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Taking a Sad Song, Making it Better

~ Discovering joy amid pain

Taking a Sad Song, Making it Better

Category Archives: Birthdays

Thankfulness for Tiny Breaks

16 Thursday Nov 2017

Posted by purdywords in 30 Days of Thanks, 30 Days of Thanksgiving, Birthdays, Blessings, Intentional Living, Lifelong friends, New Year New You, Peace, Personal health, Perspective, Rest, Simple Living, Simplicity, Thankfulness

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#30DaysofThanks, 30 Days of Thanks, Birthdays, Gifts, Life lessons, Peace, Personal growth, Perspective, Relaxation, Rest and Rejuvenation, Simplicity, Slowing down

“Rest and be thankful.” ~ William Wordsworth

 

Three days ago, I had the pleasure of celebrating another 40-something birthday for which I am glad. My husband and children showered me with their love and attention, and I was thrilled to be surprised by a few handwritten cards in the mail from dear friends. To myself, I gave the gift of a deliberately slow week, taking my time through the most important tasks, letting the non-essentials go, moving away from the computer screen, cutting myself some slack, and indulging in some overdo self-care. I’m grateful to be more self-aware this year than I have ever been in the past, and that I honored this newfound truth on my birthday. Permission to rest may be the perfect gift one can give to thyself.  

 

Take rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop. ~ Ovid

 

The Magic of “Three”

03 Tuesday Dec 2013

Posted by purdywords in Baby Girl, Birthdays, Change, Motherhood, Mothers & Daughters

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Change, Motherhood stories, Turning Three Years Old

(blog post authored by purdywords)

There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child.  There are seven million.  ~Walt Streightiff

Baby Girl is now three years old. The days that inhabit between ages two and three are tremendous to watch, aren’t they? It’s like viewing a slow motion picture unfolding before your eyes of one joyful life lived in profound newness and exploration of the most plain, yet beautiful moments.

It’s incredible–the simple and complex changes, I mean–that occur in one short year. All of a sudden, I see marvelous, natural progress in my Baby Girl, when I didn’t quite notice the differences before her third birthday last week. Where I once saw a little girl with chubby fingers, a round face and rosy cheeks, I now look with amazement into a delicate faced version of a growing-up girl; eyes replete with wonder, a mind quick to widen with study, a dainty body wanting to stretch beyond its limits.

Her bouncy blonde hair, once a short halo of ringlets that framed her angelic baby face is now a long, flowing cascade of Rapunzel-like lockets falling just shy of the small of her back.  From her tiny rosette mouth, she once spoke short staccato words of newness and amazement. Now she speaks a lengthy flow of little girl sentences interrupted only by quick bursts of amazement or emotion, using advanced phrases confidently from the surface of a soft pink pout.

Baby Girl dances around the house playing ballerina fairy and the magical make-believe pixie dust falls around her petite shoulders like snowflakes fluttering through an imaginary winter blue sky. She’s one of those kids who wears her emotions out on her sleeve for all to see; facial expressions truth-telling of what she feels deeply on the inside. And that heart of hers? It’s pure as light and strong as diamonds.

She loves all things sparkly—she’ll ooh and ah over my wedding ring set, spend as much time trying on her bejeweled Cinderella crown, and put just as much effort into chasing rainbows on the surface of the wall in the front hallway or watching the streaming sunlight reflecting off a nearby pond. My girly girl, she is rarely seen without the color pink somewhere on her ensemble, and more than likely in the form of a ballerina’s tutu.

photo credit: purdywords

photo credit: purdywords (http://asadsongbetter.com)

Music is her guide and she will stop anywhere, anytime for the sake of a catchy beat. It’s common for Baby Girl to break out in dance, shaking her tiny tush to the beat of a drum, the strum of a guitar, the rise of a lyrical voice. Her shoulders will begin shimmying to and fro, and she’ll start to  match her own sweet voice to the song being played overhead. Later, she’ll recall the melody and verse by carrying the tunes as a secret kept inside her heart. (Some nights, I catch her singing herself to sleep.)

Ah, my Baby Girl, my delightful charmer is three years old! I can not believe how fast these few years have flown by. So fast. Too fast. All of these days–all of these lightning-fast days spent as her mother–have been one miraculous adventure after another. More than anything, I hope she continues to find unending reasons to dance, sing, and dream for all the days of her life.  That is my lifelong wish for my Baby Girl.

