Hope Found

The little face that gives me renewed hope each morning.

Two years ago, nearly two years to the day before Lily was born, I wrote this post about the pain of losing hope in a future I had always dreamed of. I think about that post often because the walk I describe in it has been such a symbolic one for me throughout the past two years. I have walked around the paths surrounding our neighborhood while grieving the pain of a miscarriage, while celebrating the prospect of a new treatment cycle, while feeling the discouragement of another negative pregnancy test, while talking quietly to the growing Button in my belly. And today, with the burst of spring weather at long last, with the bright sunshine that has come after such a long, cold winter, I finally walked while pushing Lily--our miraculous little daughter.

Right now, I am struck by how many of my dear friends are in places where hope has failed them before. One is today meeting with a specialist to go over the plan moving forward from her most recent miscarriage, two are anxiously awaiting the outcome of the treatment cycles they're currently in the midst of, others are patiently walking through the next steps in journeys to adoption or fostering. All of these women and men deserve to be parents--have hoped and prayed and longed to be parents--and yet are in a holding pattern of waiting, wondering if hope will find or elude them this time.

If you're reading this today and feeling a dearth of hope, please don't think for one moment that I'm writing platitudes, telling you that it will all work out perfectly, that the job/house/spouse/baby will arrive exactly how you want it to and the way you've always dreamed, that bumpy roads lead to the best outcomes because they're so much more worth it, that Lily's smiley face at the top of this post should make you feel all better. While some of those things may be true, all of them aren't--and certainly not for all people in all circumstances. However, the only story I can tell--the only story this blog can tell--is mine. And this story--happily, joyfully--is one of hope found after hope lost, one of hope renewed after hope shattered.

I hope and pray yours is, too.

Dear Lily: Your daddy sings off-key.

Dear Lil' Lily,

As I type this, I'm watching you squirm on the monitor screen next to me. You've been inconsolable for more of the day than is normal for you (a period of time which, I imagine, is infinitesimal compared to many infants your age, but it still feels abnormal to us). In particular, since we gave you your bath this evening, you've been crying. It breaks our hearts even more than it ever has before because you now cry real tears, salty droplets that well up at the corners of your big, round eyes, then spill down your soft, chubby cheeks. Real tears that we kiss and rock and shush away--but tonight to no avail.

But your daddy hasn't given up on you yet.

For nearly an hour now, he's been holding you. He's rocked you in big swings and bounced you in small hops; he's patiently taken a half hour to feed you three ounces from your bottle and offered you back your pacifier each of the times you've spit it out. And, with a soft, gentle voice, he's sung you everything from Billy Joel to Oklahoma to Elton John (via Moulin Rouge).

And he's sung every single one slightly off-key.

But here's what amazing, little girl: you don't know and you don't care. That voice is daddy's voice, your daddy's voice, and it means that you're safe, that you're cared for, that the world around you is suddenly a more familiar, less scary place. And even though you're still tossing and turning, even though we doubt we'll ever sleep tonight, you're no longer crying inconsolably--because you seem to understand, to know and to trust, that your daddy loves you. And that makes everything alright.

Your daddy loves us a whole lot, my sweet little girl.

(Now could you please go to sleep?)

Love,
Your mommy

Lily's Duckies--Here They Come: A Bathroom Makeover

We love our townhouse, and, when we found it over two years ago, we were delighted to realize that so many of the rooms were already move-in ready for us. For example, we loved the bright yellow walls and adorable drawer pulls (they are little pieces of silverware!) in the kitchen, the red accent wall surrounding the fireplace in our living room, the finished basement complete with a chair rail, and the (laminate-but-it's-better-than-wall-to-wall-carpeting) hardwood floors throughout. In fact, the only things we really didn't love were the paint colors in the master and guest bedrooms and the state of the three and a half baths.

