor anyone else knew that I could hear her words, but since everything seemed normal I didn’t worry. A friend from Daddy’s work asked to be in on the delivery because despite being a three time momma herself, she had never witnessed the miracle of birth. Her request turned out to be a divine intervention. When it appeared that it was close to “game time”, we called her to come to the hospital.
This is when things start to change. Suddenly a nurse comes rushing in and says, “We need to get her on her side NOW!!!” Looking back, we remembered another nurse quietly slipped into the room and stood silent sentry between our eyesight and the monitors. The reason: you no longer had a heartbeat, and they all knew something was terribly wrong.
An oxygen mask, severe pain, and being held by nurses, Daddy, and our friend in a contortionist position, my mind was reeling with what was happening. Then the words that made the room go quiet were uttered by our normally cool and calm doctor. (Keep in mind: he and Daddy watched golf during Sawyer’s big entrance into the world)
“Oh dear God, I see the face! The pushing is crushing the baby’s heart.”
While no one said It aloud, the race to save your life was now on.
You entered the world. In one swift motion, the cord was cut and the doctor scooped you up and ran with you. Someone announced, “It’s a girl.” The wall of nurses surrounding the doctor, keeping what was going on out of our line of sight.
No cry. No gasp of air. No first genteel introductions to our new daughter.
First APGAR: 0
Questions come falling out of my wearied mind and body. I could see the equipment they are using without being told what they are doing. Is she breathing? Did she aspirate meconium? What is going on?
Second APGAR: 1
In what felt like eternity, we finally hear you cry. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The tiny girl who we have later learned has the will to push through anything proved in the first ten minutes of life that she was a fighter. We only held you for a few moments, during which time Nanny was so proud to meet you. That bond between great-grandmother and great-granddaughter was one that never waivered from that moment on. You were always her special girl.
Our introductions were short lived because you were promptly escorted to respiratory intensive care where you stayed for the next four days. Grandma, Granpa, and the boys had to first “meet” you through the glass.
It was the scariest moment of our lives. We didn’t get to hold you, only your hand, because you couldn’t breathe on your own. We didn’t get to feed you – tubes and machines took the place of our snuggles. And we played a waiting game to see if your lungs would be able to do it alone, despite your rough start.
But you showed everyone at Day 4 that you were and forever will be – one tough cookie. They decided that you could go home (as long as we didn’t leave town because they were certain that you would have to come back). You didn’t!
The counseling provided to us said that you might struggle with lots of things – especially reaching developmental milestones and academic learning later on. Neither of which proved to be true! They just didn’t know what us Stevens are made of – a faith that doesn’t give up and a vocabulary that doesn’t include quit.
You showed that despite all the studies and statistics for going that long without oxygen – you were (and are) extraordinarily awesome! Having two big brothers, you just never knew you were once a fragile baby, fighting to breathe. You were their constant shadow, and you would prove time and again that you wanted to be big like them. Nothing ever stopped you – and we are so glad that God gave us you.
Happy 14th Birthday Erin! We love you like crazy! Momma
PS – You know how you have on more than one occasion told us that you have Daddy wrapped right around your finger. It’s true, and I have proof! On Day 4, when we were able to leave the hospital, a nurse was cutting off all your hospital identifications, and she accidentally sliced your pinky finger with a scissors. It was the first time that I ever saw your Daddy want to smack someone. With everything you had been through, it was too much for him. He fumed for days that his precious baby girl’s finger had been cut – every fiber of his being was offended. That tiny, wounded pinky finger has held him captive ever since. Good luck to any boy who ever wishes to hold that finger!