It's Been a Year, part II: The Gift of a PE and Pneumonia

So I ended the last post by saying that Padre Pio and Pope John Paul II were going to be playing a bigger role in my life "very soon."  I have always had a very strong and special devotion to St. John Paul II.  As a child I used to ask God for sufferings to offer for the Pope and experienced a closeness with him that is hard to describe.  After his death I mourned his loss and started a private devotion to him while praying for his Cause for Canonization.  I also asked him if he would accept me as his Spiritual Daughter.  His answer was "First you must make My Mother your Mother."  Of course he was talking about Mary.  I had always had a hard time with the Blessed Mother.  I prayed my Rosary, I honored her, I wanted to love her, and perhaps by an act of will I did, but it always felt flat.  In my heart I hadn't surrendered to Her Motherhood.  Well, Papa JPII got me thinking.  I desperately wanted him to accept me as a Spiritual Daughter so if he said to make Mary my Mother well, OK then!  I began begging her to help me do this.  At the same time I was given an incredibly strong sense that were anything "really bad" to happen to me, BL (now Saint). John Paul II would save me.  I didn't know what this meant, and quite frankly was a little rattled by this revelation that I was given while in prayer.  I thanked him for looking out for me and asked for his continued intercession.

This all began about 2 month before losing Baby Lolek.  Shortly before Lolek's death Padre Pio started "popping up."  He does this when he is letting us know we are going to need his help.  So I took the hint and began a novena to him asking for his protection.  When everything happened with Lolek I knew Padre Pio was interceding, and I clutched a prayer card of his throughout the ordeal.

The day after I was released from the hospital I was experiencing some very intense chest pain.  I had felt pretty woozy and lightheaded when they discharged me but was told by the nurse to expect to feel weak and to feel a heavy discomfort in my chest because of all the IV fluid.  So when I felt pain I recalled the words of the nurse and tried to ignore it.  The pain worsened throughout the day.  Perhaps it was my milk coming in?  After losing Claire my milk came in and it hurt.  Maybe it was anxiety?  I always get post-pardum anxiety.  Maybe its just my body recovering from trauma?  Maybe its all of the above?  As the day went on the pain only intensified.  It became hard to breathe.  I couldn't inhale.  I felt like I couldn't catch my breathe.  It must be anxiety.  This is the worst attack I've ever had.... I thought to myself.  Curled up on our big chair with a blanket I just struggled to breathe.  Walking made me dizzy and feel faint.  Wow.  I lost a lot of blood, probably normal....

I coped with these strange symptoms all day.  I mentioned them to my husband but tried to assure him that almost dying the day before was enough "badness" for a while - I was sure I'd be OK with some more rest.  Except I couldn't breathe!  I managed to make it through the day with as little exertion as possible.  OK, no exertion at all.  I tried to go to sleep that night.  My husband was restless and spent the night awake watching some movies in the living room.  I think I had given him quite a scare!  I lay in bed alone trying to get a good breath.  I once again thought of the nurse's warning, "It will be uncomfortable and feel heavy."   Boy, she wasn't kidding!  I tried to lay still.  After the 3rd Rosary I drifted into an uncomfortable sleep.  At about 4 am I shot bolt upright in bed - searing pain across my midsection from the bruises I had gotten after all the "mashing" the day before.  I was gasping for air and clutching my chest. Blinding pain was ripping into the left side of my chest and I had the distinct feeling that I had stopped breathing.  I gulped air, each gulp causing pain that made me dizzy.  Pope John Paul II's face flashed in my mind.  I tried to steady my breath.  I couldn't talk.  My heart was pounding so fast!  Slow breaths I commanded myself.  This must be another anxiety attack.  What else could it be?  After about 20 minutes of slow deliberate, painful breaths I put my head on my pillow and started another Rosary.  I was thinking of John Paul II.  I fell back into a fitful sleep only to wake up a short time later with the same awful sensation - gasping for air, clutching my chest in searing pain.  John Paul II's face again in my mind.  I didn't know what was happening but I DID Know that the "something really bad" had probably just happened.  I sat still, heart facing, trying to breathe through the pain in my chest.  I couldn't talk, couldn't move.  What was going on!?  I calmed down and tried to chalk it up to anxiety again, but I was a little scared.  And there was NO WAY I was going back to sleep! I sat very still in my bed, waiting for the sun to rise.  I may have dozed, in and out.  My husband  went to sleep as the sun was rising.  I told him what happened.  He looked concerned.  I told him I'd see how I felt and then call the doctor if necessary.  He said to wake him if I needed to.  I managed to get breakfast for my kids.  I walked slowly - every movement made me dizzy and made breathing more difficult.