Two years later, we've Jeff has painted the master bedroom, and you know all about the guest bedroom that turned into Lily's nursery. But the bathrooms have fallen by the wayside, in spite of our best intentions. The same sky blue is in our master bath, the heinously ugly gardening wallpaper is still peeling off the basement bath walls, and the half bath on the main level lacks any kind of beautiful pedestal sink or eye-catching wall color that we've been drooling over online. However, Lily's arrival gave us the perfect reason to focus on the upstairs guest bath!

With basic white walls when we moved in, the bathroom worked fine with the pre-existing bath set we had. However, the French bistro / wine theme didn't seem so appropriate for a newborn, so we set to work.

The process began months ago, right around Christmas, when Jeff finally removed the 1980s-esque make-up lighting fixture (that still graces our bathroom) and got creative in replacing it with a new one we liked much better.

Now that we'd established a brushed bronze for the fixtures, we set to work on the faucet. The original one was just a silver basic one...

Which Jeff worked hard to replace...

With a pretty brushed bronze one that looks like an old well pump!

Inspiring the rest of the bathroom makeover was an adorable Pottery Barn set of towels, shower curtain, wastebasket, and tissue holder, kindly given to us by friends at church who were done using it for their daughters.

Because I knew Lily's bath supplies would require extra storage, I found a white cabinet on Amazon, then painted matching ducks on it.

But, before we could continue the project by choosing a new paint color for the walls, someone decided to make an early arrival into the world! As a result, it was nearly a month later when Jeff finally stayed up until 1am one morning, painting the "accent wall" a crisp Mediterranean blue.

After that, all that was left was the finishing touches, completed during Lily's afternoon nap earlier this week!

It was months in the making, but that's pretty perfect for our daughter who was years in the making, right?

Up next: the basement bathroom of topiary terror...

It's a good thing I didn't write this post yesterday.

Yesterday was a horrible, very bad, no good kind of day.
Yesterday, I wondered why God had chosen me to parent this little girl.
Yesterday, I couldn't stop crying.
Yesterday, I kept thinking "I hate being a mom."

But today...

Today, I've realized that 4 consecutive hours of sleep can work wonders.
Today, I've learned that reaching out to other moms and being honest about what I'm feeling is beyond reassuring.
Today, I've figured out that "sometimes I hate being a mom of a newborn who can't tell me what she needs."
Today, I know that I am not perfect and neither is Lily, but I am the perfect mommy for Lily and she is the perfect daughter for me.

It's hard to explain how much guilt is tied up in being a new mom, especially for me, especially given my personality, especially given the journey it took to get here. It's a challenge to admit that it's a huge adjustment to be home all day yet to accomplish seemingly nothing, that I can get to a point where sleep eludes me because I'm too exhausted, that I believe that I'm failing my tiny daughter. Thankfully, I'm surrounded by friends and family--both long-distance and right in the same room--who reassure me that everything I'm feeling is normal and that this phase will be over soon enough.

While Lily is the same newborn today that she was yesterday, today is much brighter, much more manageable, much more joyful. Today, I looked down at her sweet little face as she nursed and reveled with delight in holding my daughter in my arms. So, while there will be more yesterdays in our future, I'm writing this today to remind myself that the todays will come after the yesterdays and that joy does come fresh with each new morning.

I'm doing my best, little Lily. We'll get the hang of this yet.

Alice Lily Virchow

Alice Lily Virchow, born February 8, 2014, at 4:47pm

There's so much to say that it's overwhelmed me to even initiate writing this post--this post that I wasn't sure I'd ever get to write, this post that confirms the reality of what I see just five feet from me, sleeping happily in her bouncy chair. If I let myself delve into the overwhelming emotions of the first three weeks with our daughter, though, I might never get this written, so I'll simply stick to the basics--for now.

