The Square of Determination...My Only Sunshine...

When I remember back to the very day that I found out that I was carrying my second child, I remember feeling guilty and alone. My marriage was quickly disintegrating, I was working a job I hated, and desperately trying to mother my beautiful 6 month old daughter. So when the doctor came into the room and informed me that I actually did not have the flu, but rather, was a few weeks pregnant, I placed my hands over my face and wept. What was I going to do? How would I ever be able to take care of another child? And even more plagueing, what were the chances of being the only two percent that had failed in taking the "fool proof pill"?
I went home and hugged my daughter to my breast and cried, just bawled. And I actually continued to sob for three more months. Of course, no one understood my dismay because for all real appearances, I was a "happy go lucky" mother and a young newlywed. But our marriage was really over. I spent much of my time alone and much more time trying to figure out where our missing money was actually going. But still, I was pregnant so I prepared myself for this new child whether I wanted it or not.
Then one day, as Kayla laid beside me in bed at naptime and I was silently weeping, I felt a soft faint flutter. A kick. At first I wasn't sure, but as I lay ever so still, another stronger kick came, my hands immediately went to my stomach, and I held my child. "Oh, my Baby, you are real. You are there. It's alright Baby, Mommie is here for you. I love you Sunshine. My little Sunshine!" And I lay there, caressing the little life inside of me, that I was sure I could not love or take care of. It was in that moment that I knew that no matter what, I would love this child as much as I loved Kayla. I would love this child and make a better life for her, a better life for all of us.
And so, the pregnancy continued much as the other pregnancy except that Kayla was a part of it, and she would take any chance she could to squeeze or poke my protruding middle and say, "Baby" as best she could. I reveled in getting ready for the baby and I was so sure she was a girl. With every fiber in me, I wanted this child, to love her, hold her, and do all the things that we mothers do with our babies.
But then, in the middle of the night, eight weeks before she was due to come, I began to lightly spot and have labor pains. Frightened and scared, my husband rushed me to the hospital where I nervously went through a battery of tests to see why I was in labor and what to do about it.
The doctor came in, his face very sober as he solemnly said, " This little baby is in danger. I am not going to lie to you, we are going to have to work very hard to save its life. We are going to give you medication to stop this labor and then you are going to have to go home and stay in complete bed rest. No cooking, no cleaning, only going to the restroom, and back to bed. If we can hold onto it for at least four more weeks, then it should be small, but okay. You must obey everything I say and rest, just rest."
 My husband looked at me and we both had tears pouring from our eyes. Because while our marriage wasn't very good, he loved his children very much, and was the best Daddy he knew how to be. And so we held each other and I geared my mind up to fight the biggest fight of my life, the fight to save my Sunshine.
The medication worked. We went home. I mothered Kayla from bed. People came in and took care of Kayla and the house and for two weeks, life was good and my baby was safe.
But again, in the wee hours of the night, the pains came, and once again, we found ourselves back at the hospital, only this time to be admitted for the remainder of my pregnancy. Hooked up to monitors and IVs, I prayed and rocked and prayed. I asked God to spare this child. This Sunshine that I guiltily had not wanted, but now, I could not live without her.
And so, I began to cross stitch a picture, a verse of a little girl blowing a dandelion that read, "Let everything that has breath praise the LORD. Praise the LORD." Psalm150:6. I began to praise Him for this child and although I wasn't saved and my knowledge of a real true God was limited, I fought for my child spiritually as well as physically. And I loved her and I bonded with her and I willed her to live. I willed her to stay in my womb until she was ready.
So at four weeks early, on a Friday morning, Lacey Lynn made her way into this world with the loudest, bossiest cry I'd ever heard. She was a goofy-looking little thing unlike her sister, she resembled a chimpanzee of sorts, but I didn't care. She was here and she was mine. And she took to my breast and my love as if she had always been there.
We were a part of each other. She knew I would give my life for her and I knew she had fought to be with me. And although I love my other children so much, there is always a special bond with a child that you fight so hard to keep alive, a child whose life you have put at the foot of the cross day and night.

