Our battered, bruised four leaf clover

(A disclaimer: We're not big believers in luck or good fortune--we choose to put our faith in our heavenly Father who we know with certainty cares for us in more ways than we can fathom. But this was a unique day.)

Remember the amaryllis blooming in the darkest winter of our lives? Or the budding victory rose Jeff left on my desk? Our tiny, battered, four-leaf clover belongs to that family.

As Jeff and I sat outside the Millbrook winery, sipping a delicious Chardonnay by the pond, musing about our lives, I idly began a search for an elusive four-leaf clover. There was no reason for my hunt; I merely needed a distraction for my fingers. But, despite that, just moments into my hunt, I discovered the treasure pictured at the bottom of this post.

Our four-leaf clover isn't perfect, but it's the only one we've ever had. Our four-leaf clover is a little worse for the wear, but so are we. Our four-leaf clover offers a kind of hope that is bathed in reality, and that's the only kind of hope we know or desire anymore.

We choose to believe in and hold onto such a joyful symbol that we feel certain fell into our hands by the grace of the only One who can rain blessings on us.

One inch at a time

As perhaps you can tell, I've been having a tough day, week, month... call it what you will. Anyway, after dissolving into tears before leaving the house yesterday morning, I went to my last day of school meetings before summer break. After three hours discussing students, I returned to my desk and found this:

Weird, right? A ruler in a miniature rose bush? But then I looked closer, and I noticed this:

If you visit this blog often, you know the title has nothing to do with my green thumb (which is, in actual fact, mostly brown). Rather, "Inch by Inch" is inscribed in my wedding band; "Row by Row" is in Jeff's. When we chose those words to wear forever, we chose them as a reminder to take life one step at a time, a reminder that a garden doesn't grow in an hour or a day but with a great deal of care and many months and years of effort. Yesterday, as he created this phenomenal gift for me, his wife, Jeff just wanted to give me the sweetest, gentlest reminder of that promise that he could.

Now I'm crying again--but these ones are tears of joy for a husband who loves me so dearly. Our family may not yet feel complete, but I am so grateful for the foundation it already has.

Disappointment.

Talk to any woman who is desperately trying to conceive a child, and she'll have an intimate, personal definition of the word disappointment. It comes in so many forms: a miscarriage, another BFN, a non-existent cycle, an elusive ovulation. Of course, there are varying degrees of disappointment--or that's what those on the outside tell you. The reality is that I've cried equally hard for each of the disappointments listed above. The sense of failure is overwhelming, the loss of hope threatens to swallow you whole, the discouragement that leads you to consider just giving up is what drowns you in your sleep.

I wish it were as easy as pulling one of the tabs off the sign at the top of this post. If I could just grab myself some hope or faith or patience today, I would--abundantly. But I can't. I don't know how to anymore. I have tried to look at the positives, tried to find the silver lining, tried to discover what God's teaching me in five of the saddest months of my life. But I can't do it anymore. It hurts too much to risk hope over and over and keep having it slip out of my grasp.

Duck--Duck--Goose!

On Earth Day, Potomac has a tradition of completing a half day of classes followed by bringing all the students outside to help care for our beautiful outdoor campus. This year, my sophomore advisees were paired up with a group of second graders to read a story and then plant milkweed on the hillside above the football field. The day was beautiful, my kids were wonderfully patient, and the younger students were awestruck by their good fortune of having special time with the "big kids." Once our planting was completed, we left the students to their own devices for a bit, and a massive game of duck-duck-goose quickly evolved. It was a pure delight to watch our lanky, sure-footed, quick-witted high school students artfully "forget" to get up or "trip" as they ran around the circle of squealing seven-year-olds. By the time twenty minutes had passed, the stewpot was overflowing with upperclassmen who vigorously cheered on their younger charges.

The sounds of laughter, the smell of the fresh grass, the vision of dappled sunlight brushing across grinning faces--all of it stuck with me for days. However, the part I remember most was the students' eager anticipation as a hand descended on their heads, some squeezing their eyes shut, praying they'd be the golden goose who got to leap up and sprint, others shrinking away, dreading the tap that would seal their fate and require them to stand and run.

As a child, I never wanted to be the goose.

I've never been an athlete--I've never won a championship or triumphed in a match--hence, the reason I never wanted to be selected in the game. However, for the last five months, in my personal game of duck-duck-goose, I've been straightening my spine and wiggling my butt in an anxious attempt to add inches to my short stature, hoping that God will select me as the goose and bestow--quite literally--a golden egg upon me. However, unlike so many of the children in our Earth Day circle, my desire didn't come from unbridled joy; it came from a paralyzing attack of the dreaded What-ifs. What if I'm 35 and not pregnant? What if we can't try for two children anymore? What if she gets pregnant before me? What if I'll never be a mom? What if...?


