Sam

I am not necessarily desirous to send bad news out onto the wavelengths. But I find that if I don't talk about a lost child, it seems less like he was real. I wrote the following poem two weeks ago. We lost/had Samuel Nielsen two days ago.

Chances

I suppose numbers are easy, simple, clear,

a seemingly accurate measure of something, anything:

your intelligence, your appearance, your worth.

But I have been, and remain evermore skeptical of their truth.

Statistically, only 1 in 10,000 babies conceived have

Trisomy 13--

3 number 13 chromosomes in the cells--

as if that defines, measures

what happened to Annie's body,

as if it tells how she looked, and moved,

how I felt when she was born, dead.

How is it possible 1 in 10,000 was us?

Statistically,only 1 in 100 babies conceived have

Triploidy--

3 of each of the 23 chromosomes,

69 instead of 46 in the cells

1 in 10,000 are born live.

0 live past 10 months of age.

0 known connection between Triploidy and Trisomy

So, how is it possible that 1 in 100 was us?

What are the chances?

Where is the number that describes the likelihood

of losing 2 babies this way?

What are the chances

that this baby will live long enough

that there will be 2 graves side by side?

Or, will this baby be gone in 1 month, 1 week, or 1 day.

Where is the mathematician, the statistician

who could calculate the probability

that I would feel this

heavy, sickening, chocking, ache

again?

Too improbable to be accidental

Too random to be random.

Numbers, like me, can't answer or define this one.

But, I seem to feel that Someone can.

Someone who knows not only what this would do,

but why I should face it once more.

Someone who not merely numbers his children

like the sands of the sea,

But knows each one.

Already I have carried this baby

for 12 weeks

Perhaps someone could figure what the chances are that

I will carry my child one week more.

But no one can measure how this small number of

weeks, and days, and minutes with my child

will affect every other day of my life.

It will be measureless, numberless,

unquantifiable.

In Defense of Introverts

This post has been a long time in the making, but probably spurs from that night some months ago when I came home from a large gathering where my own social limitations had been particularly obvious to me and said to my husband, “Why did God make introverts!?”

I should probably explain that by “intovert” I am not talking about anti-social unabomber types. I merely refer to those of us who are more private than outgoing, who are more energized by alone time than social gatherings, who prefer small groups of close friends to large parties, who do not rush to answer the phone or door, and who would rather jump off a cliff than host a big social gathering.

This is not to be disparaging to extroverts. In fact, some of my most favorite people are extroverts. We have had good friends over the years who have had us over regularly for social gatherings. These are the kind of people who make small talk easily, and know how to create an atmosphere of hospitality, good food, and conversation. I have watched others who easily take command of conversations, and aren’t afraid to stand out in a crowd. I have one sister who holds Halloween costume parties and murder mystery dinners at her house, and loves it. I have another sister who is so unembarrassed, comfortable, and energized by the presence of others that she has taken it upon herself to entertain the world—and she does. It was my brother and I, on the other hand, who used to hide in the kitchen when people came to visit (when we were past old enough to know better) and hope we wouldn’t be called out to ‘say hello.’

As I mentioned before, I have been aware of how my introversion limits me. I have been aware of it when different positions over the years required me to plan and host events. I have really had to get outside myself to plan birthday parties and social engagements for my extrovert son. I rarely want to go to church socials (gasp), and I often find that while acquaintances come and go, it takes me a while to make close friends. Introverts are hard to know well.

However, when I came home frustrated by those very limitations those months ago, my introvert husband not only sympathized, but encouraged me to remember the contributions introverts have made in my life. We listed family members, authors, and ecclesiastical and societal leaders who make great contributions through private thoughtful kinds of lives. In a world that values group work and ‘synergy,’ I think it is easy to forget the great value of individual thought—the kind of thinking that, rather than relying on others to fill in the spaces—works through the questions and complications through solitary focus and reflection.

So, I guess my defense of introverts is this: It may be difficult to get to know us, but give us a chance because, quite likely, we are worth knowing.

Why We Believe in Santa

I woke before the rest of the family on Christmas morning this year, just early enough to stare at the ceiling for a few minutes before I heard stirring in the next room. I smiled at the muffled sounds of the excited voice of my almost-six-year-old son as he told his three-and-a-half year old brother to, “Wake up! It’s Christmas!” The boys were soon bounding in and bouncing their dad awake, and I appointed myself to go downstairs to turn on lights to see if Santa had come.

