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Something’s abuzz. (99)

Sweet baby,

You’ll come to learn that we’re big on nicknames around here, and this practice of naming begins early on. Since we haven’t found out your gender or the gender of any of your siblings, we’ve given each one of you a nickname that’s gender neutral. These names feel more endearing than saying “he or she” or “it” as we refer to you and pray for you each day. You and your siblings have certainly each had your own personalities in the womb, and we want to honor who you are as you get ready to join us out in the world.

Before your big brother HD came along, he was affectionately referred to as “the bug.” Looking back I don’t remember why that’s what we decided, but at the time it sounded cute and little. Eventually, it became great fodder for a Very Hungry Caterpillar first birthday party, and ten years later, it’s still a name he claims from babyhood. It suited him well, I think. (And maybe even more so now, since he eats through as many snacks as possible and is always hungry for more. 🙂 ) He’s industrious and likes to dig in for the details. He’s not afraid of dirt and helps us all grow as people because of who he is–just like a necessary and endearing pal in the garden. I love him for it.

After “the bug” came “the button,” and Miss E has lived out that nickname well, too. She has always been tiny and cute, fashion-forward and creative. It’s fitting that her nickname would reference something that holds things together–she’s a healthy dose of glue for our family in so many ways. A sewing themed party when she turned one seemed just the ticket. Before then, I didn’t know things like chocolate candy buttons even existed, but it turns out first birthday parties can bring out the best and worst in a mom’s planning skills and penchant for perfectionism. Our “button” still appreciates the little details in things…the added intentionality that makes something special and not simply ordinary. She’s a vintage soul with a decorative personality.

Next to come along was your younger big brother, who we easily and affectionately refer to as “the bean.” Not only a jumping bean in my belly, but the kind of persona to perk you up at the drop of a hat, our “bean” is a force to be reckoned with –not a small plant in the garden, but a seed by which so much good grows. He is nourishment for our family through his energy and silliness, his ability to laugh at himself and to reach for what he wants without giving up. He is like a tree planted near water whose roots grow down deep. He’s tenacious and winding, and he was born at harvest time, which seems exactly right for our boy who loves tractors and combines and anything farm animals (just don’t mention any goats ;).

Now, as it’s your turn to teach us about who you are (even while you’re still tucked inside), we’ve chosen a nickname for you that already feels fitting though we haven’t met you yet. I hear the song over and over again in my head these days, “If I were a flower growing wild and free, all I’d want is you to be my sweet honeybee.” And you absolutely are: our sweet honeybee. We all agree. You are undeserved and un-earned goodness that makes everything in life more sweet. You’re a busy little bee in my belly and a welcome addition to our hive. We’re dreaming up your nursery space and everything is honey and cream and warm, reminding us of you. For so many reasons, it’s pure joy to imagine you moving about in our lives–no doubt you’ll make the days more beautiful with your activity, and no doubt we’re charged to care for you well. I love that in this way, we all feel we can be just an inkling closer to knowing you. The day is coming oh-so-soon.

So, honeybee it is, little one. Hopefully someday, you’ll love knowing who you were to us already at this stage. This longterm practice of (nick)naming before you arrive endears us to you all the more.

We love you beyond words and names. You are a marvel, honeybee.

Always,

Mama

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Crosby Eames–a birth story, part 4.

I’ve been anxious to tell this last part of your birth story, baby boy, wanting to be right back in that space with you on the day you were born. I pulled up our hospital playlist to bring me closer to those hours before you came, and I hit shuffle, my headphones in as I sit here in the coffee shop pounding out keys to you. The first song to come streaming out: “Good, Good Father.” A holy, sweet reminder that God is always good, no matter what. It’s who he is. It’s every bit true.

And now? “No Longer Slaves.” He never ceases to amaze me.

“I am surrounded…by the arms of the Father. I am surrounded…by songs of deliverance. We’ve been liberated…from our bondage. We’re the sons and the daughters…Let us sing our freedom!”