Once noon hit I couldn't take it anymore.  I called the number on my discharge papers from two days before and left a message for the doctor.  Then I curled up on the chair with a blanket and tried to breathe.  My kids were a great distraction.  My husband woke up around 2:30 and at 3pm I got a call back from the doctor.  "If you are experiencing shortness of breath or chest pain you need to go to the ER, now."  I told her what the discharging nurse had said to me.  She wasn't impressed.  "You need to go to the ER.  What that nurse told you doesn't apply anymore."  I didn't really know what that meant but I told Dear Hubby we had to go to the hospital.  Our friend came over to keep an eye on the kids and we were off.

I will spare you the details of the Er trip.  The highlights included a dubious doctor who thought maybe my hemoglobin was low, and then a full oxygen mask, a heart rate dangerously high, blood pressure issues, X-Rays, a CT Scan (which I HATED!), an ultrasound of everything below my belly button, including my legs and feet, and eventually the dubious doctor poking his head into my room saying, "You're a MESS!"  It turned out I had a Pulmonary Embolism AND pneumonia.  PE in the right lung, pneumonia in the left. Our priest came and gave me the anointing of the sick.  I was instructed to NOT move at all.  Apparently my heart rate was so erratic that movement of any kind made it spike dangerously high  I was started on heparin, a blood thinner, and given something for the pneumonia, which they said was "hospital induced."  I had an OB come and consult because the doctors were afraid the blood thinners would make me hemorrhage again.   I was so scared!!  After getting started on everything I was admitted and taken to the cardiac ICU.  It had been 2 days since I had been in the ICU in the ER after losing Lolek.  I couldn't believe it.  What in the world was happening to me?!

The doctors were not very forthcoming with information.  I had a PE which I knew could kill you, and I was in danger of hemorrhaging, which could kill you.  The pneumonia seemed parochial at that point, and I refused to dwell on the fact that my grandfather had died from hospital induced pneumonia.  My husband had to go home to take care of the kids and I dictated a list to him of items to bring back in the morning.  I assured him I'd be fine and knew the kids needed him.  So I put on my brave face and joked through the oxygen mask, "Well I get breakfast in bed tomorrow!"  ("If I live that long" I added to myself, fear creeping into my thoughts.)  Hubby said good bye and I sat in the bed as a cascade of nurses came in.  Apparently in a cardiac ICU you get lots of attention.  I tried to adjust myself and my monitor started beeping.  A nervous looking nurse ran over.  "Honey, you CAN NOT move.  Your heart rate is way too high."  All I had done was try to adjust my position! Great. So if the PE doesn't kill me, and the anticipated hemorrhage doesn't kill me, and the pneumonia doesn't kill me, I will end up sending myself into cardiac arrest by accident and THAT will kill me.  All of a sudden I felt very vulnerable, very out of control, helpless and terrified.  I apologized.  She looked at me, "Your heart has had a work-out what with the heart attack and all."
Heart attack?  What heart attack?  I looked at her puzzled. She looked back.  The PE is in the right side.  It had to go through your heart to get there.  You're lucky you are alive."  I thought back to the night before- sitting up in bed clutching my chest gasping for air.  "OH! THAT'S what that was!"  I was stunned.  I was 29 years old and had already had my first heart attack.  I didn't know whether to be proud or mortified.  Instantly I thought of Pope John Paul II and in that moment I understood.  He had saved my life.  I had absolutely no doubt.  That thing was stopping up my heart and through his intercession it didn't kill me.  I silently thanked him.  So grateful.