When I came back up with the good news, my oldest son, Jack, said, “I knew it!” then he proceeded to tell us how, just before he fell asleep, he had seen a sort of red light reflected on the wall of his bedroom, and that it must have been Rudolf, guiding Santa’s sleigh. Of course his dad and I smiled conspiratorially about this, especially coming from that particular child.

Just about every morning at breakfast my younger son, Graham, shares some story about the wild things that happened to him at night. These stories—told as truths—could include anything from rocket voyages he’s taken, to ‘bad guys’ he’s fought, to the nocturnal behavior of his stuffed cat and dog. So we’re used to flavored fiction from that child, but Jack prides himself on saying things in an adult way—he wants to tell us something interestingly accurate…which is why it is so fun to hear him talk with excited conviction about a flying reindeer.

I realize this emotion would be shocking, and even distasteful to many parents, as I am aware of a recent parenting trend to abolish the myth of Santa. These parents argue (rightfully) that perpetuating this myth requires parents to lie to their children, and encourage a belief in…that’s right…magic. I fully support these parents’ rights and desires to raise their children in honesty, but I would also like to explain why I plan to continue this particular tradition, notwithstanding.

I would like to provide concrete factual evidence as to why a belief in Santa can benefit a child, and I have come across some psychological material that supports this, but I have come across just as much that supports killing the myth. And, frankly, when it comes to Santa, it’s just not about the facts for me.

Instead, it is about allowing my children to have a chance, however brief, to experience the magical sheen of childhood. It seems to me that the world is becoming increasingly more cynical, especially in Western culture where we are taught to question everything—which is at once both great and dreadful. I hope my children reach a point where they will process information logically and come to their own conclusions. I encourage that now, but I also want them, for as long as they possibly can, to believe in impossibilities. I want them to come to an adult view of the world…but not yet.

I think that the idea of Santa was more important to me as a pre-teen than it was as a young child. I was a very imaginative child, and the idea that I had to leave that world behind was devastating. I couldn’t understand why I was suddenly socially expected to be more interested in makeup, loud music, and boys than I was in…Recess. So, when Christmas came around, even though I was old enough to see the writing on the wall about Santa, I was glad that my parents humored me and allowed me to hold on to the belief in something magical, and in that area, remain a child for a while. It was one time of the year when I wasn’t expected to be logical or reasonable…I could just believe in something magical and impossibly wonderful in the face of all the impossibly horrible truths of the world.

Some parents are concerned that fostering a belief in Santa (who is not real) negates their efforts to foster belief in God (who is). This is a valid concern. However, I don’t know about your kids, but mine are smart :) . There is a difference in the way I talk about Santa versus the way I talk about God at home, and they know that. They know what Christmas is about, and that Santa is only an ancillary—we discuss that the giving and receiving of gifts (both from Santa, and from family members) reminds us of the Gift God gave Earth when His Son was born. I also recognize that if my children believe in God it will be because I have laid a foundation of knowledge, but also that at some point they have felt something themselves—I would be foolish to think their belief system is solely based on what I dictate to them—or want it to be.

I also think that as parents it feels cozy to say things like “I will never raise my voice at my children,” or “I will never be a bad example to my children,” or “I will never lie to them.” We would like to clasp to another dangerous myth that a parent should be perfect—or at least that a child should think their parent is perfect. But the truth is, Santa or not, our children are someday going to realize that sometimes their parents do raise their voices. Sometimes we make mistakes in full view of our children, and sometimes we lie.

I don’t think it is going to be very many years before my Jack figures out the truth concerning Santa. He may be angry at me for lying to him, but that won’t shatter any notions he might have about me. I have been very clear with him that I may be in charge, and have more experience and knowledge at my age than he does at his, but that I am by no means perfect. I have no problem apologizing to him when I do raise my voice unnecessarily, or make a bad call when a situation is tense.

I guess what I have decided is that I am willing to risk his anger. I am willing for him to know that his mother lied, because I think he will also know that I did it to give him a gift that he will never have another chance to receive—a whole-hearted belief in something magical. I wanted to give him an opportunity that will never come again as everyone, inevitably, will “put away childish things.” In actuality, I don’t think he will be angry when he finds out the truth…only a bit sad, like me, that it could not last longer.

Fireflies

This is an especially good time of year in our part of Indiana for fireflies. I have seen them out my bedroom window at night, hovering and flickering over the grass. We don’t have fireflies in the West where I grew up, so the first time I saw them, at least that I remember, was during the month my family spent living near Houston Texas when I was a young child. It is one of the few memories I have of that period, but I have often recalled an evening walk with my family over a bridge and through some trees and the magic of the glowing creatures floating about in the darkness.