These words. These faithful, beating words do take me back. I sang them out, loud, on the day you were born, and my heart sings them again now:

“You split the sea so I could walk right through it! My fears are drowned in perfect love. You rescued me and I will stand and sing, ‘I AM A CHILD OF GOD.'”

Freedom. Deliverance. Drowned fears. God making a way for you. He did that very thing, and in doing so, he made a way for me, too.

The hours carried on that morning, your birthday. Around 11:45am, I looked at the clock and summoned my inner doula to make note of how my body was transitioning. This happens when a mama is very close to delivery, somewhere between seven and ten centimeters along. I remember that moment well. I was kneeling on the floor, arms propped up. Your daddy, behind and to my right, was supporting me through the next contraction. I made note of the time and thought to myself, “So close now. You’ll meet your baby by 12:30pm. 1pm at the latest.” I felt like I had so little left to give in labor. The thought that you were so very close was motivating, but my body was beyond tired. I asked your daddy to pray, and he did. Those words moved me through the next wave, and I begged God for help as another round came.

At that time, I also asked to be checked, and our nurse confirmed that I was completely dilated. Surely you would arrive so soon! She called our doctor, who made his way from the office to the hospital quickly. His presence in the room was a welcome addition–it meant we were very, very close.

For the hours that followed, I wandered–mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally, through every possible feeling. I tried everything I could think of to work through contractions and help you to arrive. Nurses brought in a squat bar. We used the birthing ball. We tried walking, dancing, squatting, rocking and anything that my body moved to do naturally. You felt so close and so far away.

Something beautifully spiritual happened to me in that space of desperation and waiting–a moment I still can’t do justice to if I try. I had trusted God with ALL of me that it was possible I could deliver you without pain, but instead, I was in the most intense pain of my life. This is a hard part to tell, and I say it carefully, but I really did believe that I might die that afternoon. I had never felt so close to something out of this world as I did then. Maybe that feels dramatic now, or maybe I had a sense of what God was doing in a story that would have gone another direction without Him. I was alone in that room in the most powerful way. Your daddy was there, and Becky and our doctor and the nurses, too. But there was a space in time when it really felt like it was just you and me and God laboring together. Everything else fell away. I felt so broken, so in need. It was one of the most sacred moments of my life.

I moved from the floor after those seconds or minutes, trying as best I could to push through what was obviously not the end. I lay in the bed so drained of my own capacity, and I can say with confidence that God brought us through every single moment from then until you arrived. I was not under my own power at all, but His. God delivered you into this world, not me.

After several hours without much change, our nurse suggested that I try moving to the shower. She thought that might give me a sense of relief that would be enough to move us forward. I felt so weak and so discouraged, but in a moment of clarity I remembered that you had always moved so fluidly in my belly whenever you felt warm water on my skin. There was no reason not to try it, aside from my unbelief in my ability to move safely from the bed across the room. Your daddy and our nurse supported my walk there, and once we reached the shower, I tried to let go of my own thoughts and allow our bodies to do the work. I could hardly squat or stand. Maybe two minutes into this new scenario, I felt you move. And I mean, move. The sensation of you being stuck was suddenly gone, and now I thought I might just deliver you right onto the shower floor. I yelled in that moment–a yell that caused our nurse to pull the emergency cord and sent half a dozen nurses, our doctor and our photographer all into the room in one instant.

My feet barely touched the floor as arms gathered around and supported me back to the bed. I imagine now how ridiculous it all must have looked, had I been a fly on the wall. I didn’t care at all. I just wanted to meet you, and also not to deliver you onto the floor. My sense of urgency was valid, but perhaps alarmist. There was time to get me back into bed and positioned to deliver you, with maybe ten to fifteen minutes to spare.

Our doctor was calm, careful and patient, as he’s always been. Your cord was wrapped around you and up over your head, your hand was tucked snuggly in a fist up against the side of your face. As you stretched out into the world, that same arm reached out into the sky like a victorious punch. I felt exactly that way, too, precious boy.