I now know that that was not the first child's life who I would petition the Lord for...there would be many, many more...and not all would I ever have an earthly bond with...

Placing the Fabric....the Square of perfection...

The purpose of a family quilt is to have a blanket that will last a lifetime. A blanket that memories can be shared in as you cuddle in it whether it be with a spouse, children or grandchildren. Our family quilt was no different so for the first square, I added Kayla-Beth...
After suffering the loss of a child in my teens and the devestating miscarriage of a set of twin girls at nineteen weeks, I was more than just a little eager to try again. So when I found out that I was three months pregnant and due in the early spring with a child, I was more than just a little thrilled- I was estatic.
And it was a marvelous pregnancy. No morning sickness, no fatique, okay, so there was incredible weight gain, but I didn't care-if this baby was born happy and healthy that was all that mattered to me. But we were so young and babies need so much. So once again I pulled out the needle, thread, and fabric and made everything any little baby would need. I went crazy; baby outfits, nighties, burp rags, blankets, bumper pads, and bibs.
And as the time drew near and my anticipation heightened, I became acutely aware of the circumstances in which my child would grow up. I knew in no uncertain terms that I needed to put away certain aspects of my life. I needed to settle down. My child needed a mother, a real mother whose soul purpose was to live for him or her for the rest of my life. And so I did. I just gave up the bad habits. I gave up the things that don't fit into a "family" lifestyle. Unfortunately, I did this alone and although two more years would remain of our marriage, that for me was the beginning of the end. I soon came to realize that in all probability, I would be a single mother.
But a baby was on the way. A baby, my baby. A baby that I had lived for, prayed for, and dreamed  of all my life. A baby would finally, finally give me someone to love and care for. The baby would give me a purpose and help me have that connection with one other person who could never hurt me or walk away.
And she did. On St. Patrick's Day, March 17, 1984...Kayle Beth came four weeks early weighing four pounds and twelve ounces and she was beautiful- absolutely beautiful if the truth be told. Her birth was more than a little frightening though. I was having lunch at a local restaurant and suddenly I had a pain, then two, then three. They came closer and closer and before I knew what was happening, we had to have a C-section. I was delivering a breech baby and she was coming as fast as her little feet could kick her way out. And so, two children ourselves, we entered the operating room and together waited for that first cry to come as they ushered our daughter into the world. With much apprehension, we waited and when she was delivered, there was a small faint "wah" which soon grew to a louder "Wah" and eventually a "WAH". So, fully satisified, with tears of joys running down our cheeks, we held our little girl whom we waited for for so long.

But she was so small, and to a young mother, her size was intimidating.She was a breathtaking china doll that I was never allowed to touch as a child. Yet here she was, mine- mine to touch , hold, dress, and love forever. She had sparkling blue eyes, a thin layer of blonde hair, and the tiniest nose I had ever seen on a baby. And her feet- her feet were so delicate and cute. I kissed and sucked on them every chance I got. And her smell, she smelled like every pink carnation I had ever dreamed of...she was perfection. She was my first live baby doll.
And she was so perfect and I was thrilled. She loved to snuggle, and cuddle, and coo. She was the baby every first time mother ever dreams of. I could rock her for hours on end. I never tired of wanting to hold and love on her. In fact it was three months before I even let my own mother spend any real time with her.. I just couldn't get enough of her. I didn't want to get enough of her. I worried over her. I prayed over her. But mostly I just marveled over her.
The love affair that began at that time was the first taste I had of true motherhood and in me it sparked an insatious appetite for children that to this day has never been quite filled.
I remember rocking my little girl one night, hours after she'd been asleep, singing her lullabies, stroking her little back, and wondering how anyone could ever love a child as much as I loved her. Little did I know, I would one day find out...nine fold.

The Quilt... laying the framework...

