Darkness and light

You are the poem I dreamed of writing.
The masterpiece I longed to paint.
You are the shining star reached for
in my ever-hopeful quest for life fulfilled.
You are my child.
Now, with all things, I am blessed.
-- Unknown

Granted, a shopping trip can evoke various emotions (usually elation, irritation, or a combination of the two), but I don't think I have been brought to tears in the middle of a mall. Not even when I got my first designer purse at the Coach store in New Orleans, or found my beloved $225 Laundry by Shelli Segal pants on sale for $49.95 at the Nordstrom Rack. So why was I getting teary in some random store in Westlake Center called Fireworks where Collin's stroller kept crashing into awkwardly positioned racks?

It wasn't the heat, or too much caffeine, or relief that the last of the relatives had gone home, signaling the end of the wedding festivities and the beginning of the return to normalcy.

It was that poem.

The words jumped out at me from a large (and extremely overpriced) frame hanging on the wall when I was in Seattle earlier this week, and I looked for the poem online last night. The type wasn't overtly bold or large, so there had to be a reason why it grabbed my attention -- and tugged at my heartstrings.

And I think those words were meant to symbolize what this week signifies.

Two years ago this afternoon, I went to Seattle and came home with a broken heart. Our baby was gone, and I didn't know how I would get through the pain.

A year ago tonight, I cried as I wondered if I would ever get another chance to be someone's mother. To shape a life. To be whole.

And early this morning, I tiptoed down the hall after checking on my son as he slept in my husband's arms, as he has done most every night since coming into this world two months (and one day) ago.

Today, I am at peace.

I never truly knew how much I wanted this baby until I didn't think I could have him. I had always loved children, but not until my dream was shattered did I realize just how badly I wanted to be a mother.

On the eve of the two-year anniversary of my miscarriage, and not for the first time, Chris and I pondered the one question to which we will never have an answer: Would Lentil have been Collin? Or was he/she a different child altogether?

Either way, we agreed: This was God's plan. While Lentil will always be in our hearts, we were meant to be this child's parents, and he was meant to be our son. The pain, the uncertainty, the hopelessness ... it was all for a reason. And he was worth the wait.

Two years ago, there was darkness.

Today, there is light.

And it comes from Collin, our shining star.

The (high) road less taken

"I don’t believe in regrets because every moment in our lives we make choices about everything. Once you pick a road, you’re down it, and you can’t go back, so there’s no sense in regretting."
-- Teri Hatcher, 1999

I know I need to do an update on what I have been up to, and post some new pictures of Collin, but there's an issue that needs to be addressed first. Check back Friday for a more interesting post.

It seems most people are surprised by what I did over the weekend.

Hell, I'm surprised myself.

Some people already know what led up to this auspicious occasion, but since I don't want to rehash Weddingpartygate here, this is all the background that I am going to give:

1. Prior to two days before her wedding, my sister had yet to meet her nephew.

2. Prior to the night before her wedding, I was not planning to see my sister get married.

What most people don't know is what changed.

Here's the thing: I agree with that quote. It's actually one of my favorites. Everything we do, every choice we make, we have to live with the result -- and the consequences. There is no point in regretting our decisions because there's no way to undo the past.

I will openly admit that I don't regret any of the choices I have made in recent months. I wasn't such a fan of the fallout, though -- or the questions that it raised.

And after some intense soul-searching (and some counseling by my wise friends), the conclusion I came to was that I didn't want to regret not going to my sister's wedding. If I opted to go, and it ended up being a bad experience, I could just forget about it. Out of sight, out of mind -- you know, in theory. But if I didn't go, I couldn't wake up six months or a year from now and say hey, I changed my mind; save me a seat in the church. It would be over. The cake would be cut. The photos would be developed. And I wouldn't have been there for the biggest day of her life.

We may have issues, but she's still my sister.

Now, a few days later, I am glad that I took the high road, which, incidentally, led to the church -- just as I am glad that I invited her to meet Collin when the opportunity presented itself two days earlier. Things were awkward at first, but after a while, I knew I had made the right decision. The wedding itself was beautiful, and it was great to see extended family and old friends and introduce them to my son. (We even danced. Go figure.)

And I have to admit that being escorted down the aisle of the church and right to the front pew (where Chris and I were asked to sit, with my mom, aunt and uncle) was a fabulous, unspoken F you to all of the people who had been painting me as the bad guy for two months.

Ha. I win.

But largely, this isn't about winning and losing. It's about family, and about being there for the important moments.

No regrets here.