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Welp, I've had a thoroughly cathartic past few weeks. I did a lot of "coming clean," and not just with the blog. I also decided it was time to open up about my miscarriage. To me, that felt a whole lot like strapping myself into a rickety zipline and hurling myself through the jungle whilst praying the thing doesn't snap just to spite me:  Surprisingly, and maybe unsurprisingly, nothing snapped. There were no burning bridges, no one brushed my broken heart aside, and there was no indignation that I'd waited so long to say something. I don't know what I was expecting, but none of the above happened. Instead, things felt like they'd fallen into place. In addition to being the month of the Rosary and Sensory Awareness, October is also Respect Life Month. October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and whereas last year I spent the day in passive solidarity with others who have borne this cross, I wanted to become an active participant, encouraging others to share their stories and raise awareness amongst my circle of friends.
(Click any of the above images for more information.) Personally, I know of at least five other women my age who have suffered miscarriage. Two of them do not speak of the miscarriage at all, one has a supportive husband who enables her to vent in short bursts, and the other two haven't even felt comfortable sharing their miscarriages with their significant others - the fathers of those little saints. I've tried to encourage through personal contact, but I have done a terrible job of leading by example. How can I suggest opening up to others when I find the task so incredibly difficult? Thus, I embarked on the task of opening up about Myla to my two SILs.  To this point, I had only ever told my MIL what had happened. I didn't know if she'd mentioned it to anyone else. I asked, and she said she'd only told Danielle. Thus, first up on the docket was Danielle, the pretty blonde you see to the right. She's my age and has a little girl, herself (the gorgeous and ever lovable niece you've seen me post about before). Since she already had some idea of my miscarriage, I messaged her through Facebook (since we were having an ongoing discussion there anyway). I apologized for not coming to her - in person - to tell her, myself, sooner. I then asked if she'd told Nikki (the pretty redhead to the left) so I could do so if she hadn't. The entire time I was writing my message to Dani, I was shaking. I couldn't word anything correctly and finally gave up trying. I clicked "send" and just said a prayer asking the Holy Spirit to get my point across for me since I was too emotionally incoherent. That worked out well because she responded with support. She had not told Nikki (which surprised the crackers outta me). Thus, I knew I'd have to bite the bullet and do it myself. That's how poor Nicole became the first person I explained things to face-to-face. That's right, folks. I'd somehow managed to go more than a year without having this conversation with anyone without the aid of a computer. Sure, I mentioned the miscarriage briefly to my MIL and a very tiny number of friends, but I'd never had the full conversation with anyone - BY DESIGN. I never wanted to have this conversation with anyone. To be honest, I didn't think it was possible. How was I supposed to have a conversation when I could barely breathe, let alone speak, when it comes to Myla? I stumbled over myself as I made last minute plans to talk to Nikki before I changed my mind. Fear is crippling, and though I wasn't afraid of her treating me poorly, I was terribly afraid of showing such vulnerability. Tears? Incoherent strings of babble? A very plausible moment of pushing things onto the floor in outright frustration? None of those options are particularly appealing to me, but if I wanted to help other women, I'd have to start by helping myself. So, shaking like a rusty old washer chewing through your favorite comforter, I walked into her office and promptly realized I had no idea how to actually begin the conversation. Heck, she wasn't even sure why I'd asked to meet her, so I can only imagine what she must've thought when I started choking on sounds that refused to form words. I'm still frustrated with myself for that. Annoyed at myself, I just came out with it. To her credit, she didn't bat an eye. She steadied herself on both feet and crossed her arms as if bracing for impact. I think she knew I needed to get through this, so she patiently waited until I'd gotten it out. When I had, she walked around the desk and hugged me. She is her mother, that one. She didn't have two seconds to process things, herself, but she made the move towards me just the same. Again, it's moments like this that I know I married up. You don't just marry a man - you marry his family. It's one of the reasons I knew John was for me... I fell in love with them right alongside him. Anyway, after trying to make sure I'd given her all the pertinent info, I realized that I'd done it - I'd come clean! That was a liberating thing, because I knew I could then take that back to those friends of mine struggling to find their voice. And I was finally honest with the people I care about. There's only one person left who should know if he doesn't already - my FIL. In all honesty, I don't know that I'm able to say anything to him. Of all the people I feel I'm disappointing most by not having more children, he and my mom top the list. Telling him that he'd had another chance at a grandchild seems cruel, especially with all the loss the poor guy has experienced this past year. But one step at a time. For now, I've inched forward Neil Armstrong style. And it feels pretty darn good. I encourage those of you who struggle with miscarriage to voice your feelings. It's a terrible burden to carry alone, and there are people out there who love you enough to WANT to carry it alongside you. I speak from experience now. :) Plus, don't our children deserve to be made known?
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 My mother-in-law threw me a lifeline this weekend.
We were sitting around the dinner table with our neighbor and friend, Daisy. She's got two little girls, and she was joking about how she'd never be able to mother boys. My MIL joined in to say that boys and girls are both blessings. She pointed out how lucky she'd been having two girls in addition to her son (and my husband), John. The conversation then turned towards the difficulty of having multiple children due to rising costs of childcare. Daisy voiced her appreciation for her 2nd daughter, a surprise conception, while my MIL voiced appreciation for her grandkids. She was glad to have had one of each (my neice, Alliya, and my son, Vince). I knew Daisy was itching to ask me if I ever want a little girl to "balance things out." It's a question that's been posed to me on numerous occasions. "Are you gonna try for a girl?" "When are you gonna make Vincent a big brother?" I was bracing for it. Daisy's eyes locked onto mine and I tried to steady myself by focusing all my energy into spinning one of Vincent's plastic toys over and over again in my hand. Luckily, my MIL realized where the conversation was going and threw a lifeline my way once she realized precisely how precarious my position was. She said, "Children are a blessing no matter what. Boy, girl, three, two or one, they're all blessings, right?" Daisy promptly turned her attention to my MIL to agree. My MIL then deftly offered Daisy some wine as I ran to "check on the kids." I was quietly grateful. I knew my MIL realized - with nary a second to spare - that I was about to be exposed in a very uncomfortable, hurtful way. Daisy would never intend to hurt me, mind you; I don't think anyone is really that malicious. These questions just have a tendency to spring forth naturally in conversations between women. I don't take offense to them. I know some folks get upset at others asking such "personal" questions, but I don't think they're personal. I don't think they stem from a person's desire to snoop. I think people who ask those questions are just excited about the prospect of children being brought forth; I can't fault them for that! I felt such gratitude in that moment, though, because my MIL recognized an unspoken need and immediately moved in to diffuse the situation - to protect me from unnecessary awkwardness. She didn't have to be so thoughtful, but she was. That never would have happened had I not finally broken down and told her about Myla. Just an interesting turn of events that again made me appreciative of the family I married into. :) Vincent and I spent the weekend down the shore with family and friends. Usually we hang out as a group on the beach, but due to the rain, our neighbors ended up coming over to our house and my in-laws hosted an impromptu barbecue. It was a blast. Our neighbors, Pete and Daisy, have two little girls named Jasmine and Lily. Jasmine is Alliya's age, so the two of them are best buddies. Lily is only two, so she and Vincent are a little pair. The four of them play well together, too, but they definitely tend to break up into two distinct groups. Anyhow, when my FIL brought Jasmine over in the morning to give Pete and Daisy a break, Vincent was angry that Lily hadn't come, too. He didn't understand why she needed to nap when she should've been having fun with him. Later, when Pete showed up (also without Lily), Vincent didn't even bother greeting him. He demanded to know why he dared to come over without bringing his "best friend in the whole wide world." Finally, Lily woke up from her nap and Daisy brought her over to join the rest of us. Vincent was in his glories. He jumped off the couch, rushed over to her and gave her a giant hug. "LILY!" he cried. "We gotta play!" This is what the two of them look like for the rest of the time they're together: Vincent leading her by the hand everywhere, checking to make sure she's got everything she needs (or does everything she's supposed to do before she gets a snack - ha). They also both tend to scramble if you try to sneak a picture of them being cute together. Rascals. Later on in the day, Lily settled into my FIL's lap. She calls him "Uncle John" and she knows she's got him wrapped around her adorable little finger! Anyway, it was so sweet to see how they were interacting together. I snapped this picture of her giving me a toothy grin: 
Vince is right behind her with his back turned, but Lord, that kid won't let Lily out of his sight for very long. It's so cute!
