Santa Came Early!!!

Santa was definitely not messing around this year. Not messing around at all.  He wasn't interested in bringing knick knacks or toys.  He was going for something epic. Truly epic.  So, surprising us all, he showed up 9 days early with an incredible gift for the whole darn family - and when I say WHOLE family, I really mean it!

Okay, my picture taking skills are really lacking these days, but give me a break - who would have expected a visit from Santa on December 16th? Not me.  We woke up to a room full of swimming suits, snorkel gear, and air plane tickets to Hawaii!!!  And, only 3 hours to pack and leave for the air port.  

Oh, and did I mention me being 33 weeks pregnant?  It's true.

But the fun didn't stop there. After a frantic morning of excited packing, we got to the airport, and what to our wondering eyes should appear, but 41 Evans's waiting for us there!!!

Yup, all 41 of us - my parents, their 8 kids and spouses, and 25 grandchildren.  Imagine, for a minute, what that flight to Hawaii was like?  Never mind the sheer numbers of us all, but the fact that we had woken up that morning to find out we were going to Hawaii for 10 days, and shown up at the airport to find out that we were going there with 41 of our favourite people.  I'll be honest, it was total madness.  Glorious, wonderful madness.

Again, my photography skills were severely lacking.

Oh Santa, you tricky devil - we love you so and your well laid plans.

In which I discuss the hard things...

It's been 6 weeks since we buried our Israel Blaine.  Millions of thoughts and emotions have gone through my mind over the past 6 weeks.  I have been overcome with grief, buoyed up by so many, and moved on to living what seems to be a perfectly normal life.  I spent 2-3 weeks at home, eating chocolate, and facing the new reality.  But, I've got 5 children, and they have lessons to learn, classes to be at, and lives to live. And so I've picked myself up, and carried on. And, I'm doing just fine.  I really am.  I can carry on normal conversations. I can laugh at jokes. I can host dinner guests. I can even talk about the baby without crying.  But every once in a while something hits me and I realize that I am still sad.

The thing about having delivering a baby at 20 weeks is that the baby is just on that cusp "real".  If delivered before 20 weeks, a mother would have to go to the ER, not Labour and Delivery.  The baby would be considered a "product of conception," not a baby, at all.  There would be no blanket to wrap him in, there would be no need to arrange for his body.  The loss would be considered a miscarriage rather than a stillbirth.

But, once you hit that magical 20 week mark, you enter a new realm.  The hospital staff handled us so delicately.  They wrapped his body up in knits lovingly created by a wonderful knitter. The nurse by my side kept saying, "Oh, I'm so sorry.  Sweet baby, poor sweet baby."  They took pictures of Israel for us to take home to remember him.  They filled a little bag with tiny mementos.  They brought in a social worker, and the funeral home offered their services for free.

In the real world, the line isn't drawn so clearly.  Most people have been totally wonderful, and I'm surprised by how many people have either experienced a similar loss, or someone close to them has.  There are also those who don't understand the loss.  But, what is clear, is that no matter what gestational age my baby was, I did, with complete certainty, have a baby, and lose a son.  My body doesn't know that he was only 20 weeks along.  My breasts still filled with milk, ready to nourish him.  My hair still began to fall out in fistfuls.  I still bled for weeks, a constant reminder of what I lost. But, in one terrible morning I went from a glowing pregnant woman, to not.  And, despite what I was feeling within my body, it only took a few days for me to look completely normal, too.  For this, my fifth pregnancy, I had finally bought new maternity clothes.  Just two weeks before the baby died I bought a whole new wardrobe.  And, just two days after he died, I packed it all away and brought out my "pre-pregnancy" clothes.

And so I carry on, driving to the back of the parking lot, past the "Parking for Parent With Child" spots, because I am definitely not with child, turning off the radio whenever there is a song that makes my heart weep, clinging to any opportunity I get to hold another newborn, which breaks my heart a little, but also ads just a portion of healing balm to it at the same time.

And, I'm trying to make something good of it, as well. I've started a knitting project: #20setsin20weeks.  Having had a hand knit blanket and hat for our sweet Israel meant so very much to me. Never in a million years could I have imagined that I would need such tiny knits, but because of the sweet generosity of an anonymous knitter, I was able to bury Israel in those.  It was such a tender mercy to me.  I have started knitting blankets and hats to donate back to the hospital for other families going through the same thing, with the hope that they will provide the same comfort that the knits Israel was given brought to me.  Today I finished my sixth set, and intend on knitting 14 more - 20 in total: one for each week he grew inside me. The days are definitely getting easier, and with each blanket that I knit, I feel just a little more put together, as though the stitches in the blanket are somehow mending my broken heart.

