My Aria

Dearest Aria,

It's hard to believe it's been almost 16 months since I met you. I'm sorry I haven't written before now, but it's been a busy year with two kids! You may understand one day. 

It hasn't been the easiest year with only six weeks off for maternity leave, but I can say that I spent as many minutes with you as possible every evening and morning--along with every break at work to pump. I loved time with you--and still do. 

At only 1.5 weeks old, you had that pesky fever. I checked your temperature, and it was 100.7, from what I can remember. This is a big deal for a one-week-old baby! As I gathered my items, unshowered and crying, we drove to the doctor's office, only to be told to go to UVA. You and I drove together to the large ER that reminded me of a city, and I kept you close and covered as we made our way to the pediatric unit. Before I knew it, they were running all kinds of tests--blood tests, urine tests, spinal taps (they had to try three times, all unsuccessful), and somehow I remained calm. I sang and whispered in your ear, hoping to calm your cries, but I knew it was the right thing to do. After three days in the hospital with you, I was exhausted, but I was thankful for the time I had with just you and me. It was strangely special.

When you were about six or seven months, you did a weird movement at the sitter's house while sitting in her lap. I think you were just cold, so you jolted a little, but this unknown movement sent us into another wave of concerned doctors. They wanted to make sure you weren't having seizures, so they ordered an EEG. They also started noticing that you were a little behind with sitting up, so they assumed it was all related, and once again, they were concerned. 

Turns out, after a developmental evaluation, you are perfectly normal, you sweet girl! You're just laid back like your daddy, doing your own thing in your own time. But man, what a year of concern! I'm hopeful for a year of less concerning ailments. :)

You had us worried a few times, but look at you now, thriving. 

Other than the worries, we have had a beautiful year. You have been the "chillest baby" as people say, and your smile has changed my life. God gave me children with big, beautiful smiles, and I am blown away by His sweet gift. You were a cuddly baby, and you and I sat and cuddled for hours on the couch together. You nursed so perfectly, and I didn't even have to wear a shield like I did with your brother. We made it to eight months before you decided nursing wasn't your thing, and I'm so thankful for those months that we had!

Now that you're older, you've really started getting a personality. You point at what you want with that little finger, and you make whatever noise is needed to get our attention. You love your doll and your stuffed animals, and man, you adore your older brother. You definitely seem to favor daddy, but I'm okay with that. He loves you so, so much. You're his little girl.

Your first words have been hi, tree, dada, ta-lee (Charlie), ar (star), and nana (banana). You've said mama a couple of times, but today was the first time it seemed to be very intentional.

You're also starting to walk, and your excitement is undeniable. We practice with you every night, which is why I think you've been putting up such a fight when we get you dressed: you're exhausted, and you want to stay on the move. Life is getting exciting! I don't blame you.

Aria, thank you for changing my life and continuing to make me the happiest I've ever been. You and your brother are gifts that I would take over any material item any day. 

My Little Girl

This girl.

I’m posting about loss again—but also life. After a miscarriage, fear does not leave. Fear lived in my soul so deeply that I almost didn’t want to try again. Fear enveloped me in the first 12 weeks. It suppressed excitement for the next 28 weeks, and until the very moment Aria took a breath, I was terrified to lose her. Fear then ate at my being the second week when we were in the hospital together. I had lived through pain, but fear told me there could be something worse ahead. Fear hovered next to me every night until Aria was one, making me think I was not going to be able to keep her.

This girl. She is my JOY. She is my heart. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t thank God for her. We sat together tonight, watching her brother run in the field. She looked up at me with her brown eyes and smiled. I think of her sibling tonight, and I have unanswered questions. But I can honestly say that I have given this girl every ounce of love I had for that baby—and for her. We’re in the here and now, and fear has been pushed into the shadows.

“For this child, I have prayed.”

Kid #2...Birth Story

This birth experience was far less traumatic than the first, and I am so glad I chose to do it this way. Here goes the laid-back write-up of my labor:

I noticed some spotting on a Tuesday night before bed, but I ignored it. The next morning, I noticed I was having contractions, but I decided to go to work anyway--per my usual stubborn personality.

At school, I started keeping track, and they were about ten minutes apart. Eventually, they eased off, though, so I knew it wasn't the "real deal." That morning, my doctor told me I was in the early stages of active labor, but I knew that could mean hours or days, so I didn't get my hopes up. By fourth block, however, things had changed. As I stood on the podium looking out to my fourth block, I felt pain stronger than before, and I started thinking it could be the last time I might see those students for a while. 

One student overheard me say to a coworker that I was in active labor. 