I admit, however, that I got a bit wallow-y when I wondered what it'd be like for Myla to be sitting in his lap. Vince is such a good big brother to Lily (and his other little cousins), I feel sad that he didn't get the chance to interact with Myla the same way. I pushed those thoughts out of my mind until later that evening when we took the kids out for ice cream. Again Lily was sitting on my FIL's lap while I had Jasmine, Alliya and Vince huddled up in front of me. Lily was successfully convincing my FIL to hand over all of his ice cream to her, and he was happily obliging, looking like the proudest, happiest person in the universe. It made me sad to think that we'd never provide him with the grandchildren he takes such delight in. I felt guilty... like I'd failed something on an intrinsic level. He wasn't doing anything to accuse me or even make me feel badly. He likely didn't even notice I was there watching him enjoy Lily's manipulations for ice cream. It was my own brokenness projected and magnified by my intense longing for not only Myla, but all the children I've envisioned and subsequently been denied. I understood that, but it didn't lessen my feelings of inadequacy, failure and sadness. I didn't want to further my upset, so I turned away and imagined myself making a fist and physically punching back the knot in my throat until I could breathe without crying. *Sigh* Sorry if I sound miserable or depressed. I'm not. I'm certainly sad now and again when this sort of situation arises, but I'm trying to be honest with how this sort of thing affects my daily life. Myla is always in my thoughts, so my imagination sometimes puts her into situations like this. Is it logical? Probably not. Then again, I think it's human to always wonder "What if?" In this situation, it's obviously a moot point, but I guess we're so used to exercising our God-given gift of creativity that we can't help ourselves sometimes. Losing a child (or even the opportunity for children) is a terrible cross. It's hard for folks who haven't been in this situation to understand how all-encompassing it is. I don't write these things to remind people of my struggle, but I do write to remind folks that this struggle is real and it's daily (not just for me, but for the many, MANY other men and women who struggle with this sort of cross). Tread softly and with much, much compassion, because even when we're trying our best to look past our sorrow to count our blessings, we can't help but hear echos of our indignant humanity insisting "What if?"  So I’d like to take a quick moment to thank those of you who messaged, commented and e-mailed regarding the situation between my father and myself. As many of you have noticed, I removed the entry detailing the situation. That being said, there have been so many of you who reached out with similar stories and concern that I wanted to allay confusion and answer folks all at once instead of responding on repeat via message/email/comment.
You don’t have to play the game forever. Believe it or not, the person most in control is the person who no longer wants to play. From the sounds of it, that power belongs to a lot of you out there. So many of you have written in to sound off, and I wish to remind you of this. YOU have the power to end it. YOU have the power to say “Enough” and demand better for your family and your children. I’ll admit that my son was my catalyst. I foolishly thought I could shield him from The Game. I assumed it couldn’t touch him because he was too young to understand. Vincent’s single, tiny question took a sledgehammer to my blissful ignorance and I saw the awful truth for what it was – we cannot protect our children from such pervasive, tacitly accepted dysfunction. Inevitably, they pick up on the inflections, the whispered mockery and the practiced eye rolls; they hone their situational awareness on barbed comments, stony silence and seething disdain. I did not want that for my son. I know many of you want better for your children as well. It seems none of us are sure how to break the cycle. Some of you have cut off family ties altogether. Some of you have continued playing The Game hoping the injuries sustained will eventually heal. Still others of you have confronted the issue only to be turned away and ostracized for your refusal to participate. How my heart breaks for you and your families. I understand the tightrope you walk. On the one hand, you want to protect your children and on the other, you want to keep familial relationships alive and well. It’s so hard, though, when you're scorned for rocking the boat. *Sigh* I wish I had some good advice to give you. Unfortunately, I haven’t stumbled upon a good way to handle this myself. Every time I try to sit down and attempt getting my thoughts in order, I’m overcome with anger and a sense of hopelessness. How can I even begin to fix something so irreparably damaged? The answer is that I can’t. I know that I can’t, and I think that’s what prevents me from trying. Sadly, I think that’s the same rut my father got stuck in decades ago when he realized just how badly he messed up. Why bother attempting to fix the puzzle when the shards of glass turned to dust long ago under such strain? Again… *sigh* I know I need to do something. Though it’d be relatively easy to cut him out of our lives, I know that’s not the right response. My father and I are both broken people. For me to cast him aside would be both unfair and hypocritical. It would certainly be a lot easier, but you and I both know that’s not the Christian way.  Besides, I guess it's not my job to fix him or this situation. It's not up to you guys, either. God doesn't expect us to fix things like this. What He asks is that we be open to allowing Him to fix things.
Thus, I realize I need to reach out to my dad so God has something to work with, ya know? While He's easily able to work miracles without human intervention, He likes to work with us. He could've healed the paralytic man without his buddies going through the trouble of getting him onto a roof and dropping him through it, but God allowed them to come halfway so He could take their effort and magnify that offering of faith down through the ages. I think I’m going to carve out time this week to go off by myself, grab some paper, and physically write out a response. I don’t think I’m able to have a face-to-face conversation yet; I’m too bitter. In a letter, I can edit and re-edit, softening language and sacrificing vitriol for clarity. When face-to-face, I tend to spit fire with the sole purpose of seeking mass devastation. Situations like this bring forth a fight-or-flight response in me, and I’ve never been one to flee. Thus, writing a letter is how I’ll begin this journey. Prayers would be appreciated as I attempt to pull one together. Please know of mine for all of you who struggle with similar situations. May we be given wisdom, clarity and a pervasive sentiment of charity. 
My SIL just posted this photo of Alliya and I. As soon as I saw it, I recognized the setting. This was taken as John, Vince and I were leaving our cousin's wedding. I sought out Alliya and knelt down to give her a big hug. I wanted to thank her for giving me the rose out on the dance floor. I'm so glad my FIL caught this moment because to me, it conveys so much more than Aunt Gina smiling at Alliya. It's me - on my knees with gratitude - beaming up at my source of Divine Providence and Consolation... my hands around her waist and her hands on my shoulders.
I love that she's in Blessed Mother blue to boot. :)  This is my favorite image of my grandparents. Every time I look at it, I feel love. It radiates from this picture. These are my maternal grandparents. My mom was lucky enough to have them for parents. I was doubly lucky because I got 'em as grandparents. Grandpop was the quintessential "sweet old man." He doted on his grandchildren and was always very patient, kind and loving. He always watched either baseball or Westerns, and though quiet, could light up the room with his laughter. My Grandmother was his polar opposite. Loud, unabashed, opinionated and direct, she might not have been as patient, but she was just as loving. Growing up, Grandmom was my favorite person in the whole world. I loved hearing her voice. I loved smelling her vanilla perfume. I loved her laughter and the way her skin felt. One time, she laughed at how mesmerized I was by her skin. She thought it was because of her wrinkles. In truth, her skin was so silky that I was trying to decide if she was wearing some sort of super thin silk. (Give me a break - I was a kid!) I also paid very close attention to her earrings. Grandmom must've had a hundred of them. She was big into costume jewelry, but I was only fascinated by her earrings. She knew it, too, so she'd always let me look at and touch them if I was super excited. God, how much I loved her. How much I still love her! I was thinking about her today. I always told her that when I "grew up" I wanted to be just like her. She'd laugh and say, "What? An old lady?" What I meant was I wanted to have her spirit. I wanted to have the same sort of spark she did. I wanted to be a person who knew herself and didn't apologize for it. I wanted to love fiercely and fully, and I wanted to keep a stash of change in the cupboard to dole out to my grandkids "just because." So I was wondering if I was like her. After all, I'd always envisioned myself fashioned after her. Her answer hit me all at once.  When I was about this old (fifth grade-ish), I was full swing into Middle Child Syndrome. I had it all worked out. I knew exactly who my mom favored amongst the kids and why we were "loved" in the order I had placed us in. As the resident "bad seed" I was constantly getting into trouble for... well... getting into trouble. As a result, I planned to run away (like every other kid in the universe). However, unlike other kids, I was organized enough to make maps, lists of necessities, and an escape route so no one would know I was missing for an optimal amount of time. I figured my family didn't want me around anyway, so I would run away and start a life on my own. Ah... gotta love the blind faith in myself. So I ran away and was gone for about 30-40 minutes before anyone realized I was missing. Gave my family a scare. I walked for over an hour to my best friend's house. God was good, because He made sure she and her mother were driving off their street as I passed by (having missed the turn). My friend, Mary, rolled down the window and yelled, "Gina? Is that you?" I trotted over to the car with a half-assed smile on my face. When her mom asked me why I was walking around - in the rain - by myself, the half-assed smile was quickly replaced with tears. She had me get into the car, and together, the three of us went to her Nanny's house where my mom was promptly telephoned. Mary and I stayed in Nanny's basement awaiting news of my fate. I knew I was in BIG trouble, and I was finally starting to realize that maybe running away wasn't such a brilliant idea after all. Fast forward to the next weekend. I don't remember why, but Grandmom and Grandpop had come over to our house. Grandmom pulled me aside (like EVERYONE had done the previous week) to reprimand me for running away. However, Grandmom didn't reprimand me. She just said, "Why did you do that?" I responded that it was because my mom didn't love me as much as she did everyone else and that I thought she hated me sometimes. Grandmom didn't get annoyed with me, roll her eyes or poo-poo my childish insecurities. Everyone else did. Everyone else fed me the same "A mother loves all her children equally" line that I'm sure all of you have heard a billion times. I hated that line. I knew it wasn't true, and Grandmom, to my relief, knew it, too. She said, "Gina, your mother loves you. But it's true. Sometimes mothers do love some kids more than the others for different reasons."  I was actually stunned into speechlessness. Grandmom UNDERSTOOD! She even AGREED with me!