I asked the nurse for my purse and slowly and carefully (so as not to speed up my poor heart)  took out my worn prayer book.  Pieta Prayer Book, in case you were wondering - my favorite.  I also took out my rosaries, Padre Pio and JPII prayer cards, and my Holy Water. I clutched them.  The nurses explained that my bed had to remain at a certain angle and I couldn't adjust it.  They messed around with my IV lines, gave me a catheter (ick), increased my oxygen, and drew some blood.  Then they instructed me to yell or press my call button if I thought I was bleeding to death, told me not to move again and left.  I was alone.

Now, I won't go into detail about the next 7 days in the hospital.  They had to draw blood every few hours, so by day 3 my arms were full of bruises and my veins didn't want to cooperate.  My blood thinners took a while to get in the "zone" where its safe (too little thinning and the clot can break free and blood can't move past it, too much thinning and well.... its bad).  The first 4 days I wasn't allowed to move more than my arms, and even then I had to be careful.  I will never forget laying there at that awful, uncomfortable 30 degree angle and wondering if I was going to die.  Would it hurt?  Would anyone be there with me?  Was I ready?  Why wasn't I excited at the prospect of Heaven?  What about my kids?  That's where I would get stuck.  My kids.  I was Mommy.  I had to take care of them.  Sure I thought about dying and getting to meet my three in Heaven, but my ones on earth needed me! I finally understood why so many prayers ask for the "Grace of a happy death."  I pray them very sincerely now.

Those first few terrifying days I look back on now with great thanks.  God was working on me.  I was, for the first time in my life, completely helpless.  I couldn't fight my way out of it.  I couldn't "suck it up, offer it up, and deal."  I couldn't even breathe without the oxygen mask! I realize now that those days are when I learned about contemplative prayer.  It was as if God taught me the amazing way to pray under fire.  It wasn't until months later that I realized that was what I was doing, how I was praying was contemplative.  I was so excited!  What a Grace I had been given!  I also learned that I needed to surrender.  I was afraid to.  I knew I was afraid to.  I was offering it up for my family and for my husband.  I was not complaining.  I was thanking God for the pain, for the fear, for the uncertainty, and yet I couldn't completely surrender.  I prayed the Stations of the Cross over and over again.  I found such comfort in them.  I knew I had to mourn my baby, Lolek, but I also knew that I couldn't yet.  It was as if my mind said "one crisis at a time, and this one is more immediate."  Besides my husband was making arrangements with the funeral home and the Church, I could be at peace knowing he would get the burial a child of God deserved.