Before one begins a family quilt, one must first lay a firm foundation of love. committment, and hope...
The first time that I got married, I married for all of the wrong reasons. I was young, fresh out of highschool, and I wanted a wonderful, perfect family life filled with children and I wanted it now. But after three short years and many troubles that marriage quickly ended, leaving two small daughters and an uneducated mother, struggling to make it on her own. It was during those years that I fell in love with Jesus Christ as well as my life and my children. My realization that there was a God, a God who would love me always and forever helped me grow into the mother I wanted to be while searching for a man who would not only be a helpmate, but who would be a Godly father to my daughters.
Enter Bill. Bill was the most wonderful friend any woman could ever want. He was warm, thoughtful, affectionate, humorous, and God loving. And although he was poor as a church mouse, what he lacked in finances, he made up for in ingenuity. And soon we fell in love. I married Bill knowing that we could never have more children and knowing that he had a heart defect that would eventually end his life early. Trouble was, I never let myself believe that he would die. Because I lived what I considered a good, clean life, I assumed that God would give me the life that I felt I deserved. But, after three short years, many happy memories, and a family life that any woman or child would want, Bill died on a misty day in November 1990 in front of myself and his best friend Tim while having lunch at a local restaurant.
Death was new, unfamiliar territory, and I was frightened beyond my beliefs. I was mad at God, the universe, and anything I could think of.  Plus I was in the midst of raising two small girls who were as dumbfounded and ill equipped to handle Bill's death as I was. I was struggling those first few months; emotionally, physically, and spiritually. There were days when I was sure I wouldn't make it. Yet, my children and immediate family as well as Bill's family were such a tremendous help in so many ways that I couldn't help but start to think clearly and at least function.
And then there was Tim, Bill's best friend. To say that I couldn't stand him, would be an understatement. The guy was a chauvenistic, humorless, calous jerk, who up until Bill's death lovelessly referred to me as the "old ball and chain". I went out of my way to not be a part of he and Bill's friendship- that suited Tim and that suited me. But after Bill's death, there began to be a side to Tim that he had kept carefully guarded from the world. A side that was so respectful, honorable, kind, giving, and loving that a deep seeded friendship formed eventually leading to love.
Our love affair was one wrought with many emotions as I was still grieving my husband, yet felt a connection with this man who went out of his way to make sure the girls and I had everything we needed both financially and emotionally. He stopped by every evening and made sure we were safe. He paid all of Bill's hospital notes (over ten thousand dollars worth). Bought us a car and insisted I not worry until I could afford payments. Anonymously bought the girls and I  gifts from Santa. He made sure all of Bill's affairs were in order from his death. He took me to the hospital when I thought I was carrying Bill's child shortly after his death and stayed with me until my mother came. He helped me through the grief and he helped me to see that eventually life would and could go on and that I deserved to be happy.
What Tim didn't share until much later was the fact that Bill had made Tim promise to take care of the girls and I if anything should happen to him. Late one night when Tim was leaving after briefly stopping by (he worked second shift), I went to let him out and as I did I saw my reflection in the mirror directly behind him. I didn't like what I saw. I saw a woman depending on a man, souly because she was afraid to face the uncertain future that life had dealt her. "Tim, you have to go..." I stammered, " and Tim, you cannot come back here. Not for a long time."
Tim's face got contorted and his eyes misted with tears, "What? What do you mean?"
"I have to do this myself. I have to face the world on my own. because if I don't , I'll never know if I can," I answered trying hard to sound grown up and self assured.
Tim got very quiet and then he whispered, "you- you can't do this. I- I promised Bill that I'd look after you. That I'd make sure you were okay."
I opened the door, and helped him out, "I am okay, or I will be. Please just let me do this alone...." and with that last remark I shut the door on Tim, turned around with my back to it, and wept. I watched as Tim slowly walked across the street, and I felt a burden lifted of my shoulders. We could do this my girls and I. We could, or at least I hoped we could.
Sometime later, Tim stopped by and took me to lunch. I had been crying most of the day, was barely dressed in sweats, and had no makeup on. As we turned to go into the restaurant, he placed his finger under my chin and said, "You know, you're really beautiful..." I about fell over. And that was the start of the most meaningful relationaship that I have ever experienced then and now.
I eventually committed to Tim, not for all of the things he did for us, but because I knew the depth of love he had for Bill, the girls, myself, and his Lord. He has shown me what real love is...for it is not the racing of the heart "ooooh I can't wait to smooch with him" (which I really still have this feeling after twenty-one years), but the longtime committment of a friendship that will stand the test of time. So in good times and bad, facing the miscarriages of four children, the adoptions of seven children, the marriages and subsequent births of our grandchildren, and the suicide of our son- that we are able to still look into each other's eyes from across the room and know, just know, that life is okay- that we're okay- and we will live "happily everafter".... 