Stillness - Israel Blaine's Stillbirth Story

There are very few moments of stillness in my life. With 5 kids, a certain level of constant commotion is inevitable.  This past week, however, the idea of stillness has broken my heart, questioned my faith, and reminded me of the power of motherhood.

This forgotten little corner of the internet has been only my means of documenting the very most important moments in our family's life over the past few years: the births of babies and the adoption of our daughter.  We have been hit with a sorrow that I have found difficult to process, and in order to process, I need to write things out.  So here I am, writing a story I never imagined I would ever have to write, months earlier than the very opposite tale I had planned on telling will now never be told. This story won't be eloquent or beautiful, but it is real, and it needs to be told.

This summer we got pregnant with our 6th baby.  We were ecstatic.  However, with a history of early miscarriage, we were also cautious.  I've birthed 4 babies, and I've had a miscarriage before each successful pregnancy.  All 4 of those miscarriages happened before I reached 8 weeks pregnant though. So, when I hit 8 weeks, and I was still dry heaving into the toilet, I allowed myself to start planning for our March baby.  When we went in to see our midwife at 13 weeks, and heard our little one's heartbeat, I was certain we were in the clear. We had, for once, avoided a miscarriage, and we were going to have a baby without going through that heartbreak.

So we announced.  Facebook. Instagram. Even my professional pages got the message.

Yay! I continued to be sick until 16 weeks.  I got big, fast. I bought new maternity clothes. I bought new baby carriers.  I wondered where in the world was I going to fit another dresser in our tiny house for this new member of the family.  I took exactly 3 pictures of me pregnant.

Then the unthinkable happened.  Most miscarriages happen early on.  They usually happen behind the closed door of a private bathroom. My 5th miscarriage started out that way.  It ended with me in the hospital, having gone through labour, delivering my fifth baby boy, stillborn.

I didn't realize how important it was for me to tell this story until I got a text from a dear friend who has also had a stillborn baby. In her text she said, "Tell me about your sweet little boy."  I've been surrounded by love, lifted up in ways I have so desperately needed, but nobody else has asked me about my baby boy and I didn't realize how desperately I needed that question to be asked. If he had lived everyone would want to know about his birth, his weight, who he looked like, how we named him, and so on.  His death does not negate his existence, and neither does the fact that he was only 20 weeks gestation, because he did live, if only inside of me, and he was loved, and he was wanted, and he will always be missed.  His birth story is the only story I will ever have of his to share.

I woke up, 20 weeks pregnant, with severe cramps.  I'd been having surprisingly strong Braxton Hicks for the day before: strong enough that I had mentioned to my sister that they felt like period cramps, not Braxton Hicks, and complained to Jared that if I had to go through 5 months of them, I would not be a happy momma.  In the middle of the night I found myself lying in bed in such pain that I couldn't lay there any more.  If I had any inclination of what was to come, I would have recognized the signs of early labour. But, in ignorance, I figured a trip to the bathroom would solve it. And so I sat, and one cramp later, the unmistakable feeling of my water breaking, and the toilet filled with blood and mucus.

I walked out of the bathroom, and like I had 4 times before, informed Jared that I was miscarrying, again. The difference was, this time, that I was in labour, and I was 20 weeks along, and my baby was the size of a banana, and I knew I needed to go to the hospital.  We called my parents to come be with the kids while they slept, and drove to the hospital.

At about 3:15 am our midwife met us in triage, and tried to find the heartbeat. There was none.  A doctor came with an ancient ultrasound machine and tried to get a heartbeat. There was none.  I already knew that though. I had felt my water break.  I had seen the blood.  I knew that our baby was gone. All that was left for me to do was let my body do what it had already started doing, and wait until our baby came.  And so we waited.

My contractions got stronger, but not terrible. I asked if I could get an epidural, because, to be honest, I didn't want to feel.  I wanted it all to be over.  I didn't know how intense it would get, and I didn't want to find out.

The doctor checked me along the way, and when I was only 2 cm dilated she said that she could feel my baby's feet coming out.  It wouldn't be long.  I wasn't surprised, because the familiar "pushy" contractions were happening.  They said they would take me to a private room and I could get an epidural if I liked, but just moments later that was no longer necessary.  