However, the realization that I was right... that not only were mothers capable of loving one child over another but that my very own mother likely loved everyone else more than me... it hurt! It was like a confirmation of my worst fears. That being said, it also felt incredible good. My fear was validated and my feelings were soothed. Grandmom didn't make any excuses and didn't give me reasons for why mothers loved some kids more than others. She didn't need to. She was honest, and in that moment, it was exactly what I needed. I needed to feel validated; I needed to feel heard. I needed to know that there was someone else who understood exactly why I did what I did. Grandmom was that person. In that moment, I felt empowered by her honesty. It seems silly - insignificant even - but to me, it was everything. And even though I felt incredibly hurt, I recognized the healing power of her blunt honesty. Grandmom said it so matter-of-factly that it was almost a challenge: "So what if your mom loves one of your siblings over you? Does that alter the fact that you're loved? Does that change the fact that she bends over backwards and sacrifices just as much for you as she does for them? Does the lessening of favor somehow give you the right to whine and excuse your own bad behavior?" Grandmom didn't say any of those things, mind you. None of them. However, the tone of her voice when she spoke to me said all of this and more. It was more than any reprimand could have done; it completely changed my entire paradigm. Why was I fighting for some intangible emotion that could so easily sway? Why was I blaming my own unhappiness on my mother who, in all honesty, was only responsible for my joy? I felt so incredibly, incredibly stupid. I really did. Why do I bring this up? Because I realized that in that moment, Grandmom taught me about the part of her spirit that I most wanted to emulate. Honesty and dedication to the truth, even if that truth makes you uncomfortable and even if it makes the person you're sharing it with uncomfortable. The discomfort is a worthwhile price for honesty - the price for truth. If folks know me for anything, it's for my blunt honesty. I try never to be rude, mean or uncharitable, but I don't apologize for speaking the truth, even when others feel uncomfortable or threatened by it. Personal life, personal relationships, business dealings and yes, Catholicism. Honesty really is the best policy in my book. I realized this was because of Grandmom. That tiny snippet of my 5th grade life set the tone for all future conversations. I didn't realize that until today as I prayed to her for Mother's Day. "Grandmom, I always said I wanted to be just like you when I grew up. Here I am. I wonder if you'd be proud of me." Instantly I was transported back to that moment, and I realized that I'd most certainly followed in her footsteps. I value truth and honesty, which is probably why I found myself coming back to the Church. Methinks she'd give me a passing grade. Love you Grandmom. Give Myla lots of kisses for me. She's so lucky to be spending eternity with you already. <3  On April 29th, Philadelphia came together to honor my husband's uncle, Wild Bill Guarnere. The Kimmel Center graciously hosted us. Several hundred people showed up to honor his memory with many being veterans, themselves. Vince Papale was the emcee for the event. He didn't really know Uncle Billy well, so he asked my husband to write something for him to say as an intro for the event. John was terribly anxious about it. I understood. I mean, he's spent his entire life loving and respecting Uncle Billy for so many things - how was he supposed to sum up his reverence for his iconic uncle for a brief blurb given by a guy he had no affinity for? So he asked for my help, and I gladly went to work. I took John's great (if jumbled) ideas and created the opening message delivered by Papale. It was an odd feeling hearing my words spoken from the stage of the Kimmel Center. I was grateful that I could've played even a tiny role in paying honor to this man's life and legacy. After the intros, we got a special treat (arranged by our family friend and work associate, Mike D). The Quaker City String Band came out and played a set in honor of Uncle Billy. Being from South Philly, Uncle Billy loved the string bands, especially when they were out in full costume for the Mummers Day Parade. Sweet Lord how the Guarnere family loves their Mummers Strut! Anyway, they came out and played for us and the most adorable thing happened. After they played their opening tribute, they closed out with the Mummers March, complete with one of the band members doing the strut with a parasol. Don't ya know, Aunt Barbara (God bless her hilarious self) got up and began dancing the Mummers Strut in the middle of the aisle!!! I turned around and caught the scene with my phone as the guy onstage caught on and came down to dance with her. It made me laugh, and Lord knows everyone else was caught up in that momentary spot of joy. Here's the video. You might have to turn your speakers up to hear it: It was glorious. I'm not one for the Mummers (mostly because I find parades to be incredibly cold, long and boring), but I can't help but delight in how much joy the Guarnere side of my family gets out of the tradition. Somehow, at every family event, someone busts out the Mummers Strut and everyone - I mean EVERYONE - hits the floor strutting. Ha ha ha! After the string band, Dom Giordano came out to give a personal tribute. I was blown away by his speech. He'd interviewed Uncle Billy several times and spoke of how the entire city came together when a bureaucratic nightmare threatened to remove the handicap parking sign in front of his house. Within minutes, several hundred people had been amassed to hammer the sign back in place themselves. However, word quickly traveled to city council and new legislation was passed regarding handicap parking for veterans. Even at 90 years old, Uncle Billy was STILL effecting positive change for the veterans he cared so much about in the city he loved so dearly. What a tribute! He then said that there are plans in the works to erect a statue in his honor overlooking S. Philadelphia where we can all see and feel his protective presence. That solicited a standing ovation. What love this city has for him! What comfort that is to my family. That being said, I think most of us would rather see such money raised used for wounded troops (as Uncle Billy, himself, often donated his money) instead of a statue, but such a thoughtful gesture is incredibly touching. From there, Councilman David Oh and two of his colleagues presented our family with a City Council Resolution honoring Uncle Billy's life and legacy. Hearing them read that resolution was pretty amazing. From there, we heard tributes from other folks who knew and loved Uncle Billy: Dale Dye, a highly decorated Vietnam vet who personally worked with Uncle Billy during the production of Band of Brothers, Justice Seamus P. McCaffery of the state of Pennsylvania, and letters from Admiral Joe Sestak and Tom Hanks, executive producer for Band of Brothers. Between these presentations were video clips from others who wanted to send their well wishes but were unable to be present. It was a truly moving set of tributes. The thing that kept bringing me to tears was the notion of heroism. Speakers, time after time, mentioned that for Uncle Billy, heroism was only earned by laying your life down for your country. He didn't consider himself a hero. He considered all those fallen brothers left behind heroes. The rest of his life was spent honoring their memory and reminding others just how important their sacrifices were. Not his; never his. His beloved vets, though... he shepherded them time and again through legislative challenges, hospital stays, reunions and personal tragedy. He was their champion, and they loved him for it. What an absolute honor it was to be beside them last night. Seeing them come out to hold flags, share "Wild Bill stories" or even just supporting his family as Uncle Billy so many times had supported theirs... these brave men and women were honored again by Uncle Billy's legacy. Even if death Uncle Billy managed to turn the spotlight away from himself and onto others. God bless him. God bless all our servicemen and women (active and retired). At the end of the night, a final tribute was paid by my faither-in-law. His tribute was incredible. I only captured a clip of it here, but I'm glad I caught what I did: Again, you might have to raise your volume a bit (after the applause). The sentiments were spot on, but what amused me was how much he reflected Uncle Billy in his mannerisms. He was feeding off the energy in the room and growing bigger and more charismatic as he went. He was jostling himself back and forth, becoming super animated. He was shuffling his head up and down for emphasis, and I turned to John at one point and said, "My God, he's just like Uncle Billy!"
When we got into the car that night, I said, "John, I caught video of your dad's speech, and it was great. All the things he was praising Uncle Billy for he's totally got going for himself. I dunno if he even realizes that!" He probably doesn't. For as much of a character as Uncle Billy was with his humor, charism and charm, he was also deeply humble. To a certain extent, it seems like my FIL picked up that trait alongside the more flamboyant ones. *Grin* Ah well. The entire memorial was well done. It was a fitting tribute for someone so iconic. I'm so glad I was blessed to attend. I'm so proud to be part of this family that has given of itself so much. We'd all do well to follow Uncle Billy's example. He was a great man. May we all strive after such selfless, humble heroism.  My MIL and Vince My MIL made a surprise visit to our house during lunch last week. Vince had been sick, so I was home taking care of him. She had just flown back in from Florida, and she couldn't wait to see Vincent (whom she hadn't seen in a few weeks).
It was a really nice surprise. Vincent was incredulous. It was the cutest thing to watch him hug her in awe because he thought she was still "on the airplane." That's what he considers Florida, I guess... an endless string of being on an airplane. Ha ha! Anyway, while she was over, we got to talking about the anniversary party I had tentatively tried to put together. I had briefly discussed via FB messaging why John and I wanted to do one, but when she asked me what spurred on a 7 year party, I felt like it was time to come clean. I wasn't sure how to start the conversation at first. I felt awkward and embarrassed, but I wanted to be honest with her. I mean, how the heck do you start that conversation? So I just came out with it. I told her we had gotten pregnant but miscarried over Alliya's birthday weekend. She was surprised and didn't quite know what to say, either. I kept wanting to say Myla's name, but I couldn't bring myself to taste the words in my mouth. It was hard enough explaining what had happened... I was afraid that saying her name aloud would be too much, so I kept that to myself. I did, however, refer to her with the feminine pronoun, and I know my MIL caught that. *Sigh* Now that she knows, I feel like everyone who "should" know does know. John, my mom, his mom, my two closest friends, my one sister, and likely John's dad through my MIL. I think she understands now why I tried to do this when (and as quickly as) I did. I admitted I was trying to force some happy into an otherwise miserable span of time, and I would rather focus on something entirely separate to celebrate rather than mourn. As I said in plenty of previous entries, I love my MIL. She's a genuinely nice person and loves me as her own daughter. She's always gone out of her way to make me feel welcome in the family, and I appreciate that more than she realizes. And now she knows that Myla is waiting up in Heaven for her one day, too.  John and I pretending to be annoyed by Faith. John and I have been through a lot the last few years. A whole lot:
So these, among other random bits, have caused us to grow, change, and love more deeply. Looking back at this journey has made me so incredibly appreciative of the marriage I have and the friends and family who have supported us these last ten years.