And then, in the blink of an eye, the What ifs come true. I turned 35 in May. I don't know if we'll have the opportunity to have two little ones. Several girls did get pregnant before me. And, despite all my hopes and prayers and dreams, there's no guarantee I'll be a mom. All my squirming and scooching to add inches got me nowhere--except to a few unattractively bitter pity parties of one.

Perhaps I just need to be content to be a duck. Or a goose. Or whatever God will have me.

Or maybe I need to just enjoy the children's laughter.

Blueberry's Folder

Disorganization distresses me. I spend half my day in my classroom realigning my desks; my "to do" list contains items like "make new to do list"; entering the grocery store without a tally of items needed is a horrifying concept. As a result, it should come as no surprise that my gmail inbox is neatly organized by folders with titles ranging from "Family" to "Real Estate" to "Insurance."

When we found out we were pregnant in December, I immediately started a new folder: "Blueberry." Into it went all baby-related items: confirmation emails for various newsletters and stores, correspondence with my doctor's office, information about day care options. Every time I saw the folder title pop up on my screen, I grinned.

And then, on January 11, the contents of the folder shifted. Now, it contained cancellation confirmations for all baby websites, correspondence with the new therapist I found, and information about medical matters related to our miscarriage. I just couldn't bring myself to delete the folder entirely, so it temporarily contained those emails that hurt my heart too much to see in my actual inbox. I wondered what the next few weeks or months might bring and how my perception of our loss might change...

And then, one day in March, I got my answer. My Blueberry folder is full again, but this time with the gifts my little one left here on earth for me; it's full of emails from the women I never would have known without being forced into some of the most difficult months of my life. These amazing, strong ladies who have also persevered through pain, who have encouraged and supported me, who are role models and friends, these are the ladies who I met through the gift of my tiny Blueberry.

Thank you, little one, for still taking care of your momma.

Today.

Today is a good day. Yesterday wasn't, but today is. Jeff and I took a lovely stroll to the Farmers' Market, we stopped for brunch and a drink outside, and then Jeff took this picture. And I love it. It captures my joy at having a Saturday outside with my husband, my anticipation of seeing my mom and dad this evening, my excitement about upcoming spring weekends with our friends.

So what has changed between last night and this afternoon? Last night, an incredible friend wrote an amazingly uplifting comment on my post. This morning, my sister-in-law sent me such an encouraging email, reminding me of how fortunate I am to have a phenomenal husband who loves me. Today, I finally figured out how to blow dry my new sideswept bangs correctly. :-) All small things, all adding up to joy now.

These rollercoaster moments are not new to me, but this weekend has inspired me to learn more about what defines body image in different cultures, about how young girls learn to view themselves, about how Jeff and I will, one day, raise a child to see him/herself as beautiful, no matter what.

Today I am not healed, but today is better than yesterday. And that's a start.

A World without Mirrors or Photos

This week, I was suddenly struck by how much I hate looking at my own reflection. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom on the way to the shower and duck my head down; I try not to glance up even while brushing my teeth. When I step in front of the mirror in the morning to check my clothing for "teacher-appropriateness," my eyes immediately dart to the parts of my body I hate--my mooshy midsection or perceived double chin or lack of prominent collarbones. I put my arms straight down by my sides to hide my hips and wonder what it would look like if I had the slim waist of a J. Crew model. Many times, I wonder if I try to make myself look worse, if I pudge out my stomach or pull my chin into my neck just to see the horror that everyone else must see.

Just last week, a colleague snapped a photo of Jeff and me at a party. When I left the house, I'd felt confident in my swingy blue dress and cork-soled espadrilles. As I sipped wine and chatted with friends, I was relaxed and at ease. But when Monday morning came and my well-meaning friend emailed me the photos she'd taken, I nearly cried at my desk. Gone was the girl I'd felt like; she'd been replaced by an ogre with jiggly arms, chipmunk cheeks, a massive forehead, and ridiculous hair. The second photo was no better; this one showcased a double chin and tiny eyes pushed nearly shut by great blobs of cheeks and lower eyelids. I immediately shut the photos, not even bothering to forward them to Jeff. What broke my heart more than anything, though, was that I suddenly knew what everyone else saw that night. They didn't see the cute, fashionable, pretty woman I'd thought I was; that was just a cruel joke. They all saw the fatty in the photos, the one who no one would ever call a looker. Though I'm not surprised they didn't laugh--after all, they are my friends, I'm saddened to know what they have to look at in the office every day.

The scale has gone up by 10 pounds since the day we got married. The mirror makes me see the ugliness every morning. The photos are tangible evidence of what I have become; even the good ones are just tricks of lighting or age or angle. Those are the facts. And while I do wish I could live in a world without mirrors or photos, would it really make a difference? Because I've already seen the truth, and there's no going back.