One thing that was astounding to me were the insane conversations I would have with doctors.  They would come in every day to check on me.  I saw about 13 different doctors over the course of the first 7 days I was there.  THEY ALL told me I needed to decide what birth control to use.  A conversation would go like this:
Doctor: Hello Laura, how are you feeling
Me: Hello.  I still can't breathe and I have a lot of chest pain
Doctor:  Well that will take a  lot of time.  Your INR (how thin the blood is) is still off so we have to adjust your dose again.
Me: OK
Doctor: Now, lets talk about Birth Control for a moment.
Me: No, that's OK.
Doctor: Dr. So and So tells me you refused birth control yesterday.
Me:  Yes I did! *smile*
Doctor: That is not wise.  You see, blood thinners can cause birth defects and pregnancy can cause blood clots.
Me: So can Birth Control
Doctor:  Well, that's not exactly true
Me: Yes it is. It says so on the hormonal BC inserts.  Why in the world would you want me on BC if it causes them?  I ALREADY HAVE ONE!
Doctor: Well, it would be irresponsible of you to take a risk of getting pregnant
Me:  BC isn't fool proof. Besides my husband and I use a natural method and we use SELF control instead.
Doctor:  That's not really a smart idea.
Me:  Excuse me?  I am a Roman Catholic.  My faith teaches me that Birth Control is not only harmful to me, but its harmful to my marriage, to society, and to my soul.  AND I BELIEVE IT.  I practice my Faith.  I am very upset that every day I get a birth control lecture even after asking the nurses to notate on my chart that it is not to be discussed with me.  There is nothing you can say that will ever change my mind.
Doctor:  Well its your decision but it is not a smart one. If you get pregnant you have to come off the blood thinners and go on a different medication and you will need a high risk OB/GYN.  Plus, how many children do you have now?
Me: Four on earth.
Doctor:  My goodness.  All with the same man?
ME: YES!
Doctor: Don't you think that's enough?
Me:  I think its not for me alone to decide, and its none of your business.
Doctor: Very well, we are done.

At that point a nurse will hurry in and tell me my blood pressure was too high and I would explain that it was the doctor's fault.

So these were my days.  Plenty to offer up, and yet, I was still holding something back.

When I was released 7 days later I got home late afternoon. My mom was there with my sister.  My kids were so happy.  I was exhausted.  I was very weak, and still couldn't breathe.  I felt like I had been run over by a bus.  I got set up on the overstuffed chair and cuddled my kids.  I felt terrible.  The next day I still felt awful but managed a shower.  The kids had an early bedtime.  I decided to sleep on the chair because it was comfortable for my breathing.  As I tried to doze off an all too familiar sensation made me hurry to the bathroom.  I was hemorrhaging again.  A lot.  In half an hour I was back in an ambulance heading to the hospital.  It had been less than 12 hours since I was discharged.

The blood thinners were reversed to stop the bleeding.  This put me at risk for another clot and made my pain level higher and difficulty breathing worse.  An ultrasound revealed what they thought "might" be a retained bit of tissue.  I was told to not eat or drink in case I needed a D and C to remove it. I was admitted again but since the cardiac unit was full I was put on a Bariatric floor.

The poor nurses there didn't know what to do with me.  All the equipment was too big for me - it was designed for obese people getting bariatric surgery.  After all my problems I weighed about 118 pounds - hardly obese.  Still those nurses were wonderful. They knew I was hungry and wasn't allowed to eat, and they didn't have monitors for my vitals so they came in to check as often as they could.  Some dear friends came to pray over me.  They brought relics of several saints and along with a few other friends, including my amazing "super-doula" best friend we prayed.  Through the course of the prayer I began to feel very strange.  I had been given a drug that was supposed to help expel the retained tissue, but came with the risk of further hemorrhage.  The doctor had told me we still couldn't rule out a D and C and would I consent to placing an IUD while getting the procedure.  I practically shouted her out of the room.  "NO!  STOP TALKING TO ME ABOUT BIRTH CONTROL!"  She was very upset with me and told me she hoped I didn't hemorrhage but if I did, at least I could get another transfusion, and she left.

As I began to feel strange, I thought to myself, here it comes.  I'm going to bleed to death right here.  There are no monitors so the nurses won't see that my BP is dropping and my pulse is racing.  I began to feel faint.  I hadn't eaten in 36 hours, and I'm sure that didn't help.  I couldn't see straight, my heart was pounding.  I started to get tunnel vision.  "Surrender, Laura."  I heard a whisper in my heart.  "Make my mother your mother."  Papa JPII?  My friends were praying.  I felt like I was dying.  "Mama!!!  Mama!!!  I surrender!  Help me Mama!  I give up!  God can have me if He wants.  I surrender.  Please, be my Mother.  Help me to love you as my mother, help me surrender completely to God.  If its His Will that I die now, then I accept it.  Please hold my hand Mama, I give everything to God.  Everything. My life, my health, my kids, my husband, everything."    I was screaming in my mind.  I felt as though I was saying it out loud.  And in that moment, Mary became my Heavenly Mother.  I had broken through.