I couldn’t have you in my arms fast enough. We have dozens of pictures to prove it. I’ve never been so relieved, maybe ever. You were here, safe. It took some time for your color to change, but all I could think was how miraculously you’d arrived. When everything seemed to stand in the way, God had brought you the way I had begged and pleaded he would–whole, healthy, without intervention. I am still in awe and amazed of His goodness in all of it.

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Daddy announced your gender, then cut your umbilical cord after a few minutes while I fixated on every last detail of you. All nine pounds, seven ounces of resilient, peaceful, mysterious you were now tucked in, skin to skin, with me. I thought I’d broken already, but the truth is, I had more breaking to do.

After you were born, we waited to tell anyone your name until your gramma could bring Henry and Eloise to meet you. We wanted them to be the first to know. “This is your new baby brother,” we told them. Henry cheered at the news of a boy. Eloise melted at the sight of you. I’m pretty sure I just cried and cried.

“His name is Crosby Eames,” we told them. “Fwizbee?” Eloise asked. “Crosby,” your daddy and I smiled.

You entered the world every bit your name that day, Crosby Eames. Crosby means “one who goes to the cross” or “goes to the city with crosses” and Eames means “prosperous protector.” Together we had gone to the cross, sweet baby, and our Prosperous Protector delivered us both.

I will never forget the details of your birthday, precious boy, nor the journey we traveled to get to it. God hasn’t stopped using you to refine me since that day, and I suspect He never will. I love you more than I could possibly say. I love the God we serve more freely and fiercely because of you. Not only did He answer every prayer of mine in the way He knew best, but He wove in sweet surprises and deepened joy at every turn.

As I finish telling your birth story, a new song is playing from your playlist, and it’s perfect:

“For the danger in these waves, for the thrill adventure craves, for the safety found in laying down our days. For a hope that’s on the rise, for the clearing of the skies, for the way that you delay and then surprise…

Oh you were so kind to answer my prayer. So good, so loving, so aware that you would move heaven and earth…

And I sing a hymn of praise for all you’ve done for me, and your love is in the wind and tumbling o’er the sea. So kind to me…”

God has been so kind to me. Your life changes ours and makes it better. It always will.

love you forever and ever, and then a little bit more,

mama

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crosby eames–a birth story, part 3.

On the morning of your due date, I woke up early-ish after a night of on and off contractions. My forty week appointment was scheduled for 10:40 that morning, and I had really hoped I wouldn’t make it to the office, but we were still just biding time. My contractions continued to challenge me and felt more and more intense. Still, I told your daddy to go ahead to work, assuming the feelings were more of the same and not wanting to slow down another day for everyone around me.

Twenty minutes after we’d said goodbye, I texted your dad and asked him to come back home. Suddenly everything was kicking into high gear, and I was sure your arrival was imminent. Everything about those first few hours seemed so much like the morning I delivered your big sister, so I started to feel like things could move quickly. I messaged our photographer, who moved heaven and earth to get her five kiddos covered so that she could join us at home. Daddy rushed into the driveway. Gramma took care of Henry and Eloise as they woke up, while I took a shower and got ready; surges were coming every three minutes, growing stronger all of the time.

To say I’d anticipated the contents of your birthday would be a great understatement. I had dreamt about each phase of those hours for so long—to have them upon us felt surreal and beautiful. I wanted to soak in every detail, and I’m so thankful we have images that capture what we were all feeling and doing that morning as we waited for you. I can look at them now and bring myself back there, savoring the sacred space between you being tucked safely away inside and your skin brushing air and meeting light for the very first time.

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I knew you were near, but I didn’t know what was coming. You felt close enough that I decided we should relocate ourselves to the hospital, thinking we might be meeting you in a matter of an hour or two. There, I’d have to have IV antibiotics during labor if time allowed, and honestly, I was hopeful to avoid them. I did my best to gauge what my body was telling me—what you were telling me, and we said our slow goodbyes to your brother, sister and gramma between contractions. At some point, daddy loaded the car and helped me in. The looooong trek to the hospital was actually a very short drive ;), and I was preparing myself to get from the car to the maternity floor on foot, assuming we’d arrive and meet you shortly after.