At 7:52 am he came.  A sweet, perfect, tiny little boy.  And until that very moment I had no idea the pain I would feel, the sorrow that would rush through me, the heartache that would totally consume me.  I wailed.  I knew there were other moms in triage, preparing to give birth to healthy, beautiful babies, and I felt bad for them having to listen to me, but I couldn't stop myself.  As his lifeless body slid out of me, and the nurses placed him on my stomach, I realized exactly how much I loved him, and wanted him, and needed him.  But he was gone.

They proceeded as if everything were normal.  They clamped his cord. I got to cut it.  They shot me up with oxytocin so I would deliver the placenta (which apparently is often stubborn at such an early stage.)  They wheeled me off to another room where they would clean and weigh him, take his hand and foot prints, and wrap him up in a hand knit blanket and hat.  He was 3.6 oz.  Tiny.  So tiny that even if he had been born alive, he could not have survived.  So tiny that I couldn't tell you who he looked like.  He did have long feet though - just like Eli.

Jared and I spent a few hours with him.  The only few hours we will ever get to spend with him.  We named him quicker than any of our other children: Israel Blaine, and cried over the life he would not live.  We kissed him, and told him how much he was loved.

And then we left.  We gathered our things, and we left the hospital.  We left our baby there, and went home to continue on with our life without him.  We left, with empty arms, and the task of planning his burial on our minds.

Three days later we buried him. We had to pick out a casket, a burial plot, a grave marker.  We had to decide what he would be buried in, and if he should be embalmed.  These are things that I know many parents have had to do, but I never thought I would be one of them. We buried him right across from his cousin, Amelia, who died in 2010. Atticus insisted on helping us carry him from the hearse to the grave.  We let him.

I had no idea. I had no idea what it would feel like.  What it would feel like to go through labour and hold the body of a baby I would not know. I think that many believe that 20 weeks must hardly feel like a baby, no different than losing a pregnancy at 6 or 8 or 12 weeks, which for me were relatively easy. And for some, perhaps that would be true.  I think that many believe that because he never really lived, then he didn't really die, that he was "just" 20 weeks or "just" stillborn.  But the fact is, as I've learned, without experiencing it, without holding that little body, without grieving over the life that would not be lived, without carrying the casket with the baby that you delivered inside it, there is no way to know what that grief feels like.  Israel Blaine was as real to me as any of my other babies.  And he will be loved as long as I live.  And in some ways, I'm afraid to do that. To live. I am afraid to move on.  To not feel the pain that he left behind any more. To forget what his tiny body felt like in my hands.  To forget how much I loved him. I'm afraid that he will be forgotten.  I cry, wondering if his little life matters to anyone else. I wonder if God can love him as much as I would have. I wonder if my body can ever be trusted again. I'm left trying to figure out how to go on with the living without losing the part of me that was him. 

My Girl Before

One of the strangest things that happens to me as a mom of an older adopted child is meeting people who knew her before I knew her.  It's happened a few times to me, where I've run into people who knew my little girl when she really was little, when she still lived with her birth family and her life and my life were not one, as they are now.

Today it was the tutor we've hired to teach us ASL.  She walked into my house, and while I was meeting her for the first time, she not only knew my daughter, but she also knew her story, and therefore part of my story.  

It's hard to know how to react to that. On some level I wanted to ask her things about my child that I don't know, that surely this stranger must: what was she like at 3 years old, did she have any pictures of her from the birthday parties she attended or the school gatherings she took part in.  I was also tempted to question her on the birth family that I don't know, but is forever entwined with my family.  

But, I can't ask any of those questions. How, as a mother, do I ask a stranger intimate details about my own child. My child, who has spent less than half her life in my arms. My child, who I feel like I know so well, but have known for so short a time. I just smile, say (or rather, attempt to sign) how strange it is, and carry on with the intention of our meeting.  

Yet, here I sit, hours later, still thinking about her, and about the relationships that my daughter had before she was mine.  How do I honor that past, when I know so little about it? How do I help her understand her path, when I've not been walking beside her all along?

Do you know what I do?  I try my hardest to keep a safe place in our home for those memories and years that we weren't together.  Despite not being together, the time before the adoption in both our families belong to all of us.  The memories I have of my past are collective memories that she gets to share, and the sweet, and increasingly fleeting, memories that she has of her life before foster care I hold sacredly for her, so that when she needs them, they will be around.