It is the poignancy of that memory that led me to put aside my usual vigilance about early bedtimes for my boys and sanction a late evening firefly walk a few nights ago. The day had been one of those stormy Midwestern days, and we weren’t sure all day if we would be able to have our walk at all, but just around twilight there was an intermission. Jeff and I brushed the boys teeth and put them in the stroller to walk down to the forest path just south of our apartments. The sky was grey and the thunder rumbled distant warnings to walk faster.

When we reached the woods, however, we had slowed and quieted enough to see some baby rabbits in the low grass before they darted for cover. The fireflies were not so bashful. They twinkled in the dark spaces between the trees, and floated lazily about us, unconcerned at our watchful presence. My oldest son was full of awe and excited phrases, and my youngest was quietly observant; and somehow, even without the misty sheen of childhood to coat the moment for me, it was magical.

I felt a strong sense of disappointment that I had not thought to bring a jar. It would have been so easy just to reach out and catch one of the tiny blinking bugs and bring it home to keep. As it was, I could only carry away the memory, and it was a short one. We were merely in the trees for a brief interval before we began to feel raindrops and the tall trees began to sway dramatically in the breeze of the oncoming storm. We rushed home.

The time we spent in the woods was a matter of minutes, but tonight I think that the past two years, this stage in my life, has been, in many ways, equally brief. Like our firefly walk to the woods, it has had its dark clouds and cold breezes, but there have also been extraordinary moments, little flickers of light.

There is a pit in my stomach, an anticipation of the coming storm and the need to hurry on. In less than two weeks we will be starting a new walk. We will be leaving behind some extraordinary and ordinary things. There is no jar that can carry them away with us. My son has been filling his pockets with his favorite rocks from our playground for the past few weeks, almost like he could just take the playground, one rock at a time, to Chicago with him. But, there are a lot of rocks out there.

Tonight as I was taking out the trash I saw the fireflies in the bushes and the low weeds by the fence. I thought of how I could go back inside, and get something to catch one in and keep. But then, something inside me quietly whispered that fireflies do not live long in glass jars. Eventually their light would dwindle and diminish.

However, I do know from experience that they will live for a very long time in my memory.

Deep and Wide

I used to think that I wouldn’t mind being reincarnated as an academic. You know, I liked to imagine myself at Oxford, or some such place, teaching English to studious undergrads while pursuing the mysteries of the language in dusty libraries. However, the time I have spent around actual pursuers and perpetuators of higher education in these past couple of years has caused me to reconsider. It isn’t that I don’t admire these intelligent future PHDs, it is just that I think my educational abilities/interests differ.

To be clearer, I have determined that I like to learn wide, rather than deep. By the time a person is on the PHD path, she has gotten very narrow and specific in her studies. She may learn deeply about one very niche subject, but will no longer be introducing new areas of study. I think if I went back to school I would just like to get another bachelor’s degree—maybe in Spanish, Linguistics, Music, or…Basket Weaving.

The more I think about it, the more I realize I have always followed this philosophy in a way. I remember being so irritated after leaving High School that my university suggest I chose just one area of study. I even considered a liberal arts degree…but that just seemed like studying nothing rather than lots of things.

I have always just been kind of good at lots of things rather than very good at one or two. I kind of write, and play a little basketball. I do some singing and piano playing, and know some chords on the guitar. I know a little Spanish. I know a few things about politics. I can get down the black diamond ski slope…but I don’t necessarily make it look good. I’m a pretty accurate shot with a pistol. I can occasionally cook something pretty delicious. I have general knowledge of History, Art, and Classical Music. I am moderately versed in English Literature. I’ve read a bit on teaching and parenting. I know some ballet. The list goes on.

No one will ever call me an expert. I think I’m okay with this. If I were being very self-complimentary I would say I am a Renaissance (wo)Man. However, traditionally, the Renaissance Man, or Polymath, didn’t just dabble in many subjects, he was well-versed in them. I would tell you more about him…but that is all I know.

In the mean time I will content myself with the fact that I just learn wide rather than deep, and I’ll get along fine unless one of you people who really know all the facts about everything ask me to support the last claim I just made in our conversation. At that point I’ll change the subject to one of the many other things I’m interested in.

Still

I had felt the anticipation,
the hopeful onward motion of awaiting a baby before.
I felt that with you.
I was looking forward, making plans.

Then came the jarring reversal,
the time-stand-still shock when we learned
you would not live long.

All things that mattered so much that morning
were insignificant, heavily secondary.
There was only this sorrow, stasis,
Stillness.