We stopped for a contraction or two as we headed down the hospital corridor. The elevator ride up felt long. I was bracing myself for both the good and challenging parts of a hospital birth. Of course there were monitors, a *brief* debate over a hospital gown (just not my thing), and papers to sign for IV treatment, etc. I hadn’t looked forward to any of these elements, and I tried hard just to focus on breathing you closer while the room picked up speed around me.

Much to my chagrin (and surprise), I was not as close to delivery as I’d hoped. I resigned to the IV setup and our first round of medication for Group B Strep—a decision I didn’t take lightly. The silver lining was my ability to unhook from the machine once the first full round was administered. I moved around the room as best I could with the IV line in tow, and after a while, was so grateful for my (our) detached freedom to roam. We’d been admitted at 9am on the nose, measuring 5-6 cm.

I haven’t touched on this much in your story to this point, but a month or so before your due date, your daddy and I decided we’d be welcoming you into the world without a doula—a very hard decision for us to make. Our friend and doula from previous births was no longer going to be in the area, and we landed on trusting our combined experiences birthing Henry and Eloise to equip us for your birth as a team on our own. It was a leap of faith, really, as it is with all things related to birth. I knew I could rely on your daddy to be very supportive in that space, and he knew that we could trust my body and my instincts to guide us through to your delivery. Becky, our photographer, provided a calm, gracious presence to us a well, offering her peaceful spirit and words of encouragement to fill spaces where needed. Details were falling into place as we got to know our incredibly supportive nurse, who was also integral in facilitating the environment I’d hope to cultivate as I labored with you.

So now, the hard part. I’ve known for months that I can’t put adequate words to the story that God had woven for us on the day of your delivery. I just could not have imagined the way things unfolded. His stories are always better than ours, even when they seem far from what we’ve drawn up in our minds. God taught me that again on the day you were born—a lesson I didn’t know I really needed. He has done that so faithfully through you time and again, sweet babe. Truly, laboring with you is one of the greatest honors of my life…

My contractions came like the constant pulse of a freight train driving forward and picking up speed. I couldn’t slow it down if I tried. We listened to the playlist I’d prepared for your arrival—eighteen songs in total, but to my amazement, only six or seven repeating themselves over and over as hours went by. We slow danced then. We swayed near the bed, your daddy and I, me belting out lines to “Trust in You” as a declaration—an anthem—over you, over me, over that room and as an outward confession of my hope and brokenness and desperation when it felt like the moment to meet you might never come:

“When you don’t move the mountains I’m needing you to move, when you don’t part the waters I wish I could walk through, when you don’t give the answers, as I cry out to you, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust in you…”

“I want what you want Lord and nothing less.”

“You are my strength and comfort, you are my steady hand, you are my firm foundation—the rock on which I stand. Your ways are always higher, your plans are always good, there’s not a place where I’ll go you’ve not already stood.”

I meant them. I meant every word. We had prayed for weeks that God would grant us a smooth, quick, uneventful delivery. We had even prayed in boldness that my labor would be without pain if that was God’s will. I know that sounds crazy, but it didn’t feel crazy to me—it made perfect sense. We serve a God who is capable of ANYTHING, and we know a Savior who has redeemed us and overcome the powers of sin and death. Nothing was outside of the realm of possible. Nothing.

As I cried out those words in that hospital room, as we swayed back and forth, rocked on the ball, moved from place to place and position to position, I continued to believe that God could do it. He could grant me a delivery free of pain if He wanted to. He could bring you into the world swiftly, without any hiccups.

But He didn’t.

Now before you go on reading, please put any doubt about what I’m saying out of your head, precious child. Your birth was one of the most incredible, spiritual experiences of my life. God delivered me from doubt and grew my trust in Him greatly as I delivered you. Wait and see. I’ve saved the very best part for last, little bean.

all my love,

mama

(All images in this post credited to BeeTree Studios)

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crosby eames–a birth story, part 2.