As a result, I want to throw a special party this year. It's only our 7th year as a married couple, but it's our 10th together as a couple. I want to throw a fire hall banquet, invite all those who have supported us through love, prayer and example and celebrate the blessings they've all been to John and I. I want this to serve as both a THANK YOU to our family and friends for being so supportive over the years, and as a "Marriage is Worth It!" witness. So many of those in our group of friends are incredibly jaded about the institution of marriage. They are vehemently against marriage on the grounds that it's an archaic, pointless practice that only ends in divorce, they are indifferent, or they look at marriage as something they can't do until they've amassed enough golden eggs (whether that be money, a house, career satisfaction, etc). Very few of our friends look at marriage as a sacrament of power, love and beauty. That makes me sad. It really does. So while I want to thank everyone for their support of us, I also want to show our friends that marriage IS something worth investing in. And once you are married, it's worth fighting for. It's a constant choice to love one another, every day. The honeymoon fades and the cutesy names will sometimes turn sour. However, with support and love, a married couple can weather the natural dips in romance and find a deeper, truer connection than they started out with. When I asked John if he'd be OK with this, he was, but thought the idea of "throwing ourselves a party" was tacky. He said he'd feel like an idiot explaining to people the purpose of the celebration. I can understand his hesitation. I mean, who the heck throws a 7th anniversary party? To me, though, it's perfect timing. Usually the 7th year is associated with the "7 Year Itch" in which couples are often teased about the eventuality of affairs stemming from the stagnation of marital relations. For us, this 7th year - though incredibly emotional - has been anything but stagnant. John and I love one another better now than we ever have. And I say "better" because we both make the conscious decision to be better spouses to each other. So I do want to celebrate that, especially given the fact that we have the added bonus of me being cancer-free (assuming the annual test comes back clear which I'm sure it will). We've got a lot to be thankful for, and I feel my gratitude overflowing. As such, I want to use it to thank others and share those blessings we've received with others. Is a party a bad idea? Do you think maybe I should rethink how I go about doing this? I'm not looking for gifts or anything. I don't want anything from anyone. I want to do this FOR everyone. Our anniversary just happens to provide a perfect backdrop. Thoughts?  Today was Nanny's funeral. She passed away last week surrounded by her children. God is good in that He allowed her to let go while holding the hands of those who loved her so much. She is at peace. Throughout my vigils while she was in the hospital or in hospice care, I would pray with her. I'd say, "Nanny, offer up everything as Purgatory on earth. This way, when you see Jesus come for you, you can fly right to Him. You fly RIGHT TO HIM." She opened her eyes at one point and I knew that she understood. As the priest said today at her funeral, Nanny's path to Heaven was well-worn with prayer. She knew Jesus and no doubt offered up her last moments in union with Him. I really believe she went straight to Heaven as a result. The funeral was held at St. Edmond's again - just like Uncle Billy's. Nanny, too, was lucky to have her final Mass said in such a beautiful church. I was asked to do the 2nd Reading and General Intercessions. You folks know I don't like going into the sanctuary for any reason (so I gave up duties as a lector), but I didn't want to turn down my mother-in-law when she asked. I willingly offered myself for any and all roles they wanted me to handle. One less thing on their plate to worry about... The reading was fine. The funeral intercessions always give me a tough time because they focus heavily on the grieving family. I had to read them at my own Grandmom's funeral, and I remember faltering over words because I was trying to contain my tears. Today, I fought the same battle, especially when I read the intercession to pray for those who passed before Nanny and who welcomed her into Heaven. I thought of Myla, and I knew Nanny had gotten to meet her. As I made my way back to my seat, I asked Nanny to hold her and kiss her for me. Nanny responded by sending me a tiny white carnation at Communion. After I received the Eucharist, I turned to walk back to my seat when I saw this small white flower on the sanctuary floor. I knew it was mine. It was as if I recognized my wallet or saw my purse hanging off the back of a chair. Instantly I stooped down - without thinking - to pick up my flower. As soon as I held it, I realized it was from Nanny. I believe it was her way of letting me know she'd heard my prayer. She sent me my favorite flower - a carnation - in pure white, a sign of innocence. And given how tiny it was, I knew it was for Myla. I must've thanked God for this favor a million times. I was so appreciative of this gesture of love. I was holding John's hand, so I slipped the tiny bud between our intertwined fingers. This is what it looked like:  See how tiny it is in comparison to our hands? This tiny bloom of life briefly held, again, between the two of us. It was just very, very special to me.
God is so good to us, and for no other reason than love. <3 Rest in peace, Nanny. We love you.
Joseph of Egypt and St. Joseph[Joseph of Egypt] was the prototype of our Joseph. As [Joseph of Egypt] had been loved more than all the other children by his father, so our Joseph was loved by God the Father more than any other male creature, since He had predestined him to be the father of His Incarnate Word and the spouse of the Mother of the Son of God. Joseph of Egypt was invested by his father in a costly garment; our Joseph was adorned by the Heavenly Father with sanctifying grace... St. Joseph as Protector of the travelling Holy FamilyOh how sad and disconsolate Joseph would become, because of Jesus and Mary! He would attempt to arrange his cloak as a roof over their heads. The Saint managed to do this with such love and skillfulness, that it seemed to Them, They were actually in a tiny hut. St. Joseph Called "Father" by Jesus for the 1st TimeUpon seeing Joseph, He called out to him: "Father!" and then flung Himself into his arms and caressed him with His tiny hands.  These are my in-laws. I love them both. Ridiculous amounts. I always have. I've always respected their love for each other and their family. I've learned a lot about marriage just from watching them interact. I've learned a lot about John that way, too, let me tell ya. He's got so many traits that he shares with his Dad that watching his mom interact with her husband has given me a few ideas how to go about interacting with John.
:) Anyway, given the incredibly emotional coaster this family has been on the last few weeks, I've been dying to see them and just hug them close. Natural circumstances prevented this, but when we DID finally see each other, I was so happy to just physically hug them. However, Dad wasn't too keen on any sort of emotional exchange. He was probably too drained from grieving Uncle Billy and worrying over his mother's rapidly declining health. Also, given his status as the leader of the family, he took upon himself the responsibility of shouldering the fear and anxiety of his brothers and sister. Oh, how my heart breaks for him. He always takes on so much responsibility. But again, it's something I deeply respect him for. He goes out of his way to make things easier for his family, but at such personal sacrifice. However, he doesn't like to let on that his strength wavers, too. Instead of reaching out, he'll vent in short, off-the-cuff ways. I want so much to help him, but I can't just say, "Dad, I love you. Punch the wall and yell at me if it'll make you feel better." I'd love to, mind you, but I can't. He'd never let on that he's hurting, and I would never make things worse by letting on that I know. But I still want to support him. So I'm supporting him the best way I know how - through his wife, my mother-in-law. In the car on the way back from Uncle Billy's funeral, my FIL had to make a tough decision. My MIL said something that I pray will stick with me until my final days. My FIL had to decide if he'd go away for a few days on business or if he'd stay behind in case Nanny passed away. He asked my MIL what she thought, and her response was beautiful. She basically said she would go wherever he decided because no matter what, she wanted to be with HIM when and if he got news about Nanny. It was then that I realized I could support him by supporting her. She was, is and always will be, his rock. They are incredibly blessed to have found one another. She knows her place is with him so that she can support him in any way that she can. She wants to be there, holding his hand, letting him cry, even letting him get mad at her so he could, in some tiny way, vent the torrent of emotion eating away at his heart. I actually teared up when she said that. It was so loving... so perfect... that is what I want my response to be to John always. Whatever you decide, I will stand by you. I will be with you because that is where I need to be. I want you to know that you will always have me to lean on. Such love. Such incredible, faithful love. So I made it my personal mission to support him by supporting her. Since she'll be bearing the weight of the world in conjunction with him, I can lend my assistance to her. I might not be able to reach my FIL the way I'd like, but I can reach my MIL, and if she's a little less stressed and a little more rested, she can be a better support for him. I love these two immensely. I really do. I wish I could do something to magically wave a wand and make life perfect again, but we all must endure this valley of tears. Thankfully, God gifted us families so we could walk this valley together and not alone. "Turn then, oh Most Gracious Advocate, thine eyes of Mercy towards us, and after this, our Exile, show unto us the Blessed Fruit of thy womb, Jesus." Please keep them in your prayers. Nanny, too. <3 