Lily arrived with the headstrong, stubborn, "I'm going to do this my way" attitude that confirms she is most definitely my daughter! Despite Jeff and my certainty that she'd arrive late (we had our money on Tuesday, February 18), Lily had other plans in mind. After a full day of work (including my regular afternoon workout at school) and a date night with Jeff at our favorite Irish pub, my water broke six days early in grand (and flood-like) fashion at home on Friday, February 7. That night and the next day were largely a blur of "hurry up and wait"; we watched a lot of Olympic figure skating, dozed intermittently, and chatted (in disbelief) about the imminent arrival of our daughter. However, when our doctor came in at 3:45pm Saturday to discuss the possibility of an immediate c-section (due to 18 hours of non-progressive labor and some scary episodes where Lily's heart rate decreased dramatically on the monitors), the reality that Lily was really coming--NOW--set in. And in spite of my tears and worries, Jeff did what he always does so well: he wrapped his arms around me (and a whole lot of tubes and monitors!) and whispered quiet words of reassurance in my ear as he prayed for the three of us.

Just an hour later, Lily was in our arms. And I finally saw the sight I have dreamed of for three years, the sight that kept me going through expensive infertility treatments, the sight that let me cling to hope after we lost first Blueberry and then Beanster, the sight that tells me God is faithful and tiny miracles do exist.

There are no words to describe the moment Jeff became the father of his little girl. It overwhelmed me exactly as I expected it would, and it continues to do so daily, as I watch him with his daughter--as he sings to her, as he rocks her to sleep, as he gently takes her out of my exhausted arms at the end of the day and soothes her quietly.

Lily is already turning us into the best versions of ourselves--the ones where the focus can no longer be on us but needs to be on the support and encouragement of each other as we care for our tiny daughter. We are certainly imperfect parents, but we know--with certainty--that our Father believes we are the perfect parents for Lily. And that is an honor greater than any other we have ever received.

Sweet Alice Lily, welcome to the world.

A Full-Term Button Parade!

Okay, I'm a little (too?) excited about this week's post, mostly because I've been waiting to do it for about 8 months. Since our first weekly bump photo at 12 weeks (before hardly anyone even knew about Button), I've been keeping an album on my phone that has one photo from each week. Looking at them has been a way of reminding myself how far we've come, and it's also reminded me to laugh at myself (especially when I realize how "big" I thought I was at 17 weeks!). So, even though weekly posts since the summer have let you see most of these photos already, I hope you'll indulge this little celebratory walk through the last several months.

Before we begin, though, there's something you should know. You might notice that, in many of these photos, I'm wearing the same necklace. Last May, on Mother's Day, it was opening weekend for the production of Twelfth Night in which I was playing Viola. As we drove back home from the Sunday matinee, Jeff stopped off at his theatre to retrieve a package. What he handed me when he got back in the car was a simple brown envelope; he hadn't had time to wrap it, but he wanted me to have it on the very day that I had been dreading so much--the day that reminded me I already was a mom but that my sweet angels, Blueberry and Beanster, live in heaven, not on earth.

What was inside that simple package made me love the father of my little ones more than I ever had before.

Designed in collaboration with Jeff by an artist we know in California, the necklace has Blueberry and Beanster safely nestled in angel's wings, crowned by the halo that we know they wear. I love it because our two little ones are not lonely or scared--they are snuggled together and held fast by the greatest Father we know--and their daddy's love for them is what inspired it. I wear it nearly every day, knowing that they watch over the growth of their little sister, Button, knowing that she will hear about them one day.

So, now that you know that today's parade includes all three of our little ones, away we go!

And so we arrive at 39 weeks. With full hearts, with a little Blueberry and a little Beanster watching over their little sister, with a nursery overflowing with love that awaits Button's arrival.

Thank you for being on this journey with us.

When we look at our nursery, we see you.

As we took "our" 38 week photos last night, I told Jeff I was debating between two ideas for this week's post. A part of me wants to make sure I write another letter to Button, but, as I stood in our nearly-ready nursery last night, I also felt incredibly overwhelmed by the palpable presence of so many people who love us and Button already. Jeff quickly made the decision: this is the post I need to write.