(blog post authored by purdywords)

Lamenting the meaning of this day

23 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by purdywords in Birthdays, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Tough days

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Due Date, Grieving, Love Letters, Miscarriage, Motherhood stories

God is closest to those with broken hearts. ~Jewish Saying

Let your tears come. Let them water your soul. ~Eileen Mayhew

Dear John Victor,

Today would have been your birthday. But, God had other plans. This has taken quite some time getting used to as I loved you from the very moment I knew I was carrying you inside. Today, on this due date that should have brought such miraculous joy, I can’t help but grieve all that has vanished in losing you. Your pregnancy was a welcomed surprise and an anniversary gift to your father and me. Your life—no matter how small or short-lived—was a blessing and a joy to us and to those with whom we shared the news.

Lately, insomnia keeps me awake and all I think about is you. Alone with my thoughts and heartbreak, I dream about how much better today would be if I was holding you instead of reliving the painful memory of miscarrying you. Sure, having you here now means that my abdomen would have to be sliced apart then sewn back together again—a horrific scene I would endure time and again just to bring you safely into this world. You would have been worth it all. I’d withstand anything—more cuts and scars, the nausea and six weeks of post-surgery healing—in order to see your angelic face, nurse you to health, sing you to sleep. I’d give anything to replace the pain in my heart brought on by your absence—a void that nothing seems to fill.

Somehow, you were made for greater things—for holiness and grace—but, I suppose, not for a life lived on earth. It’s a beautiful image, really, thinking of you dwelling in Heaven among angels and saints—as perfect as can be. Most days, it brings me comfort and peace knowing that you never had to feel or witness the pains and injustices of this world below. The not knowing you in the flesh business has me wishing at this precise moment—stemming only from my own selfish intentions that you could be here with me today— that you had the chance to know your father and co-creator, to live among your three siblings who’d love you to pieces, to be a part of our family and the life that we’re left to live without you.

in-heaven_l

However incredible it is to think that you are in Heaven along with my other four angels who went before you, I lament. Lamentations that instead of being prepped for a cesarean section surgery this morning to birth you into the world, I remain desolate and nurse the pains of an empty womb. Sadness and loss about my wounded heart surround me today. Despair lives in not knowing how to quench the thirst of this void that remains which nothing seems to satisfy since my body failed in growing you.

They say time is a great healer, and well, I’m not always so sad—not every day, at least. So, please don’t worry about me.  Your dad takes wonderful care of me and he and your siblings make life joyful and complete. You would have enhanced the joy and completion of our family life immeasurably.  

My arms feel emptier today. My heart aches a little more for all that was lost six months ago. The separation is hard now, but I know it won’t always be so. My faith tells me that there is hope in the afterlife and that one day, if I’m lucky enough, my arms won’t feel so empty, nor my heart so heavy. Until that time comes, August 23rd will always be your day.  

Thank you for opening my eyes, heart, and womb once again to such a miracle—life. This time, for a short time, yours. Sweet son of mine, I promise I will never forget you. How could I?

With love,

Your Mom

(“In Heaven” Photo credit: Daniel Pascoal / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND)

Five

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by purdywords in Birthdays, Blessings, Change, Love, Motherhood, The Boy

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Motherhood stories, Sons, Turning Five

Happy is the son whose faith in his mother remains unchallenged. ~ Louisa May Alcott

Little boy, you remind me how so much depends on days made of now.” ~ From “Little Boy” by Alison McGhee

The Boy—my baby, my Monkey, my only living boy– is turning five soon. This child, this heart of mine is joyful, kind, smart, and sensitive. His eyes are not-quite-brown– sort of hazel-like. And the goofy smile that’s so picturesquely all his own is genuine and bright. When trying on a pair of adult-sized glasses, his precious face is remnant of that little boy from the movie Jerry Maguire. After seeing that movie for the first time, I remarked that if I ever had a boy, I’d want one just like him.

Funny how dreams can come true.

My boy is quirky, gifted, thoughtful, and sweet. Bright and inquisitive beyond his near-five years, he recently asked me what color eyes I thought God had. When I answered that I thought God probably had the most beautiful eyes anyone had ever seen, he smiled sentimentally and replied, “I bet they’re like rainbows!” Sigh. “What a great answer,” I told him. “I wish I had thought of that myself!”

~

Lately, he is fighting his way between age four and five. Days go by when he doesn’t give any thought to his wooden Thomas the Train set, rather begs for computer time instead. More than I’d like to admit, I have to usher The Boy to go play outside and stay outside. But, once he’s out there, I see the magic of Mother Nature take over his senses, helping his imagination soar like it never can when a roof remains overhead.  Out there among the green grass and canopy of trees he becomes braver in the sun.