Having carried your brother and sister each to thirty nine weeks and one day, and given their sizes at birth (9 lbs. and 9 lbs. 2 oz., respectively), I never imagined carrying you past that timeline. I knew it was possible we’d wait longer for you, but I was telling myself we’d get to mid-September and be ready to go. This is probably how I coped (quite happily) through the heat of summer and the start of a new school year and changes galore. You were coming soon, and surely before month’s end. You were “due” on September 29th.

On the 12th of September, I started laboring with you. I wasn’t confident at first, but when my contractions increased in intensity and grew closer and closer together, I was at least sure that we were making progress toward your birthday. That week, I messaged our friend and birth photographer four days into “contractions on and off since Monday.” “I’m not sure we’ll see any real movement until next week,” I texted her, “but my gut says to just let you know…” It’s easy to doubt yourself when you’re a doula and you feel unable to predict or determine your own labor, and you kept me guessing, sweet boy. My contractions were legitimate–not stopping after glasses of water or laying on my side like Braxton Hicks, and they continued to move closer and closer together each round, every day. They would feel like progress, and then they’d stop. Some days the surges would go on for a few hours, and at their longest, I labored for 16 hours, sure we were nearing our trip to the hospital, only for my contractions to dissipate in a discouraging and uneventful end.

I felt like a roller coaster. I repeatedly felt like the boy who cried “Wolf!” texting the same few who needed to know, almost every time I thought we were nearing your entrance. I was emotionally and physically and mentally exhausted, and I leaned heavily on the grace of those around me to get through the days and nights, trying to prepare for you, trying to be a good mama to Henry and Eloise, and trying to keep myself focused on the things I’d been believing and praying so diligently for as we approached your birth.

It seems worth mentioning that you were breech for a long time in utero, and after trying every possible technique I knew or could get my hands on for about five weeks, you turned obligingly and in your own timing at thirty six weeks. There were many times after that day (I’m pretty sure you turned in the early morning hours while I was only sort of awake to notice 😉 ) that you seemed settled in more of a transverse position–not ideal for a natural birth but certainly still capable of shifting in a matter of days or weeks. I felt so aware of you then, as I had all through my pregnancy. It was beautiful and trying, as I prayed and prayed over you, your alignment and your passage into this world.

I was holding steadfastly to the truth that God could bring us both through your birth without pain or incident. I know it probably sounds crazy, but truly, believing that God could do miraculous things is what I know for certain carried us both through. His promises, read, prayed, spoken, repeated over you, were like manna day after day. I needed something to cling to when I would labor and then not progress, and while I may never be able to adequately articulate what God did in my heart through you in those weeks before you came, I am absolutely confident that my deep, deep place of desperation in the pressing and waiting only drew me closer to our good, good Father. I am so grateful to you for that!

In all of this, there were so many factors playing into the dynamic–and into your story. Gramma Teresa was making her way to us, your daddy was working in his new role over an hour away, we were trying to enter into new fall routines and fitting in as much as we could in the days that came. And did they ever come! I busied myself with your big brother and sister as much as possible, trying to keep things “normal” as I wandered around town having contractions hour after hour, day after day. I was certain my water was just going to break in the middle of things, and I’d stopped caring about that a few days in. All bets were off on timing and circumstances. Thirty nine weeks and one day came and went, and so I carried amazing little you for as many days as God’s grace allowed.

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I have a good many distinct memories of the two and a half weeks leading up to your birth, and for good reason. At night I would sit on the exercise ball in the living room, bouncing gently and rocking back and forth for an hour or more while I talked with your daddy and your gramma about when you might come. I faced adrenaline surges that left me feeling a mile high and then drained to the point of tears. I hashed out worries and silenced fears over and over again. God was exercising spiritual muscles I didn’t even know I had!

What I did know? I knew I was more and more amazed at the idea of you all of the time. You felt close and known, but mysterious and tucked away. I knew I wanted to treasure every bit of time I had with you inside, but also that I felt so beyond ready to meet you and to end the weeks of discomfort and insecurity I faced when my confident mama game wasn’t strong.