Okay? Okay.  Last night, John and I were watching the latest episode of HIMYM (again, if you don’t want spoilers, STOP READING THIS). I’ve always loved the characters of Marshall and Lily. For those of you who don’t know the show, Marshall and Lily are college sweethearts who consistently exemplify unconditional and sacrificial love. They really are the perfect example of what marriage should look like, and I love that the writers have always been dedicated to the success of that relationship. I’ve always related to Lily’s character. She is a strong woman with very maternal instincts. She loves her husband deeply, adores children, is brutally honest when necessary, and is fiercely loyal to her friends. She's even a teacher! Lily is me with red hair and a much hotter body. Anyway, in last night’s episode, we come to find out that Lily has been harboring a secret. I immediately said to John, “She’s pregnant!” Turns out I was right. The way the writers allowed the story to unfold was beautiful. Marshall, upon learning he was going to be a Daddy again, rushed to Lily’s side and confronted her with the news. However, he didn’t confront her angrily. Instead, he was emotional – 120% caught up in anticipation, hope, joy, and above all, love. Love for Lily, love for his son, and love for the new life he and Lily had created. And when Lily said she “just felt like” the baby was a girl, I was instantly a wreck. I chewed my lip to the point of bleeding trying to keep myself from openly sobbing in front of John, but he saw I was upset and came to sit next to me on the couch to hug me. He probably thought I was crying over Myla. In truth, I sorta was, but my tears were lamenting more than miscarriage. Marshall said something that stabbed my heart. The exchange came after a very emotional argument Marshall and Lily had regarding moving to Italy vs. staying in the States (pitting Lily’s dreams against Mashall’s dreams). Marshall selfishly wanted to stay in the States and made the decision without ever asking Lily’s input. Lily, rightly hurt by this, angrily demanded to know why her dreams weren’t considered as important as Marshall’s. The argument ends with Lily sacrificing her dream of Italy for the sake of the family she loves, and Marshall apologizing for allowing his selfishness to come before his love for her. However, upon learning that Lily is carrying their 2nd child, Marshall exclaims: “Lily, we have to [go to Italy]! You’re gonna live in Rome, and you’re gonna get your dream because you’re giving me mine, again.” Cue tear cascade. Lily had already given up her dream of Italy to support her husband and their (now growing) family. That was a very, VERY difficult thing for her and she knew she’d wrestle with that baggage for the rest of her life. But she did it. Why? Because she loves Marshall and their family enough to sacrifice of herself. And in that instance, Marshall realized his erroneous thinking. The whole season, he was focused solely on how he could convince Lily to make the sacrifice because his dream was, selfishly, what he wanted. Until news of the baby. News of the baby's existence caused Marshall to instantly realize his priorities were skewed. A judgeship was not his dream. It’d be a nice goal to reach, but Marshall’s dream was, and always has been, to have a big family, the same as he’d grown up surrounded by. Family is Marshall’s true dream, and he recognized that Lily had known (and been working towards) this all along. Lily had always sacrificed for their shared dream of family, while Marshall simply enjoyed the fruits of that sacrifice.  Realizing this, he took responsibility for sacrificing. He wanted Lily to have the same opportunity to grasp her dreams because it’s what she’d always done for him. He loved her and their family to the point of sacrificing the biggest goal he’s ever set for himself: judgeship. He pushed his fear of leaving New York aside and trusted that his love for his family would be sufficient to weather the journey. They are like the married couple in O. Henry’s story The Gift of the Magi. Lily willingly handed over her hair (Italy) and Marshall gave up his watch (the judgeship). Deep, personal sacrifices in both cases that were gift wrapped in love. And Marshall only understood this lesson after rearranging his priorities into their proper order: Lily first, family second, self third. What caused the paradigm shift? News of the baby and his overabundance of love and excitement. THAT is why my body rocked with sobs. Marshall’s response was what I’ve always envisioned for myself as a child – my future husband being just as excited and joyous as Marshall at news of a pregnancy… my future husband seeing these children as dreams come true. I had visions of him jumping up and down in the bathroom with me as two little pink lines surfaced from a plastic stick. I cried because my husband was so diametrically opposed to Marshall in this. There was no moment of joy when he learned of Myla. There was no realization that his priorities were misaligned. There was no moment of clarity in which he appreciated the terrible sacrifice I make on a daily basis so his dreams can be sought after. Instead, there was disgust, fear, annoyance and frustration. How that wounds my heart. My dream, from my very first memories, revolve solely around a family. Myla was, in many ways, my final chance at that family. So when I mourn for Myla, I fully understand that I’m mourning for her and all the other children I’ve been denied. And I was angry. Frustrated. Jealous. Desperate. All because of a television series that showcased the response I long for but will never have. Not even with Vincent. On both counts, John’s first reaction was fear and annoyance. Disbelief. Never love. Never joy.  And that is what absolutely kills me.
I felt so unappreciated that I free-fell into an intense depression. My mind wondered if John even loved me at all. How could someone who loves me simultaneously seem to hate me so much? Do I think John hates me? Of course not. But in that moment, it felt that way. Maybe because I hated myself being in this situation. I don't know. It's easier for me to turn the upset feelings inward rather than outward. Anyway, after the show finished, we watched a 30 minute comedy to lighten the mood. It worked well enough for John to think things were okay. I was sour, though. The self-loathing, anger, jealousy and despair were percolating in my mind the whole time. So instead of watching another show, I went to bed. Not that I was going to sleep. Lord knows I wouldn't be doing much sleeping. But at least I could shut myself off in the dark. John came up after me. He grabbed me close in bed and snuggled there. He's a snuggler. I hate snuggling. Loathe it. It's okay for all of three seconds before I get annoyed and want my space back. However, I allowed it because I knew that was his way of trying to make me feel better. I knew he needed to feel like he was helping. Maybe that's all he thought he could do. After all, John responds to touch, so it makes sense why he'd think I would react the same. Honestly, though, I wanted no parts of myself let alone any parts of him. I'm terrible, aren't I? *Sigh* Anyway (and really, Mom, if you're reading this, just go ahead and avert your eyes), I realized in that moment that I did need John. I needed to feel loved, because there was a part of me (the logical side?) that understood he loved me, but my heart was so full of hurt and grief that I couldn't feel it. I couldn't process that he could love me given the broken and hurting state I was in. So I kissed John. I wanted him to kiss me back, to give me some tangible sign that he loved me. He dutifully kissed me, but laid back on his pillow. I pulled his face back to mine and whispered, "No. Make love to me." I don't normally do that. I'm not the romantic type who whispers sweet nothings into dusky skies as my hair whips gracefully in a gentle breeze. But in that moment, I recognized the marital act of making love as the only balm to soothe the aching desolation in my heart. I needed my husband to love me. I needed him to physically, emotionally and spiritually LOVE me, and a few pecks on the cheek weren't going to cut it. Not when I was feeling so incredibly unloved. That was the first time I've ever "needed" sex. I've enjoyed sex, sure. I've wanted sex, definitely. But I can't remember a time in which I urgently needed to give the fullness of myself and receive the fullness of my husband in the way that only married love can do. Sex isn't just some repetitive thrusting based solely on biology. That we, as a people, have turned it into so base a commodity is a travesty. Looking at sex as a means to better know and understand the love of my husband... it was eye-opening for me. When the pain of loss seems too great to bear, and when the grief comes coursing in to crush the very breath from your lungs, fix your eyes on the Blessed Mother as she gazes upon her Son, gasping away His Life for love of us. Allow the tears to come. Offer your tears together with hers... hers that shine like diamonds and are collected by the angels as tokens of mercy. Accept the emptiness as it threatens to swallow you. Allow the weight of desolation to shatter your heart - your very soul - but do not despair. For where God destroys, He creates. These mournful remains can thus rejoice and offer themselves as ready sacrifice for the new Life that comes in their place. "I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you." Ez. 36:26 Blessed Mother, be my strength. I am having a really, really hard time accepting Myla's absence right now. That television show... it was as if I was being pinned to a surgical table to have my heart sliced open by a scalpel. But I see, I see. The tears wash away the clutter from my eyes, and the crushing grief just reminds me that I have something left to offer. It is yours... the pain and tears that echo softly your own. Tender Mother, hold her for me. Hold her and tell her all the things that I never got the chance to say. Allow her to be the delight of your Son since she could not be the delight of mine. Bring her often to see her Father so that He can tell her about the Daddy she left behind. Guide me daily with Vincent so that I can be worthy of meeting her one day. Grief, folks. It still exists. Every day. Sometimes you're granted respite. Sometimes you're asked to experience it more keenly. But it's always there.
That is at it should be. There can be no grief if there is not, first, love. And love is forever. And love, Myla Therese, is exactly what you were created by. 
I love these two women. Dearly. Nanny, in bed, is John's paternal grandmother. Gram, the woman holding her hand, is John's maternal grandmother.