DSC_0006

He’ll sing Christmas songs the whole year through, and prefers music with a funky or soulful beat. He aspires to play the ukulele. On his own, he practices twisting himself into a pretzel and does all sorts of other yoga poses just for the fun of it. Laughter is his beacon of hope—his natural way.

This incredible boy of mine can hardly wait until soccer starts in the fall. Thinking about his new team and playing again, he’ll show us all the tricks he learned with the soccer ball last year. Putt-putt golfing is a favorite pastime and he pathetically laments, “Oh, I wish I was golfing!” whenever we pass our local driving range. He will run and run and run and tell us that when he is older, he’ll run 100 miles, too–just like his dad, the marathoner.

A natural-born sharer and pleaser, he almost never picks a fight. He likes peace and harmony, laughter and hugs. Sounds can be too loud for his sensitive ears. When toys, books, and games are out of order—or his older sister’s room is a wreck–it upsets him to no end. When I interrupt his Lego play with, “Monkey, it’s time for lunch.” He always needs a few more minutes—not necessarily to finish building– but in order to put his Legos away in a deliberate, appropriate manner. This is my boy. He likes to think, organize, and smile.

~

Five is a milestone. Five means The Boy is no longer a little person, but now in the collective world of “the bigger kids.” It means being asked, “Mom, can I ride my bike in the street with the bigger kids?”

Five means he’ll be able to attend our town’s Legos Bricks 4 Kidz event with his older sister one Friday night a month. Five means he rides a real bike and we will all go on a family bike ride together—for miles and miles without complaint. Five is a big deal.

Five is the ability to complete and understand first-grade-level work—already—and figuring out new things on his own. Five means that once school starts, he’ll no longer eat lunch at home with me and his baby sister, but in a cafeteria with his new classmates and teachers—unpacking his lunchbox on his own and finding someone to sit with each day. Five means he’ll start to lean on his friends now–more than on me. Five means his friends will start to be smarter than his silly old Mom.

Five means, “Mom, please don’t call me ‘Monkey’ in front of my friends.” Five means he is fighting me on clothing choices for Sunday Mass and has his first real opinions on what he likes and dislikes. Five means, “I can do it myself, Mom.” Five means I let him try to fail more on his own–give him the chance to try again and again without interfering with his process.

Five means there is a distance stringing between us and I’m holding on–firmly, desperately– to my end of the grip.

Five means he is becoming fearless more and fearsome less. Five means that last month on vacation he willingly sat atop a paddle board for the first time while his father and he rode together far out on Lake Michigan–way beyond the lighthouses. Five means he was peaceful on the calm Great Lake while I was a nervous wreck watching from the beach miles away. Five means he can’t wait to be out on the water once again, to get his own paddle board, a green kayak, or canoe.

Five is a threshold between his being a little boy and my watching him grow into a younger version of what he’ll be as a man.

Five means he falls asleep on his own at night after stories and prayers. Five means he wakes up in the morning and now forgets to hug me because he’s too busy playing under his bunk bed with dinosaurs, reading books to himself, or listening to his iPod shuffle. Five means the days we had together—just he and I–seem so far away and what remains are moments that feel ever so precious.

These days, I look intently on this child of mine and linger alongside the sweet sense of him. What I now see is a new boy emerging from where I once saw a baby’s face. (Wasn’t it just yesterday he slept soundly in my arms?) Afraid that if I don’t slow down long enough to catch more sideways glances of this endearing human being, I’ll miss all the distance that remains between his morphing from boy to man. I never knew such a tiny creature could fill me with such joy and break my heart all at once. I’ll continue to try not to take it all for granted.

~

Last night, after we had shared a story (that he insisted he could read on his own by sounding out all the words by himself), he allowed me to lead the prayers. And as his deep, hazel-like eyes blinked in a slow, sleepy motion—a telltale sign that he was close to sleep—this sweet boy of mine grabbed my hand in his and said, “I love you so much, Mommy.” As I blessed his forehead and laid a kiss upon his left cheek, he would not let go of my hand, so I stayed a little while longer just to be with him because he needed me to. And who am I kidding? My heart needed to stay, as well.

Who knows how much longer he’ll care if I put him to bed or not? Who knows how much longer he’ll want to share silly stories and songs together? Who knows how much longer it will be before he no longer misses me while at school all day long? Who knows? All I know is that this one—this only boy of mine—has captured my heart in a tremendous, profound way. No matter what, he’ll always be my baby boy, my Monkey–mine.

  • purdywords
    • 30 Days of Thanks, November 2020
    • How to Give Without Giving Yourself Away
    • Raising Awareness About Miscarriage & Pregnancy Loss

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