My Quilt

Making a quilt has never been so hard, but sometimes it is through adversity that I have the strongest most durable piece.....
Missing from my family quilt photo are three new grandchildren all of whom have been born since the death of my son Jeffrey David. As I write about the births and subsequent adoptions of my children, I will not write about the death of my son on this blog page. Although our journey with Jeffrey is and was significant, it is still too fresh and painful to relive that particular event. Memories of his death are chronicled on my other blogspot linked on this page. I don't write there often, as it is too painful at this time to put into words.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who sat amidst her dolls busily planning and sewing doll clothes. In the background could be heard much yelling and fighting. As the little girl continued to create, tears filled her eyes and she began to daydream about a life, a family life, free from the chaos in which she currently lived. And in that daydream, she fantasized about a family whose Mommy and Daddy loved each other, never fought or drank, made sure that their children always felt loved and safe, and would forever live happily everafter. Then one day that little girl grew up and so did her need to fulfill those long ago dreams....

The Family Seamstress

I remember the first time that I noticed that I was different from the other kids. I was in the third grade at a four room country school, when someone suddenly yelled,"Floods!! Look! Look! She's waiting for a flood!"
I looked down, horrified to realize that my pants were indeed, yes that's right, "high water" pants. My face turned red as I walked away in shame and embarrassment, feeling uneasy the rest of the day.
I looked out the window that day on the bus ride home and noticed that the other houses around us had perfectly manicured lawns. They had nice cars in the driveway. There were no small pieces of trash floating in their green grass. Plus the biggy- there were no trash cans lying on the ground from yesterday that the stray dog had left behind. We were not poor, but with four kids and two middle class, hard working parents- we were not exactly on top of it financially either. And so, the envy of what I didn't have seemed in my heart to outweigh that of which I had.
I went into the house to see my mom, just home from working all day, balancing a toddler on her hip, a toddler at her ankle, a phone cord wrapped around her body, as she struggled to fix dinner, and load the portable dishwasher. I couldn't tell her that her already freakishly tall daughter had just experienced another growth spurt and now needed new jeans. If I told her, she would run out to the sales rack and buy the first pair of pants in my size, which usually resulted in a less than respectable pair of ugly plaid pants that I would have to bury with the other ones under my shirts in my bottom dresser drawer. I couldn't- I just couldn't have that fight with her again. because I knew that she was right,"there was nothing wrong with them".
But, I wanted to fit in at school. I wanted what the other kids had- "cool jeans". And then it hit me, like a ton of bricks on my little head. LACE...all the other girls had lace sewn on the bottom of their jeans. We had lace! My mother dabbled at sewing, so surely there must be some lace laying around the basement by her sewing machine. As fast as I could, I raced down the stairs and rooted through her sewing things. I was ecstatic, not only was there lace, but there was also some "Holly Hobby" fabric that was really popular too.
And so, with my heavily knotted thread and needle, I began to remake my "floods" into something respectable that any third grade girl would be proud to wear. And it was in those hours of cutting, pinning, sewing, ripping out, and resewing that I learned that I could change my world with just a simple needle and thread.That if my parents couldn't afford to buy my what I wanted, I could remake what they did buy me into something spectacular. And that day, she was born....The Family Seamstress was born.
Sure, a needle and thread has not always solved all of my problems. But they have given me the ability to sit back away from the "moments" of life and reflect on what is "wanted" and what is truly "needed". It has given me the ability for a while, for just a little while, to find the peace and solace that that misfit, freakishly tall, little third grade girl had the day she proudly marched into school with her "nonflood" pants on to face a world that she could change, even if only for a moment.