These two women have known each other longer than their children have been dating (and eventually married). Their friendship goes back more than 40 years. Seeing them look after one another all these years has been an absolute privilege. The fact that my family is lucky enough to still have them is blessing enough, but to see the love they have for each other is a blessing of indescribable magnitude. In fact, it is their love for one another that helped build the strong family I know and love. It was never an "our side vs. your side" type of relationship. They understood when their children became involved that they were, in fact, one unit whose sole purpose was supporting and loving the family that grew out of that union. And what a splendid job they've done. Seeing Gram holding Nanny's hand and telling her to stay strong and hold close to the Faith - it moved me to tears. I kept blinking them away, determined to be strong for them - these two women who have been impossibly strong for us. I snapped this photo as Gram was telling her, "Now you get strong so we can have ourselves some pound cake." Gram then winked at me and said, "We love our pound cake. Always have." She turned her attention back to Nanny and kissed her along her hairline. "I love you, Lena. I'm here." Then she sat back down to continue her vigil alongside her two daughters, myself, and Uncle Frankie. For several moments I couldn't speak. Speaking would've required the use of my throat, but the lump of unuttered emotion trapped there made it impossible. So I sat next to Nan, holding her hand, just offering a silent prayer of thanksgiving for these two incredible women and the example of love they gave to their families. Love endures. These beautiful women are proof of that. God bless them now and always. <3  From the 1st time I met Uncle Billy My husband's uncle, Bill Guarnere, passed away yesterday. To the world, he was "Wild Bill Guarnere" of HBO's documentary Band of Brothers, but to my husband and our family, he was just "Uncle Billy." Uncle Billy, even to his last, earned the moniker 'wild' for good reason. I laugh when I think of it, because it seems like all the Guarnere men followed faithfully after him as a result. His sense of humor, his disregard for "keeping up appearances" and simply telling it like it was, and his fierce love of family and loyalty to friends can all be seen - underscored - in the line of Guarnere men he inspired. So given how much they all looked up to him and revered his status as patriarch of the family, it was a terrible blow to hear news he had passed suddenly on Saturday. At the same time Uncle Billy was being rushed to the hospital, a good chunk of the Guarnere clan was already at the hospital tending to another one of our own... the one you won't hear news stories about or see documentaries on, but the one who, even from her hospital bed, unites the entire family in love and devotion. Her name is Lena, and she is Uncle Billy's sister-in-law. She's currently doing battle with pneumonia and could benefit from some prayers if you'd all be so kind. Anyway, I bring Nan up for two reasons in reference to Uncle Billy. Both showcase, in my mind, the type of love (and bit of humor) Uncle Billy always showed to his family. On Friday morning, Uncle Mike, Nanny's son, called Uncle Billy to set a date to grab coffee. Uncle Mike apologized for not being around, but Uncle Billy waved him off the phone and said, "Don't you worry about me. Go take care of your mother. She needs you right now." Of course he'd say that. Uncle Billy didn't care about himself. He knew Nan needed Uncle Mike, so he sacrificed time with his nephew so he could be near her. I'm sure if he were able, he'd've been at her bedside, too. That's just how Uncle Billy is. Which leads me to reason number two. I spent five hours with Nanny on Saturday. Several other family members were standing vigil as well. Two times Nan brought up Uncle Billy, and here's where I imagine his sense of humor came in to play. The first time, my Aunt Donna was leaning over Nan to see if she'd recognize her. Nan affirmed she recognized her, but she insisted that her husband was between the two of them. She asked, "Why is my husband here?" Aunt Donna looked at me and asked if she'd heard her correctly. I smiled and said, "Yup. She's asking about Pop Pop." A few moments later, she asked again, but then she said, "Bill is in the way. Get out of the way." I looked at Aunt Donna, but she was talking to her sister. Grandma Gloria, however, seemed to have heard her, and she smiled back at me and nodded. I thought it was funny that Gram heard her (given how terrible her hearing is) but my two aunts did not. I thought Nan might've been talking about a nurse or something.  Gram holding Nanny's hand. These two women are responsible for the family I have today. I love them as much as I love my own Grandmom who watches us from heaven. About an hour or so later, I was in the room with Nanny, myself. She'd finally nodded off, and I'd sent Uncle Mike and Uncle Frankie to eat dinner. I used that time to pray at Nan's side, holding her hand. I had just finished the Three Beautiful Prayers when she jolted awake.
I thought she might've been startled by the beeping across the hall. She looked at me and I said, "Morning, Nan. You feeling okay?" She said, "Yeah. I feel alright." I asked, "Do you want me to grab you some lemon water?" She said, "No. Bill brought me up." Again with this Bill person. It never even occurred to me she could've been talking about Uncle Billy. I thought she was confused, and I said, "No, Nanny. You were sleeping. Is your mouth dry? Let me get some water." As I spooned the lemon water into her mouth, she stared past me and asked an unseen person why he was still standing around. She reached her hand out and said something along the lines of "Get on, already. Go get my husband." Again, my heart hurt because I feared Nanny was starting to see visitors from the other side of the veil. I said, "Nanny, who are you talking to? Who do you want to go get Pop Pop?" She looked at me and said nothing. She just leaned back in the bed and sighed. A few hours later, we got news that Uncle Billy had passed. I didn't put two and two together until I was on my way home from the hospital. I honestly think when his soul left his body, he stopped off to strengthen Nanny for her journey. She, in reply, waved him off and sent him to reunite with her husband, his brother, to begin enjoying Heaven together. So please, say a few prayers for the repose of Uncle Billy's soul and the strength of my Nan. Pray also for the broken hearts of my husband's family. Uncle Billy was revered by them, and for good reason. He was more than just a soldier - he was the force that bonded so many of them together. His charisma commanded the attention of everyone, and his generosity and love commanded their respect. My heart is broken for them because I know how deeply this loss is felt. And to experience losing Uncle Billy in the midst of watching Nanny deteriorate... it's just a terribly difficult road to walk right now. So please, keep them all entrenched in prayer. Pray for their comfort, their peace, and Divine strength. They will need much of that in the coming days and weeks. We all will. My thanks. Godspeed, Uncle Billy. God bless you and the family you leave behind.  John and I spent much of Thanksgiving in airports and on an airplane. However, it was a great Thanksgiving. John's father generously organized a family vacation down to Disney that took place through an extended Thanksgiving Day weekend. In total, 10 of us spent 6 days together in a combination of Fort Lauderdale and Orlando. However, before we packed ourselves away on the airplane, I was able to make a quick stop at my Mom's house beforehand. Since she thought we were already Florida-bound, she was SUPER surprised to see Vincent come barging through the door. That was probably my favorite part of the entire day. I love surprises like that! We spent about 45 minutes there before having to leave. I hated having to go so soon. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the entire year, and I missed not spending it with my family. But I did spend it with family, so I can't really complain. Vincent and I went back to Jersey to pick up John and then meet up with his sisters and their husbands for the trip to the airport. Surprisingly, everything went really smoothly. The kids were great on the plane and baggage was efficiently shuttled onto the conveyor for retrieval. John's father was already outside waiting to pick us up, and when we unloaded at the Ft. Lauderdale house, John's mom had already set out Thanksgiving dinner for everyone. 
After cleaning up and putting the children to bed, the rest of us played a ridiculous card game together. John Sr, my father-in-law, won with a score of 10. I came in second with 8 and my husband, John Jr, caught third place with 6. It was a lot of fun, and I really enjoyed the interpersonal communication shared as opposed to contending with iPads and television screens. A family game played around a family table is a great way to share laughs and love (and terrible, terrible jokes). We spent another day in Ft. Lauderdale before making the 2.5 hour trek to Orlando. That wasn't so bad as the kids were content to watch two Charlie Brown videos while I caught up on some reading. John and his father talked sports in the front seat while the other half of our party followed our SUV in a rental. 
We hit up Universal as well as Disney. We did not do Animal Kingdom because, frankly, no one wanted to be bothered given all the other parks we were trying to cram into the three days we spent in Orlando. Universal and Disney were MORE than enough for us. Vincent surprised me by going on several of the "big kid" rides that I thought would be too scary for him. Tower of Terror, Space Mountain and Jurassic Park were among them! He and my niece, Alliya, also had a great time playing in the swimming pools at both houses. Vincent is getting much more comfortable jumping into deeper water so long as Daddy is there to catch him. He began following Alliya's lead doing trick jumps into the water. Alliya, for her part, is becoming quite the little fish. She no longer fears the deep water like she used to. I snapped so many photos of them swimming around together.
After they'd had their fill of zipping around the pool, they caught a quick cat nap while the rest of us took a mini-siesta, too. 
Look at them holding hands in during their cat nap. Alliya was actually awake. She kept kissing Vincent's head and petting his hair. Ha ha. It was so sweet. 
Of course, we have plenty of theme park photos, but for now, I hope this suffices. I also caught a few "3 King" photos in Epcot as we explored the various Christmas practices of other countries. But that, too, will have to wait for another day. I'm just glad to be back home. My feet were beginning to plot a revolt.
:) I hope your Thanksgivings were just as wonderful as mine. Maybe even moreso!  Mandi over at Messy Wife, Blessed Life shared her personal miscarriage experience today. She, too, lost her child early on and as I read through her entry, I kept nodding my head in recollection of my own experience.
