Heartbeat

Seven years ago today I heard the words, "I'm sorry, but there's no heartbeat." 

It was a morning appointment, and for some reason I was so nervous for it. I hadn't felt the baby move that morning yet, but I had just the evening before so I expected everything to be okay. 

I remember leaving work and driving to the appointment, expecting to go back to work afterwards. Jayze was at his work, too, so I was all by myself. When the nurse practitioner couldn't find the heartbeat on the heart doppler, she told me to call my husband so he could be there for the ultrasound. Even then I still had hope. Maybe the heart doppler had malfunctioned, maybe the baby was turned in a certain way to where the heartbeat was hidden, maybe everything would be okay after all, maybe, maybe, maybe...

I walked through the doorway into the dark ultrasound room and laid down on the bed. They started the ultrasound, and Jayze arrived just in time for us to see the ultrasound tech look at the nurse practitioner and shake her head. Just like that, our baby was gone. 

Today I woke up, fed our kids breakfast, helped Aidan with his kindergarten classes and homework, played "Spot-It" with Kimball and Lincoln, and snuggled with Ryah before her morning nap. Usually after Aidan's school, I send him off to play by himself or with Kimball and Lincoln. With the two moves and all the changes, I've given in to the temptation too many times to retreat inward and push them aside. To just go through the motions with them and do my own thing. But I've been feeling the urge to change that. To find joy in the simple moments like I used to. 

Today I wanted them to feel joy, and I wanted to treat them like I always imagined I would treat Alma if he were here. I wanted to treat them like I've preached about so many times on here before I had any kids with me. I wanted them to know through my actions that they're important to me. I wanted to not just be there, but actually be present with them. 

So instead of retreating by myself after Aidan's school, I made popcorn and played with them instead.  

I chased them around the living room, wrapping them up in blankets and plopping them on the couch, pretending to be a "blanket monster." I tickled their cute faces and bellies as laughter erupted from them over and over and over. As we ran around, I could almost imagine hearing their hearts beating like crazy from all the playing. They are still here, and so am I.

When things get hard...when triggers come up...when hard memories surface...when my heart hurts and my courage disappears and the anxiety comes...I like to stop and take a minute. Sit or stand up straight, take a deep breath, and look around. Where have I lived a little? Where have the kids been? Where is the joy?

This morning I found it. 

-A naked baby from a blow out.

-Remnants from a snack after a morning of kindergarten.

-A toy rocket on the floor landed there from a child with a huge imagination.

-Natural light coming in to keep me sane (AZ is amazing).

-An almost empty fruit basket from the kids eating all the oranges and bananas (and no time to go to the store.)

-Country music playing in the background while Ry girl and I bob our heads.

-Little boys in the other room building a city with their mega blocks and cars.

Seven years ago I was beyond heartbroken hearing that my baby didn't have a heartbeat. It felt like our home's heartbeat had stopped too. BUT now, this home has a heartbeat. It is so full of life and beauty and mess-ups and little boy giggles and baby girl squeals and imperfections and love and forgiveness. It's full of healing and hard work, and I'm grateful to be here for it.  

And I'm grateful that one day I will get to hold Alma and see him alive and well and hear his beautiful heartbeat again.