I've shared many pictures of the nursery on this blog, but what I want to share today is not what you see but what Jeff and I see when we look around the room. Because, whether you live next door or a continent away, whether we've ever hugged you in person or not, whether you sent something last week or last month or last year, you're right here with us, wrapping us in love, holding us steady, reminding us to breathe, cheering us on in this tumultuous adventure.

First, I see my husband's hands at work. I know the hours he spent drawing up plans for this closet--hours spent long before we knew Button was actually coming, hours spent in dark moments of grief. I know how he measured rods to make sure they'd fit infant hangers and how he carefully designed cubbies for tiny shoes and soft stuffed animals. His love for his wife and daughter is written in bold strokes across every detail.

Next, I see the generosity and joy of sweet friends and family from near and far--little onesies with hand-painted designs from two of my best friends who live north of the Mason-Dixon line, a sleep 'n' play from my aunt and uncle in Florida, a SleepSack from my cousin in NYC, a matching set of button-themed clothing from a woman I've never met in person but who has supported me for years. There are tiny dresses that my grandmother gave my mother, a legacy that will now pass to a fourth generation of women. And then the baskets! Overflowing with shoes and socks, stuffed animals and soft swaddle blankets, each one coming from a different woman who I will always think of as hugging Button when I wrap her tightly inside.

You know all about J's beautiful artwork on our walls; we can hardly step into the room without seeing her grinning face, dotted with bits of paint, as she effortlessly applies her brush to the walls as if it were a magic wand. When I look at Button's changing table now, though, I also see an overflowing basket of books, a gift from the women of my English department. The titles range from Fluffy Chick to Charlotte's Web, and each one was carefully selected as a favorite of one of the women in that group. So many of the titles speak to the strength of women, to the possibility and potential that our daughter has to be anyone she wants to be--just as the gift-givers themselves are role models of endurance and compassion.

Button's bookshelf is so much more than just a bookshelf, just a resting place for things. It's the home of her "Twilight Turtle" nightlight, a gift from another amazing woman I've only ever hugged through an email or a letter, and her Dory stuffed animal, a perfect nursery-themed present from one of Jeff's best friends back home. There's a squishy whale that I can't look at without feeling the tears well up because I know the meaning behind the goofy, colorful toy, a gift from a woman who herself has endured so much and who understands all that a whale symbolizes for our little girl. There's a plaque with a copy of our baby shower invitation--such a remarkable and overwhelming event I never believed I'd get to experience--and with a picture of that joyful ultrasound when we got to see our perfectly-formed daughter happily kicking up her heels. And the books! From family in Connecticut and friends in Virginia and beyond, they range from classics like Mike Mulligan to new favorites like Shoe-la-la! Much of the collection has come from our wonderful neighbor's father who has only met us once but who has fallen in love with our little Button and taken it upon himself to build her library with colorful and vivacious characters.

It's so simple--just a dresser full of towels and sheets and changing pad covers--but that's not what I see. I see a handmade hoodie towel from a colleague and friend who has encouraged me throughout the last two years, a stack of ducky washcloths generously given by a woman who prays for us daily, a stroller blanket from two of our dear friends in Connecticut who could not be happier we've made it to this point. Every time I change Button's sheets or gently wash her little body in the tub, it will be the hands of these women holding her, wrapping her in warmth and love.

I could go on and on, and I fear I have left out too much already. Some of our favorite things, in fact, are already packed safely in Button's hospital bag, such as the hand-knit blanket from one of the most incredible women I know--a blanket that I cannot wait to tuck around Button to keep her warm as I tell her stories about a friendship born out of pain and heartache but so rich now with joy and hope. But I will stop here for now, hopeful that my words are enough to let you all see Button's nursery through our eyes.

We see you.

We see Button's family.

And we are eternally thankful to be so blessed.