After reading her piece, I sent it to John with the a letter that basically said, "I'm sharing this because her experience is similar to mine. I want you to see this through the eyes of another woman - someone you don't have preconceived notions about." I also was honest and said I was still hurt that he feels I tricked myself into believing my experience was real. And it does. On so many levels, that bothers me. It bothers me in ways I can't even express. A few hours after reading Mandi's experience, I came across this one by Sonja Essen. Vastly different from mine or Mandi's, Sonja's experience revolved around relief that the decision to keep her child was taken out of her hands. She miscarried early, too, just as Mandi and I. She, however, was grateful for the miscarriage because she felt unprepared to handle a new child. Try not to judge her. I admit I recoiled a bit upon first reading it, but I can understand where she is coming from regarding the fear of being unprepared. Truth is, though, no one is ever really "prepared." But that's another discussion for another day. Point is, her experience, I feel, somewhat mirrored John's. John was most certainly relieved that a child was no longer part of the equation. He, too, had fears and worries that stilled his desire to grow our family. For as much as I noted the similarities between Mandi's experience and mine, I noted parallel similarities between John and Sonja. I very rarely bring this topic up between John and I because I understand it to be a sore spot for both of us. I don't like making him feel uncomfortable and I don't like the instant thickening of irritation. However, I don't want to just pretend the issue doesn't exist. It does, and we need to deal with it, even if it's in little bits and pieces. I'm okay with that. These two articles today were beneficial in that regard. They both serve to broaden our scope of experience, even if that experience is gained through sympathy / empathy. So I'm sharing both with you as well since I promised to chronicle my own experience for others. It is helpful to share these experiences - you never know who may benefit. <3  I had Vince try on some Spiderman pajamas on Saturday. At first, he loved them because he looked like Spiderman. Then he realized they were one-piece and he felt constricted, so they didn't last too long. That made me a bit sad because I used to adore the one-piece PJs he'd waddle around in as a toddler. I guess those days are officially over, huh? :) Anyway, he was playing with a tabletop bowling set for a while. He'd set the pins up and knock them down over and over again. I looked over at one of his layouts and had to snap a photo - it was impressive! He'd set up the pins in a very unique pattern, and when I asked him why he'd done that, he said, "Bigger level, Mommy!" Playing games with John, he's learned to understand that things get harder and harder as you beat previous levels. So instead of the familiar triangle setup most of us are familiar with, he decided this would be the "bigger level" for himself:  Seriously! How creative is that? :) Subsequent levels were more of the same. I was so proud of him coming up with these "levels" all by himself. Patterns... the kid loves patterns. Math of any sort is like Christmas morning. :) Anyway, when he saw me taking pictures of his levels, he wanted me to take pictures of he and I, then his next level, then him again. Definitely a fun activity for a cold weekend.
  
That's right, everyone! Thanks for all the prayers. Little Isaac is finally home. He still has two hernias and is awaiting results from an MRI to diagnose a bulging cyst on his fontanel. Otherwise, he's home and doing very well. Thank God, right? My sister is adjusting quite nicely to having him home. She could still use the prayers, though, so please keep her and Isaac in them. His big sister, Arianna, is also adjusting nicely to her new role. For the last two months, she was only ever able to see him through the NICU window. Now? Well... see for yourself: 
Go ahead and take a minute to recollect yourself from the overload of "Awwwww." I spent a few hours with them while my sister's husband went food shopping. It was nice to spend time catching up with her while holding Isaac and watching Arianna play. While holding Isaac. Wow. He's now 2 months old and he wasn't supposed to be born until later this week. How crazy is that??? Oh, but God is good, isn't He? Isaac might be tiny, but he's proof of just how much we're loved... just how miraculous each and every life is. So again, I really cannot say "Thank You" enough. I have no doubt that your prayers buoyed the entire family through a very scary storm of helplessness. A friend of mine posted the above video to Facebook. I knew what it was as soon as I saw it. A reader had sent it my way and said maybe I should think about sharing Myla's story as a way to break the silence. I'm not there yet. But I am really, really glad that there is a push to get stuff like this out in the open. When my friend posted this, he said something great: "I didn't realize the prevalence of this event. I love how families are allowing the child to remain a part of their family and honoring her/him at special times - birthday, thanksgiving, christmas and/or other winter holidays. For those who are uncomfortable with sharing this, GET OVER YOURSELF! The child was part of life however briefly, is loved and will always be remembered." I immediately thought, Right on, we WILL always love and remember them! And of course you didn't realize the prevalence. NO ONE realizes the prevalence because no one talks about it. I then wondered why. I mean, on a personal level, I know why I don't talk about it. But on a grander scale, there had to be a reason. It hit me, and I commented the following: Still birth and miscarriage are so taboo in our culture because we have conditioned ourselves to "accept" that life doesn't begin until that child is outside the womb. I put "accept" in quotes because it's a conditioned belief that isn't a belief so much as it is a justification for the murder of a child. Because that uneasy "acceptance" of an obvious falsehood doesn't sit well with the public, things like open grieving of life lost within the womb or at birth is taboo since open acceptance of that life causes folks who don't believe in life at conception to confront the validity (or invalidity) of that belief. And as someone who has experienced condemnation and ridicule for grieving the life of a child considered worthless by society's standards, I can understand why some families choose to suffer in silence - why this topic is rarely spoken of. It's difficult enough to endure losing a child - you don't need people lashing outwards as they struggle with an inward paradigm shift on top of it, ya know? Just my two cents.  I know this is a good chunk of the reason I keep silent. I'm not ready to handle their emotions on top of my own. I'm not ready to handle the questions or the judgement or even the sympathy that might result from Myla's story being out there amongst family and friends.
But the point of this video is spot on, and I do think the reason so many of us don't speak out more is because our culture - a culture steeped in death and selfishness - cannot accept the grief of parents who prove their misguided stance on life within the womb is not compatible with reality. We are a thorn in their logic.  Horsemen by M.C. Escher Go figure. For someone who hates math as much as I do, my favorite artist is a mathematical genius. Truthfully, his symmetry and creative outlook on the impossible are what originally drew me to him. Also, he has an uncanny way of making the impossible seem true... of causing two diametrically opposed objects to work together as if they were always intrinsically the same. So when I think about the dichotomy of secrets, I think of an MC Escher piece. Why? Because secrets contain a built-in paradox. Half the horses in your mind want nothing more than to keep that secret private. They're content in their stalls, munching on their hay and reflecting on what amounts to be a very personal, intimate matter. Those other horses, however... they're chomping at the bit and pawing at the stall doors to escape and spread the secret to anyone and everyone who will listen. My secret? Myla Therese. Today, Remembrance Day, made me keenly aware of this inner dichotomy. Myla's existence is still mostly unknown. My mother, my SD, you folks and a tiny handful of friends (6 or 7 maybe?) are even aware of what happened. No one else on either side of the family knows, and I don't bring her up to anyone but the closest to me. It's those pesky horses... the half that wants to keep her private and mine - all mine - they're content to sit in their stalls and keep her memory there. Those other horses, though... sometimes they get creative and find ways of slipping out. A few days ago, I commented on a Facebook thread that was far away from anything my group of friends would ever stumble across. It was a bunch of Catholic moms talking about babies. My friends and family would steer so far away from "Catholic" "mom" and "baby" that they'd be happily on their ways to China so as not to accidentally find themselves in a spot that combined them. However, what I wasn't aware of was the fact that Facebook doesn't care about that. Facebook took a personal comment on a wall of a group that is "no man's land" to my friends and put it in the newsfeed. In the NEWSFEED. Everyone then had the chance to see my comment of comfort. It was originally meant to reach out to another mother who had lost her child an felt secluded in her grief. I wanted her to know she wasn't alone, so I said something along the lines of, "I'm the mother of a baby in Heaven, too. Our little saints are playing together on the lap of Our Lady, I bet!" Several minutes later, I got a private message from a friend of mine. She asked me about the comment and I immediately felt like someone had walked in on me in the shower.  My mind began racing...