You should have been moving more,
but you started to move less.
You should have been growing,
my stomach rounding out into that third trimester,
but it didn't.
Eventually, all movement ceased.

I wept when you were born.
Stillborn.
Here was this little person before me,
my own baby daughter,
gone.

I held you,
dressed in white, softly wrapped.
I held your hand.
I kissed your head.
You were quiet.
You were still.

I would like to stand here,
stuck in the dark mud of my sorrow and loss,
never leaving my house.
But, whoever said, "time stood still,"
lied.

Days have passed.
The sun has set, and risen.
The weather is turning colder.
The boys are asking about Christmas.
They climb up beside me where I lay,
still, on the bed.
They crawl on me
and ask me questions
and say things that make me laugh.
They are ever moving forward.

We will bury you next week.
I will watch them lower your tiny bed
into the earth.
Tears will move down my face.
Your body will rest, but it will not stay the same.
You are moving on.

I feel, somehow and somewhere
your lively, joyful spirit.
I feel the sorrow, and the stillness,
but I also feel peace,
and God,
and you.

I will move on,
but I will take you with me.
Always,
Annie Grace.
You are mine,
and I will love you
still.

Fantasy: The Redheaded-Step-Child Genre

When it comes up with someone that I have written a novel, the first question is always, "what kind of novel?" I then try not to feel self conscious when I say that it's young adult fantasy. Part of my embarrassment stems back to junior high when I told a friend of mine that I liked to read fantasy and he said "oooo," and then made fun of me about it for the next five years. I'm pretty sure he thought fantasy was something akin to one of those grocery store romances.

Recent response to my fantasy writing is not quite so marked. I usually get one of three responses. Some actually express excitement. These are the fantasy readers. There are more of them than you might think.

The other response is basic ignorance: "what is that?" I tell them that fantasy is basically fiction that includes magic or the supernatural. It is not science-based like science fiction and not as dark as horror.

The final response is polite disinterest leaning toward veiled disdain: "Oh, how nice." This comes from those who see fantasy as second rate fiction, or (to use a phrase my husband is fond of) the "redheaded-step-child" genre. It may be popular, but many, especially in academia, feel that it is childish or not worthy of serious study or praise.

As an avid fantasy reader and writer I would like to give my support of this poor neglected genre and offer three reasons why I think that good fantasy is worth reading, especially for young adults.

Elementary-aged children are allowed and encouraged to be imaginative. However by the time those same children enter that wonderful world of the middle school or junior high, "dream big," and "think outside the box," is often replaced with "grow up," and "get real." As a young teen who did not make that transition easily, I found fantasy a safe and age-appropriate outlet for my still-imaginative mind. As an adult, I continue to enjoy thinking about things that get me out of my usual thought process and ways of viewing the world. It takes a great deal of skill and dedication for a historical or contemporary fiction author to do the research required to put on paper the actual world, but I think it takes a comparable skill to come up with something or somewhere altogether new.

Fantasy is also great for young adults because they are in a time of life when the gray area of morality is large and puzzling. The need to make good choices is less urgent, perhaps, than in childhood, and fantasy is a place where good and evil is usually well-defined and where characters have to pick a side and fight. I think some of the strongest female heroines I have ever read were fantasy characters. Good fantasy often deals with and fights harmful gender and even race roles better than other genres because it can create a world where they can be seen in a different light and location.

Finally, Fantasy, when written well, is essentially about people. It does not matter whether or not the characters of a book live in a suburb or in a castle under the water, if they are real characters dealing with real conflict in believable ways than we can relate to and learn from them as easily as any characters in the most gritty realistic fiction.

Terry Brooks, a well-known fantasy author, said to critics of the genre, "People who view fantasy as second rate or childish are usually people who don't read or understand it. I like to tell them that good fantasy is social commentary combined with good storytelling - Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, the Oz stories and so many others. Sure, the stories take place in an imaginary world. But those worlds mirror our own and tell us things about ourselves that need to be said and understood. I also like to tell them how often other forms of literature use fantasy as the bedrock of their own stories. Fantasy transcends its own form in wider scope than any other type of writing."

I never studied Harry Potter in a literature class, and I'm sure my kids won't either. However, there is a reason why those books are so well-loved internationally. They are well-written and literary, and the magic is compelling to read about. However, in essentials those books are not about spells and brooms. They are about friendship, love, sacrifice, and fighting for what is right. Rowling wrote about those great things and many others, and she did it by creating characters with whom people all over the world could identify. She also did it with dragons, castles, wands, and ancient magic. She did it with fantasy.