My pulse quickened, the dizziness intensified, and I felt as though I couldn't breathe.  I could tell I was about to hemorrhage.  "Call a nurse," I whispered. My friends looked worried. They pressed the call button and went into the hallway.  Two nurses came running.  "I'm not OK."  I told them.  "I feel like I do before I hemorrhage, and I want to pass out."  They started checking vitals.  The looked worried.  Very worried.  They called another nurse.  One left to make a call.  The other two ushered out my friends.  They shut the door and brought over a portable commode.  Lets prop you up on this and see what happens.  I agreed.  I prepared myself for the inevitable gush of blood and what I knew would be me passing out afterwards.  "You have to hold me up," I said.  The nursed could see I was so dizzy I couldn't even sit up without help.  "We aren't leaving your side," they said.  And so I glanced upward, asked Mary to give me courage, and resigned myself to the very real sense that I was going to die that night.

Then a strange thing happened.  I sat propped up waiting for the worst.  Instead of a rush of blood the only thing that my body expelled was a piece of tissue.  It looked to be the size of the retained tissue that the ultrasound had revealed. I was flabbergasted. So were the nurses.  You see, it just doesn't work like that.  You don't just expel a bit of tissue and NOTHING else.  Not post pardum, not when you have been hemorrhaging.  The dizziness began to wane.  Tunnel vision went away.   The nurses put me back in bed.

"See, I am your Mother."  I heard her whisper in my heart.  With complete clarity I understood. Mary had just kept me alive.  She had saved my life.  It was my final act of surrender that made it possible.  I was filled with gratitude.  Immense gratitude.  I can't write this without crying.  That night, Mary became my mother, and I learned that surrender - ultimate surrender - is a freedom.  Not something to be feared.

Shortly after this experience the nurses came in to tell me I was being transferred to the Cardiac Unit "where I belonged."  Soon I was back on the cardiac floor in the ICU for a few days, and then to the regular cardiac floor before being sent home.  All told I had been in the hospital for 16 days.

I had an ultrasound the day after the night when Mary saved my life to check on the "retained tissue" and wouldn't you know, they couldn't find it.  The whole time I had the distinct feeling of Mary's presence.  It was as if she was letting me know that just as I wouldn't leave one of my children's sides were they in the hospital, neither was she leaving mine.  I had the most profound peace.  I was no longer scared.  I didn't really know what would happen to me yet but I was not scared.  I was at peace.  I was still in a lot of pain and I still couldn't breathe, but I had peace.  I remember realizing that I had done as John Paul II said.  I made Mary my Mother!  And as I thought these things, in my heart I knew I had a new Spiritual Father as well.  I was overjoyed!  There I was with my oxygen cannula on, the anti-clot balloons on my legs, heart monitors all over, two IVs, and bruises up and down my arms, grinning like a fool.  Our God is an amazing God.

In my next post I would like to introduce you to some very amazing, very special, extremely dear friends without whom I couldn't have survived the hospital tedium, or recovered once home.  They have become my Virginia Family and I thank God for them every day.  So, next time you will meet "Lolek's Friends."  

Heroic Virtue?

Motherhood requires heroic virtue.  I've heard more than one well respected Catholic thinker/speaker/writer types repeat this mantra.  It usually makes me shudder.  Heroic virtue?  Seriously?  Couldn't God have made things a little easier on us poor schlubs out here?  Not that I am a schlub.  I am really an incredibly attractive mother of 5 who looks the same as I did when I graduated High School - skinny and toned, with hair that would make Jennifer Aniston jealous, immaculately groomed eye brows, eyes that sparkle with a well-rested glow, a wardrobe to put Miss America to shame and an overall demeanor that purrs with peacefulness, calm, control, and quiet intelligence.  Then I wake up.  An I realize that I'm probably closer to schlub material.  Especially on days when I am sleep deprived (which is distressingly often), sick, or my kids are sick, or both.

