Grief and Faith and Comfort

I joined BookBub a few months ago, downloaded a bunch of bad-quality, free books, and binge-read them while I was grieving over having a miscarriage.

Miscarriages suck, by the way. I knew that it was a statistical likelihood that I would have one, and I knew there was little if anything anyone could do to prevent it, as almost all of the early ones are caused by chromosomal abnormalities. I didn't even feel like someone had died, so I wasn't exactly grieving. The horrible thing about a miscarriage is that you feel the excitement of expectation, then the nausea and discomfort of early pregnancy, and then the disappointment of knowing it's ending; you feel the nasty cramping like labor, and then you're done. Nothing to show for it but a terrible hormone plunge and a dead heart. 

I have much to be grateful for. It hadn't progressed very far, so there were no fetal remains to identify. It was reasonably quick, and it resolved itself on its own without the need for medical intervention. I was able to work from home that day and the two days following, because I have an awesome boss who doesn't ask questions. And there weren't very many people to tell, because I hadn't announced the pregnancy yet. 

We love being parents, and we really wanted the baby. We tried again. And it's happening again. I know I will survive and be just fine, and that the Holy Spirit will give me just the right amount of comfort I need to keep going, but right at this moment I'm not sure how it will unfold. I'm dreading what the next few weeks will bring. I'm dreading the pain, both physical and emotional. I'm dreading the person I will be--the person who wants to stay in bed and cry, avoid responsibility, and let herself acknowledge and process this pain that is an attack on her entire being.

And at the same time, I'm crying and praying over the poor souls in Haiti, over 500 of whom have just died in the hurricane.

Earlier, I would have buried myself in books. I would be binge-reading books with lame plots, very little style, possibly a little bit of substance. I want to do that right now, but I have to go to bed like a responsible adult, because my little one now has a chronic health condition and is recovering from a crisis from earlier this week. She will need me through the night and all through the weekend. I want a shoulder to cry on, but there is none, because everyone else has their own grief, and I should be the one consoling them. Only Jesus can help me. And I don't have enough faith to think he can heal me of this in the way I want to be healed, because I don't want to heal from it--I want to not have to do it again.

Some might glory in tribulation, but I still fear it, because it exposes me to the reality of just how weak I am.

If I had been able to keep this baby, if I had been able to keep either one of them, I would have loved them so hard. Just like I love my first baby. But I don't love them now. They are just inconveniences in the form of cramps and discomfort and gushing blood and hormones, and I feel guilty because how can you really grieve over someone you never met? I happily shared my body with them, but I never met them. 

There is no envisioning this little embryo rushing up to heaven to rest from labor and care. I can't know for sure that it even ever lived, in the eternal sense. Obviously it was alive, and it might even be alive still, but did it have its own little spirit, half an inch long?

I hope the poor Haitians who survived this mess are comforted by thinking of their loved ones being safely in the arms of Jesus. It comforts me, at least. Faith doesn't mean expecting something to happen just because you believe in Jesus Christ and you want it to happen. There is no faith in events or feelings, only in Jesus and the eternity of His sacrifice. I do have enough faith to hope that whatever suffering those poor, dead souls went through, whatever suffering my ill-fated embryos went through, is going to somehow be made right.

Social Media

I've thought long and hard about what I wanted to blog about next, or whether I wanted to blog at all. Since Punkin was born, I've still been reading a lot, but not the kind of reading I used to do. And because I always had a goal of making my blog about books, or at least about reading, I think I've hit on something.

Hi, I'm (my name), and I am addicted to social media. Well, not really, but I've become a junkie. I read a lot of books about parenting, about education, about pop psychology ... but most of what I read is Facebook posts and links to things my "friends" are reading. Some of it is social commentary, a lot of it is mommy blogs or Huffpo parenting.

Here is what I have learned.

One, I should probably stop spending so much time doing this. I think in most ways it's not really good for me. It takes a lot of time away from more important things, it shortens my attention span, it focuses that shortened attention span on a lot of things that are either depressing or contentious, it exposes me to a lot of useless ignorance, and it is apt to reflect the feelings and opinions of people at their worst.