As I started teaching, he interrupted me: "How can you stand there acting like it's a normal day when YOU JUST TOLD SOMEONE YOU WERE IN ACTIVE LABOR!?!?" 

Of course, the whole class went nuts. It was hilarious. I told them that it wasn't a big deal, and I didn't even really know what that meant. I had a couple smart boys decide to look it up: "IT'S WHEN THE CERVIX IS RIPENING AND PREPARING FOR BIRTH!"

Oh my gosh, LET'S NOT HAVE A CONVERSATION ABOUT THIS NOW, GUYS.

What a moment. 

Nothing got done that day. I kept feeling contractions and getting more uncomfortable, and they were waiting for me to spontaneously sneeze a baby out. 

"DON'T STAND UP, MRS. TAYLOR. IT COULD HAPPEN AT ANY TIME!"

"SIT DOWN. I SAID SIT DOWN!"

"GO HOME. WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?"

They were one of my favorite classes I've ever taught, and they weren't being malicious. They were legitimately concerned, and it was hilarious.

As they were leaving for the day, I seriously said, "See you guys tomorrow!" and one student said, "There won't be a tomorrow 'cause YOU'RE HAVIN' A BABY TONIGHT!" 

I was still in denial at this point.

I did what any crazy woman in labor does, and I went to get my favorite meal from Chic File. Ah, yes. Come to me, tacos. 

Then I went to Target. Because why not? I figured if this was it for a while, I needed to live it up.

As I was walking, I started feeling something...well...leak? Gross, I know. I ignored this new symptom and kept walking. Shoes! Clothes! Baby stuff! Distraction was key! 

Then it happened again...and again...so I called my best friend. "Yeah, something is going on, but I'm fine. I'm walking around, and then I'll head home. Oh, there it goes again! Ha." My friend responded with this: "You need to get to the hospital, Di! Your water is breaking." 

But I was determined!

I went to the frozen section and grabbed ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS worth of food. I was freaking out a little because we had no food in the house. HOW WILL WE SURVIVE BECAUSE TWO CHILDREN WILL NEVER ALLOW US TO LEAVE AND WE WILL STARRRRVEEEE.

I then drove home to prop my feet on the couch and chow down. My friend called me again: "You really should go to the hospital."

"I will, I will. I just need to eat before I go. I'm so hungry! And I know I won't be able to eat when I get there! Plus, I doubt it's ACTUALLY happening."

After I finished my meal, I drove myself to the hospital because that's my style. 

Within thirty minutes, I was told that my water broke, and I was going into labor. HOLY MOLY.

Just like the first pregnancy, my plan was to go all-natural, mainly because I was terrified of getting a shot in my spine. But I was also willing to be easier on myself--I worked all day, I had a toddler, and I needed to be at my best. Plus, my first all-natural labor experience was, quite frankly, terrifying and traumatic--not to mention excruciatingly painful.

Dana and Justin showed up once the kids were all taken care of back home. We hung out for quite a while because I was putting off my epidural decision. The contractions got worse, but they never really progressed--just like the first time. Then I heard the dreaded word: pitosin. Nooo, not this again. I had it with my first, and that's when everything got so intense. That changed everything. Not again. So I waited another few hours of indecision before I decided to get an epidural. I was at 6-7 cm at that point, and the pain was enough that I was going to be very, very happy for some relief.

The doctor came in with the shot. I remember being pretty nervous, but he put his hand on my shoulder and asked if I had any questions. He was so comforting and kind, and I was put completely at ease. 

The epidural was practically painless, and it went very smoothly. Nurses were commenting on how well it went. Then everything changed. I was laughing, smiling--enjoying my time! I couldn't feel a thing! I was watching the contractions on the monitor without feeling A THING. It was GLORIOUS!! At that point, I was repeating how ridiculous it was for me to have been afraid the first time, along with how foolish it was to go through such trauma. Thank God for epidurals! 

I decided to take a nap because it was probably 3 or 4 a.m. at that point. Next thing I know, the doctor came in to check me. "You're 9 centimeters. Read to push?"

"UMMMMM SURE!"

Four pushes, and that sweet little girl was out. Amazing. 

No complications. No pooping. No tearing. No trauma.

I kid you not, I was already thinking about the next baby I was totally ready to have at that point. (Not realistically, but in the moment of endorphins, it was totally a possibility.)

Arianna nursed for an hour and a half right after she was born. It was incredible. 

Basically, everything that went wrong the first time went right the second time, and I am so, so glad for having both experiences.

Dearest Arianna...