So heroic virtue, huh?  See, when I think of this phrase I immediately picture the young Virgin Martyrs - St. Maria Goretti, St. Philomena, St. Lucy - staring piously and angelically up to Heaven while meeting their mortal demise.  Or I think of St. Francis jumping into a thorn bush to beat back his own concupiscence.  Or John de Brebeuf, Isaac Jogues and the other North American Missionary Martyrs who met horrible tortured deaths - and some with great humor!  To me these are the men and women of Heroic Virtue, not little ol' schlubby me who can barely make it through some days without wishing I could have a toddler-style meltdown of my own.  And yet, I am called to heroic virtue.  We are called to heroic virtue.

So what is it exactly?  And how do I get it?  Can I just order up some 'heroic virtue' during prayer time and hope for the best?  Unfortunately it has been my experience that you just don't "get it" (unless you are one of the rare and blessed people to have a blinding"Saul-to-Paul" moment of extreme Grace).  Nope, for most of us schlubs out here in Mommyland Heroic Virtue is cultivated and practiced.  That means when your first little blessing is born you get extra Mommy Grace, and then well, you grow and tone your virtue muscles much like you tone those never-been-used-before-muscles that hold up the baby's head while he or she rests in your arms for hours because you're afraid to put him or her down.  Virtue is a "good spiritual habit" and just like other good habits its learned.  This is good news for those of us who shudder at the sound of it - we can achieve Heroic Virtue!  The not so good news is that its not exactly going to be a piece of cake.  Then again, nothing heroic ever is.

Maybe, though, this can give us a different perspective during those hard to handle Mommy times.  Chances are you more heroic than you think!  What else but heroic is calmly walking and bouncing a colicky newborn for 3 or 4 hours?  What else but heroic is staying up all night with a feverish child, and then handling the next day like you aren't completely sleep deprived?  What else but heroic is getting very little sleep for months on end, and not drinking caffeine because your need-to-eat-every-2-hours baby can't handle it?  What else but heroic is driving all over town bringing your kids to practices and rehearsals, lessons, and classes, and still having a hot meal for them at dinner time?  What else but heroic is welcoming a new life into your family, even though the world tells you to stop at 2 kids?  What else but heroic is listening to the entire  Disney Princess Sing Along CD for the 7th time in a row instead of the news in the car?  What else but heroic is the task of making sure Santa Claus makes it your house this year, and the Easter Bunny doesn't miss your door?  What else but heroic is coming home from date night 2 hours early because little "Johnny" had a nightmare and needs a Mommy hug?  What else but heroic is watching PG movies and TV shows (pretty hard to do these days) even after the kids go to bed because you know that your kids will try to listen or get a peak at the screen?  What else but heroic is reading that same book at bedtime for 4 months in a row, with the same amount of enthusiasm as the first time you read it?  What else but heroic is tackling piles of laundry daily, so your kids have clean clothes to wear?  What else but truly heroic is forming your children's consciences, helping them to become the men and women God created them to be?

You maybe thinking, but this is just what us moms do.  Well, yes, it is, but doing those things (and really I just scratched the surface) with love in your heart, a smile on your face, and without bitterness or resentment - that, dear friend, is heroic.