But two, it can be a good thing. I have a lot of friends on Facebook I have not seen for a very long time. So long that if we were to meet up in person, we probably wouldn't have anything to say to each other. I used to wonder why I still stayed "friends" with them, even. Because at this point, even if I "like" or comment on any of their social media activity, it would be awkward, considering all the filtering ability to only see feeds of people who are important to you—and even though we are "friends" it might seem odd that I am "following" their online activity. Is that stalkerish? I don't think so, but it borders on unhealthy and invasive curiosity ... regardless of how appropriate or inappropriate it is for them to share so much online. It's like a lot of that stuff is just expected to be ignored by anyone who isn't directly involved in the person's life anymore. That's just the impression I get.

Another reason I wonder why I stay "friends" with so many is because they express opinions on politics, religion, parenting, social behavior, and even cooking (hehe) that I outright disagree with and believe to be unhealthy and sometimes vindictive.

However, I finally decided the other day that it's probably a good thing. Haven't there been studies done about people and their idealogical tendencies being skewed by association? Most people associate with people who agree with them, they read things they agree with, and they put more emphasis on research that is going to validate their current beliefs rather than challenge them.

This is why I stay "friends" with these people. Husband says that intellectually honest people are not upset when they are wrong, they are glad to find out—and by maintaining constant contact with people who challenge your assumptions, you can continue to analyze why you have those assumptions, and you can slowly or quickly change your mind when you realize that your viewpoint has been limited.

There is certainly something to be said about repeated exposure to filth, that it has a desensitizing effect, but I mean more along the lines of personal stories from people whose experiences are radically outside of anything I have seen or done or thought of doing. People move outside my normal life of an educated office professional who works from 8 to 5 and chats around the coffee (or hot cocoa, in my case) machine with coworkers about weather, gym memberships, and the challenges of being a working parent.

I have gained a lot from reading the posts of people I disagree with—sometimes coming to the conclusion that I don't even disagree with them anymore—and while I probably will try to spend less time reading Facebook (and don't plan on getting a Twitter or Snapchat or any of those other online things), I don't think it's all been a waste.

Not Another Mormon Mommy Blog

I'm not planning on becoming another Mormon Mommy Blogger, so this post is actually about books... sort of. I've been trolling Mommy blogs lately because I want to make The Punkin a quiet book. I am told I should expect to spend 50 or 60 hours for a modest-sized one, and that supplies will cost around $40. It reminds me of a meme I saw on Facebook, "Why buy it for $10 when I can make it myself with $90 of craft supplies?!"

I'm not crafty, so I feel deficient in the motherhood department. And now that I'm a mother, I'm not really sure what I'm actually good at, considering all the juggling I do--I drop things a lot. Like the time I will never be forgiven by my sister for forgetting to buy lunch meat in my mad dash to the grocery store in the tiny window of time I had between work and dinner. And the time I literally dropped a bar of soap on The Punkin's head. Ouch.

One night The Punkin was giving me grief by refusing to settle herself to sleep, and none of my efforts at comforting her were working; she is not a cuddle-baby. All I could think was "You're ruining my life!" Then, immediately, the Spirit corrected my thoughts, and I remembered, "No--you are my life." After all, what else is there? I waited for this season for decades. I knew it would be hard. In some ways, it's not nearly as hard as I thought it would be, but in most ways it's harder.

For instance, The Punkin doesn't really care for being read to. She only likes books if she can put them in her mouth while wandering around the house ... although we are making small strides with her adorable baby version of Pride and Prejudice, a counting primer. She doesn't like to be cuddled, so I'm useless when it comes to comforting her if she is upset (fortunately, she rarely is). And I know babies and toddlers are always on the move, but she learned how to crawl at 5 months and started walking around 9 and a half. I couldn't be more proud, but it scares my socks off.

Nothing in the world scares me the way this child scares me. She is so small and so very alive. I look at her so often just to marvel that she is real.

And that is why I'm going to bite the bullet and buy that cartload of craft supplies and make that silly quiet book.