While we waited, we continued to stay busy with all that we could. That time with your gramma (my mama) was sweet and sacred. We shopped for fabrics to make you a quilt. (I stood at the counter in labor while they cut samples for us to take home. 🙂 ) We prepped meals. We talked for hours. Gramma was very patient with my impatient self, and she kept up with so much around the house and with your siblings when I couldn’t. Each day, it felt like we were waiting for the most wonderful surprise in the world, and we were! You and Henry and Eloise have all been worth waiting for in more ways than I could ever say.

Does it feel like it’s taking me a long time to get down to your actual birth, sweet baby? It did. Truly. It took a long, long time. But God was so faithful, you know that? All of that work my body was doing, and all of the work you were doing inside to change position and get situated to where you need to be? That was God honoring my every prayer and hope–I just didn’t know it yet!

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As I look back on all of those days in the waiting, I can see where God intervened to afford you (us!) the most healthy, safe birth possible. You didn’t come until you were ready, because you couldn’t physically make your way into position for a long while. I remember telling your daddy and gramma one night that it felt like your head was just completely stuck; I kept trying to press in one exact spot to help you move, but things just wouldn’t budge. For the last week or so that I carried you, I’d get that same sensation over and over again. I can still imagine it now, so distinct and consistent. Little man, you were working so hard!

I don’t know what kept you there for so long, but I do trust that God’s hand was in it, without a doubt. We were in prodromal labor together, working as a team, you and I. As it was, we just kept going, and in God’s grace and timing, there was stamina to move us both through it. There is such a sweetness to it all now as I think on those nights–walking, rocking, pleading, wondering, worshipping, waiting…

Tomorrow, the details of your birthday, Crosby Eames! (And Becky’s pictures…Oh! I can’t wait to share them with you!)

love you deeply,

mama

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sibling love. (2)

I asked Henry and Eloise today if they might like to write letters to the new baby. Both were very enthusiastic. I wish I could write Eloise’s entire letter in her sweet little accent and vernacular, but I thought a straight translation would be better for clarity’s sake 😉 The kiddos dictated, and I typed. My heart about burst. I hope this little bean knows just how much he or she is loved already. Soon, soon!

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Dear Baby,

Happy to see you soon. Our whole family and come to Disney World soon and see my heart backpack. And come to meet big sister. Meet your other big brother again, and Mommy and Daddy and Kruger, and we’ll even bring you to church.

Hope that you like the world. And see the world when you come out soon, and we’ll see you. But Mommy will be at the doctor for a couple days, and you won’t see us then, but you will see us when Mommy heals and makes sure your safe.

And wish that you had a birthday party. You will come soon with Henry’s birthday party, ok?

I wanna play with you and love you so much. I wanna help you and help take care of you. And here’s our dining room and our living room and our play room. And we have a room for you and a room for us. And I made a picture for you, just special. A little teeny baby picture.

I love you,

Eloise

 

Dear Little Bean,

This is your big brother. I love you, baby. You are so cute. You’re the best brother or sister besides Eloise.

The world is so fun, baby! You’ll love it! When you get to visit Disney World, you’ll love it SO much! And you won’t want to go home from it.

I want to snuggle you and play with you and make you laugh SO much, I just can hardly wait for you to be born!

Being born is scary…just a liiiiittle bit. A tiny, tiny bit. But your mama will be holding you. Your mom is so nice and so careful with babies, you’ll just wanna not let go of her.

I can’t wait to meet you, baby. Cuuuz, it’s the best part of having a new baby brother or sister!

We have your room almost ready baby, and you’re gonna love it! You room is so fun, full of sea creatures and whales and turtles and jellyfish and seahorses and octopuses. You’ll just love it so much, I’m just gonna kiss you and hug you alive!

Love, Henry

It’s so dear to me that H and E anticipate this little one just as much as we do. I think it’s wearing on them a bit that baby has yet to make an entrance, but I’ve promised them that the bean will be here to join us as soon as he or she is ready. They continue to pray over baby and my belly, talking to both all of the time. What a gift as a parent to bear witness to their simple love for a child they’ve not yet met, and to know that God is preparing their hearts as well as our own.

proud to be their mama,

mm