Dearest Arianna,

You're almost six months old, and I don't know how I've waited this long to write you a letter. Apparently, it really is a second child thing, but it's been tough keeping up with everything I did for your brother. 

I was so scared to lose you. I wrote you one tiny note once, but I was sobbing the whole time. I was terrified. The thought of losing you was too much, and it was constantly on my mind after losing a baby before you. I was trying to protect you, and it was too hard to write a vulnerable letter. I never sang to you or spoke to you. I hesitated to get excited when I felt you move. 

But Arianna, my sweet, sweet girl, how I have made up for those scary nine months. I love you so much. You are the girl I always wanted but was afraid would never have. You look like your daddy, and you have more of his demeanor -- soft, calm, happy, and patient. You are the sweetest little being I've ever held, and I have fallen over from the weight love has had on me since I first saw you, and I know that will never change.

Thank you for giving me more joy than I thought possible. You have no idea how much I adore you, and you never will, but you are such a gift. I find myself wanting to be with you all the time. You're my little mini-me, and it is amazing. 

Please forgive me for not writing you sooner. I just had to get through the fear of losing you before I could love you with everything I have.

You are truly the sweetest little baby I've ever met--and I'm not just saying that because you're mine.

I love you, Aria.

Mommy

I'm a teacher, watching another school shooting unfold.

I look at my three-year-old son.

"Mommy, I love you as much as the moon and the sun and the planets and the universe!" Oh, how I love him.

I look at my five-month-old daughter. 

When I walk into her view, I light up her world, and her eyes become stars. Oh, how I adore her. 

Then I look at the news. There has been yet another school shooting, and at least 17 children are dead. 

Parents have lost their babies. Children are no longer here to hug their parents. On a normal day, high school students don't usually admit to still needing their parents, but the opposite is heartbreakingly clear in their texts during the recent Florida shooting:

"I love you."

"If I don't make it I love you and appreciate everything you did for me."

I look at the news, and then I look at my kids. I scroll news articles and pictures. 

I begin to replace the children's faces on the television with those of my kids, and for a few seconds, I am terrified that I could lose them. Where are they hiding? Are they safe? Who are they with? Will their teacher know what to do? I need to get to them now. I can't lose them.

And then I'm back in my reality of safety, but I can hear, in my mind, other parents crying uncontrollably, hugging the floor, not able to hold their child again. They are imagining the last moments of breath their child took, and they are wondering if anything could have been done to save them. They are completely broken.

I look at the news, and then I walk into school the next morning, slightly numb. 

I am a high school teacher, and I am a second parent to hundreds of kids each day. My husband and I have both chosen to devote our lives to teaching. 

I look at the news, and then I look around my classroom. Which wall is the safest? Do I have my phone at all times? How could I defend us if we had to fight? 

How am I even thinking about this?

Two years ago, we had a serious lockdown at my school. I was having a parent meeting, and I didn't have my phone. A student had brought a gun to school, and no one knew where he was. I remember being so scared, but I had to stay calm in front of other parents and students. 

This was not part of my job description. My job is to educate and love. Now it should be part of our contract: protect and defend if an active shooter enters the building. If that were added, I wonder how many college graduates will line up for the job--the battlefield.

The solution to our country's problem is not simple.

"Give teachers guns!" Give me a gun, and my hands will shake too much to use it. Don't arm me.

"Check social media accounts!" You will never pinpoint exactly who will commit this crime.

"Take away all guns!" Those that want a gun will find one. 

"Deal with mental health!" Yes, we need more of this, but the reality is that fixing everyone is impossible.

"Fix our parents!" There has been bad parenting for years. How might you do that?

Offer your prayers, and you will be attacked for "not doing anything" by people who are also not doing anything. 

What can we do?

We are somewhat powerless. All of our ideas would definitely help, but they won't solve the problem. The world is a broken place, and unless we find a solution to this brokenness, it won't stop.

As a school, we can keep our doors locked, do lockdown drills, teach our students empathy and love. We can report suspicious behavior, speak to parents about concerns, and ask counselors to check in with students. We can and will prepare for the worst over and over again.

No one has the answer, which is why we all post our two cents and move on in a few days when things have calmed down. 

The reality is that it is a terrifyingly unpredictable situation. 

Until we come up with a solution, which is unlikely, I'll continue to imagine the nightmare of needing to protect my "kids" at school, if the need comes, but also get home to my kids safely that night.

I look at my son, and I look at my daughter.

For a split second, I picture the "impossible," and my anxiety tells me to quit my job and stay home with my kids.

But we can't run from everything. I can't hide from my world.

We can only hide from the next shooter.