For years the Church recognized very few married men and women as Saints, but during the Pontificate of Pope John Paul II, more lay Saints were canonized than in much of recent Church history.  Pope John Paul II wanted to give us Saintly examples of men and women just like us who exercised "Heroic Virtue" in every day life.  (For a list of all those who were Canonized under John Paul II, and their biographies, see http://www.vatican.va/news_services/liturgy/saints/index_saints_en.html )

Dear friend, you are a mother, and that means you are called to be a hero.  You have been given the tremendous task of raising up Children of the Light.  You have been given the Grace from the Father of of All to exercise Heroic Virtue in your every day family life.  It is my prayer that you will draw strength from the knowledge that you can and do have this saintly calling.  Your children and the world need your strength, patience, courage, modesty, perseverance, temperance, prudence, justice, faith, hope, and love.  This Advent may you grow in God's love and Grace so that you may truly embrace your heroic calling.  God Bless you, Mom!

**I would like to dedicate this post to all the beautiful, heroic women whom I have been blessed to have encountered in my life.  Most notably my own mother, my mother-in-law, my dear friends, and the women of the Confraternity of Christian Mothers and Holy Family Home Schoolers of Sacred Heart, Winchester.  Your examples touch the lives of more than just your children, and I am privileged to know you.  

The Introduction

I stare at the EPT.  Actually I stare at both EPTS...yes I took two pregnancy tests...just in case the first one was confused.  "Pregnant."  The first one announced.  "Pregnant" the second one echoed.  Oh boy.  Or girl. Here we go again!

Those first few moments, in the bathroom, alone (well not really!), are unlike anything I can ever adequately describe.  Feelings across the emotional spectrum run through my body, racing thoughts, and a slow realization that I can no longer discard my already swollen feet, increased forgetfulness, inability to balance, or grip firmly, mild queasiness, and very sensitive nose as "coincidences."  No, at this point the two EPTs aren't so much a shock as they are a confirmation.  I can no longer give into denial or mind games: the incessant "Am I?  Am I not?" of the past few weeks.

Zoom.  Back to the present.  One more good hard look.  Yup.  It still says "Pregnant."  So does the other one.  Then I stuff them into the garbage.  Deep breathe.  Look into the mirror.  Smile.  "I am pregnant."  Say it again, "I am going to have a baby."  Then come the tears.  Tears of gratitude, (for children are after all gifts), relief (after-all those few weeks of not knowing are killer for a control-freak like me!), fear, (oh my goodness FIVE children!), nervousness (I hope I don't get morning sickness.....I hate labor!), trepidation (I wonder what people are going to think of us!).....then I stop myself.  I laugh.  Yup.  The crazy hormones have already kicked in!  But now is not the time for indulging in a hormonal roller-coaster.  I have something far more important to do.

The introduction.  This is a ritual that I began when I went through the whole EPT saga with my first child.   I quietly placed my hands on my lower abdomen, right about where I imaged the teeny tiny little person was growing.  "Hello," I whispered, "I am your Mommy.  You are my baby.  I love you."

Then the tears start again.  So I get down on my knees and say a thank you prayer.  I have done this for every one of my children as well.  It doesn't matter if they were "surprises" or or if I was scared to death at the time.  Every one of our children is a gift - and it's always polite to thank the Giver.  Sometimes the Giver of all likes a good surprise party too!

My prayer of thanksgiving, (followed by a quick petition for extra help and patience!) done I get up off the floor, take one more quick look at my smiling and tear-streaked face, and exit the bathroom - knowing that I am, once again, forever changed.

As I walk into our hallway I am nearly run over by a 4 year old boy pretending to be a train.  Then comes the almost 3-year-old on all fours, who barks at me, "I am a cute, cute puppy, " and he crawls off.  My 5 year old (soon to be 6) daughter is in the living room twirling around and dancing, "I'm a princess,"  she informs me.  I glance into the kitchen.  Yep.  The rustling sound is indeed my 1 year old son judiciously emptying the Rice Krispies  all over the floor.  He looks up at me and smiles a big toothy one-year-old into mischief smile.  I place my hand on my lower abdomen and I smile too.  Then I glance at the pile of cereal on my floor.  I shake my head and sigh, "this is my life, and I wouldn't change a thing!"