If she saw it, who else saw it? Is John going to get these questions from our friends? Is John going to be MAD that I posted this on Facebook? Oh God... did anyone of his family see it? Will anyone else send me questions? What am I supposed to say to this one? And why does Facebook have to notify her that I'd already read the dang question?! Before bothering to respond to her e-mail, I called John. I explained the situation and asked how he wanted me to handle it. After all, this was a mutual friend. What I said to her had the capacity to reverberate through our friends and back to him. He might not be able to push the situation out of his mind so easily. His response surprised me. He said, "Answer her however you want to. Whatever makes you feel better because you're the one handling it. I really don't care how you respond." Now try not to bristle at "I don't care how you respond." I don't think he meant that in a harsh or demeaning way. I repeated that his family might find out... his Mom. I didn't think she would from that basic exchange, but it was a possibility, and if he still said that he didn't care what I did after thinking about it in those terms (moms tend to paint a black and white picture for us better than most things), I could trust he really meant it. Apparently he did, because he still gave his stamp of approval even then. I went back to my computer. How do I respond to her? I didn't know. On the one hand, I wanted so much to tell someone else about Myla's existence, but on the other, I didn't want to share something so personal. I honestly didn't know what to do, so instead of answering her, I went through my newsfeed to clear out any possible reference to miscarriage I could find. Finally, I went back to her message. I was back in control of my feelings, so I could respond logically. I trusted this particular friend, so I explained in very simple terms that yes, John and I had been expecting in July and I had miscarried around the 5th or 6th week. I also explained that we weren't really making that information public, but I thanked her for sending me the message. It really did mean a lot. She quickly responded with love and support. I felt better that another person was pulled into the circle that knew Myla existed. She was such a blessing, and I sometimes ache that more people aren't aware of her. However, I do fear what knowledge of her existence would bring. Questions. Questions that I'm ill-equipped to handle. Questions that would make me cry. Questions that would tear me apart and leave me pounding my fists into the floor. Disbelief. Disbelief that she was real. At 5 or 6 weeks, she's nothing, after all, right? Society tells us she's nothing. Society assures us that my sweet little baby is completely inconsequential. Pity. Anger. Hopelessness. Grief. And the list drags on. So for today, I reposted a few things and commented on a few others, but I kept my tone ambiguous. Instead of posting Myla's story, I posted things "in solidarity with" or "together with" others who have shouldered this cross. Folks seeing my posts could easily think they were akin to wearing pink in support of breast cancer awareness though I never had it myself. It was my safe way of publicly spreading awareness without opening the door to something I'm not ready to handle. Again, I know this might come as a surprise to you readers who see my most personal thoughts on a routine basis, but I am just not this forthcoming with many people. Behind the safety of my monitor, I can vent with the knowledge that none of you will ever be able to treat me differently or judge me harshly because of what you read here. Truth be told, in real life, I'm scared. Very, very scared. I like being in control... in charge... even-keeled. Being upfront about things so sensitive and emotional for me... it's just not something I'm good at. And for as much as those horses want to call out Myla's name from the rooftops and share my experience with other women who might be going through (or will go through) miscarriage, I am not strong enough to handle it at this point. I feel selfish and weak for admitting that, but it's the truth. I do hope to one day be able to tell other people about Myla. She is a blessing, and I want to share her with others - especially family and friends. I just don't know when (or if) I'll ever be ready to do so. For those of you who have endured miscarriage, did you ever tell family/friends? If you did, when and how did you go about doing it?  This handsome dude is my brother. He's about 2 years older than me, and growing up, I wanted to be just like him. Maybe a little taller. ;) I thought he was cool, funny, and smart (in a witty sort of way). I thought he had cool friends, listened to cool music, and was all around awesome. I think many of my own developed personality traits are shadows of what I perceived his to be. I would always try to mimic the qualities in him that I liked so I could have them, myself. Funny thing is, he absolutely loathed me - likely because I was the annoying little sister who wouldn't leave him to himself. He would torture me to no end, and I happily took it in stride. I'd dish it back to him now and again, but I mostly just accepted that he treated me like a jerk because of how much I tried to hang around him. I was a sophomore in high school when he went off to college. He still lived at home, but at that point, I'd found my own groove with my own set of friends and didn't feel the need to siphon off his personality anymore. I'd come into my own, figured out who I was and wanted to be, so Ray no longer had to peel me off himself like some sort of diseased leper. In fact, I, myself, was rarely home anymore. That, coupled with my personal family dynamic, allowed me to grow radically distant from my siblings (with the exception of my younger sister, Maria, with whom I always fostered a good relationship).  Fast forward about 8-9 years. I was out of college and getting ready for marriage to John. I'd reconnected with a friend of my brother's who began confiding in me and building a relationship outside of Ray. As a result of our new relationship, I began hanging out with my brother when the two of them would see one another at bars and such. Given the terrible relationship my brother and I shared due to the 8-9 years of strained communication, it was interesting to "meet him" all over again with friends - absent of our immaturity and familial dynamic. As a result, the change to our relationship was instantaneous. We no longer felt the need to retreat from dialogue. He didn't see me as an annoying, snotty twit, and I didn't see him as a pompous jerk who treated me unfairly. It was refreshing, and I relished this change. I once again had my big brother back and we could share laughs over childhood experiences and talk about actual issues we both routinely faced (whether work-related, family-related or otherwise). I guess the fact that I brought John to the table didn't hurt. My husband (then boyfriend) clicked with him almost instantly. Anyway, again fast forward a few more years. I'm pregnant with Vince and I get to share news that he's an Uncle. The amount of sports clothing and toys that he excitedly got for Vincent is ridiculous. He's a big Flyers fan, so Vince had the PJs, the jackets, the shirts - even pants with the logo on it. He supported Vince (and therefore, me) when the in-fighting broke out over how our sister was treating Vincent. It felt good to be defended in that way. To have him protect Vincent, myself and John in that manner was such a change given how easily I'd been thrown under the bus by my family in the past. To them I was the "bad child." Frankly, I was the same to Ray for a really long time because no one ever tried to learn if the gossip they spread amongst themselves was even true or not. However, now that Ray was in the mix and had allowed himself to get to know me and see for himself who I was as a person, he brought that common sense back to the family. As a result, folks weren't so easily able to just write me off as being a terrible individual worthy of constant disdain and disrespect.  That was such a transitional time for my family and I, and much of it has to do with him. A lot also sprang from my mother and I reaching common ground once I'd moved out upon marrying John, but I do attribute the new dynamics of the family moreso to my brother who acted as gate-keeper to folks seeing me not as the terrible person they assumed I was, but as the person I ACTUALLY was. Doubtful he even realizes that. For example, before things with Ray developed, I was routinely neglected from family events. I can't even tell you how many times I found out about baptisms and birthday parties AFTER they'd already happened. It was so frustrating. Excuses I'd get ranged from, "Oh, we just thought you'd be busy that day" to "Well, so-and-so thought you might embarrass them." *Sigh* It's funny now, because as I sat in the hospital room with my brother and sister as we kept her company waiting for Isaac, the two of them reminisced about things as if I already knew about them. I had to keep reminding them over and over again that I didn't actually remember any of it because I was ostracized from the group. I missed out on several years of relationships, anecdotes and shared experiences, but given how good our relationships are now, they tend to forget that. In a lot of ways, I guess that's a good thing because it just shows how much things have changed for the better.  And in that hospital room, as I watched how he looked after Maria and took care of her and kept her entertained and busy so she didn't worry so much about Isaac, I was reminded again just how lucky I am to have him in my life. Obviously I feel that way about a bunch of people, but reminders like this are always welcome so I can say a quick prayer of thanks for the folks in my life who really count. It made me appreciate the unthinkable changes that have gone on in my life in such a short span of time. And these changes... they really were at one time unthinkable for me. But God is good. These changes have been wonderful and joyous and appreciated. When I mused this aloud to a friend of mine who has seen (and felt) this transition with me first hand, she actually said, "Geez - it makes me wonder why you are so insistent that Vince have siblings." I laughed, because I understand her point. But I also understand that my experience is not normal - by ANY stretch of the imagination. Only recently have things evened out to a level of normal that I never knew. And again, seeing how well Maria was looked after by myself, my brother, and our other two sisters (there are five of us), I sorta hurt a little for Vincent because should he ever be in that situation, he won't have those siblings to give him the support that we gave (together with our mother, obviously) to Maria. That makes me sad, and I again wonder about how this will effect him later in life.  But that's another issue for another day. This entry gets dedicated to my brother for being awesome.
He's still the funny, cool and smart guy I knew he was way back when. He's still someone I can admire and appreciate, rely on and love. So take a moment today to be thankful for the folks in your life who are awesome. Say a prayer of thanks for them, because each has been a blessing to you... a little kiss from God to remind you that He loves you enough to make sure these gems are in your life. Thank you all so much for your prayers for my sister and nephew! I'm so blessed to report that they're both doing well. I'm sharing this photo with you because I have no doubt your prayers helped buoy them in this time of fear and uncertainty. They certainly gave me a lot of comfort! And look at the result. This beautiful little peanut was born - screaming - and weighed in at 2lbs, 6oz. He took a few breaths on his own, and his body is functioning just as it should. Maria, my sister, is resting and should recovery nicely. God is good, and He was especially good to us tonight. Thank you so much again for all those prayers! 
 Here is a photo of the offending slippers.
I was looking for dainty little slippers for my goddaughter's upcoming baptism. I've already got the outfit picked out. I've got her little headband, and her little onesie set is ready to go. I just need her slippers. So I was looking through little slippers for her when I came across these. They're adorable, fuzzy, soft, pink and have tiny rosebud flowers. They're girly and cute. If they had rhinestones, her mother would likely be willing to kill a man to have them for herself (if you're reading this, don't even bother denying it - ha!). Anyway, when I saw them, I felt like I'd been smacked square in the chest. I immediately thought of Myla. I wondered if she'd've been super girly. Lord knows if she was, I wouldn't have known what to do with her. I probably would've tried to dress her in all the cute dainty things they have for girls, but I was suddenly caught by how little I knew about her personality. She was taken away before I'd ever unwrapped that piece of her. I was instantly angry, then. Again, I silently screamed up to Heaven, "Why Myla? Why did you have to take her away? I want her. I will always want her. So many other parents don't want theirs and force them to endure painful abortions. Why not whisk one of those little souls away to Heaven before they meet such cruel ends? Why take Myla?" Then I get upset with myself for thinking that way. Those children who are aborted are loved just as much as Myla - they're wanted just as much - by God. True, He wants to see all children born to a life of love, but it is not His fault this cannot be. Knowing this doesn't make it any less frustrating. Knowing that Myla's in Heaven and working hard to get us up there with her doesn't lessen my sadness and hurt. I hate this. I hate having a Pandora's Box in my heart that can be opened without warning. Pink slippers. How they gained the point of a knife, I will never understand. Mommy loves you, Myla. I miss you every day. I'm sorry Vincent, Daddy and I have to wait so long to meet you. {hugs and kisses} |
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