Taking it back!

Today is the first really "wintery" day of winter.  It's cold, and dark, and oh so obviously winter.  I shouldn't complain. We've been really spoiled this year.  I mean, my kids went trick-or-treating in just their costumes, not in their snow suits with their costumes pulled tightly overtop. Still, it is with just a bit of trepidation that I sort through the winter gear, knowing that the beautiful days of fall are now, officially gone, and the months of winter are setting, firmly, in.

So, what have I done today to mark the occasion? I've sat curled up in front of my computer reading old blog posts.  Every. Single. One.  Don't worry, I did it after the kids finished their school work, and went to piano lessons. I'm not really sure what they are doing now, but they've not come upstairs in at least two hours, which is, incidentally, enough time to scroll through 6 years of blog posts.

I like this blog. It makes me happy.  Reminders of Eli and how little he once was; videos of little Silas saying his first words; pictures of the first nights that Evy ever spent with us; and, the birth stories of both Atticus and Machen. Oh, how I do love this blog.

But, it's painfully obvious how much I've missed in the past 3 years.  Since the adoption process began, I have found it so hard to share what is going on.  The emotions have been too real, and too raw.  But, with finalization now behind us, I feel a need for normalcy, and record keeping is one of those things that feels normal to me.  The things I have shared have been vague and generic, and I don't like being either of those things.

Also, although I never planned on it, my knitting patterns have taken over a bit. I love knitting, and I love designing, but this has become a dumping place for my new patterns, and that's about it.

So, I'm taking this here blog of mine back.  And, I'm giving my knits a home of their own.  If you want to keep up to date about my yarny adventures, head on over to VANGY Knits. And, if you want to stay connected with the Wiebe family and what we're up to, stick around here at {hands full of happiness}.  I look forward to keeping better records, and I hope you do too!

Orleans - A Knitting Pattern

While I don't have little girls to knit for, I can't help myself sometimes.  This little dress was stuck in my head, and too perfect not to knit, even if I don't have a 2 year old girl to put in it!

Orleans is now available on Ravelry for $5.50. Go ahead and check it out, along with all the projects made by other fabulous knitters:   and then go ahead and   !!!

Orleans is a simple dress with puffed sleeves and a gathered skirt.  It is knit in two pieces to add stability and create a seam. The bodice is knit first, from the top down. The live sts are then put on hold while the skirt is worked from the bottom up. The pieces are joined using a 3 needle bind off, making it entirely seamless!

There are four options outlined for the skirt: Full Skirt or Narrower Skirt in either dress or tunic length. The sample is the full skirt dress in size 2 years.

The pattern is written for girls aged 3 months to 10 years and knit with fingering/sock weight yarn. 

An introduction

Hi there!  My name is Jenny. Welcome to {hands full of happiness}!  I'm glad you stopped by.

This is not a craft blog. It is not a mommy blog. It is not a homeschool blog or a any other sort of blog. It is just a random assortments of things that are me.

I am a crafter, mostly interested in fiber arts, and by that I mean I knit All. The. Time.

I am a mommy. I have 6 amazing children, 1 daughter who came to us through public adoption and 4 incredible boys.

I homeschool. It's challenging, rewarding and exhausting all at once, but I love it.

I am defined by my children in almost every way, and I'm totally okay with that.  Of all the spectacular things that I've done in my life, being a momma to my little flock is by far the best. 

Daily I dream of living on a farm.  I want chickens and horses and goats.  I want my kids to know what it is to work hard.  I want wake up in the morning and drink my tea on my porch and not see another house anywhere near.  I want to spend my day teaching my children wonderful things, making beautiful crafts with them.  I want to have a nutritious dinner on the table for my family every day, a dinner I make from scratch from the stuff I grew and raised on my farm.  After the littles are asleep I want to leisurely spend the evening creating beautiful things. 

However, in the real world I live in a house too small for the seven people who live here, a tiny yard from which I can see into the kitchens of no less than 12 neighboring houses, and most days I am just trying to survive.  

I try to live my life very deliberately.  While it is sometimes exhausting, I feel that we shouldn't just do the little things we can, but everything we can to protect our children, ourselves and our earth from all the crap out there.  I believe in a whole lot of things, and I try very hard to walk the talk.

I believe in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

I believe in natural birth, that it's safe and in most cases the best option.

I believe in breastfeeding beyond infancy.

I believe in making informed decisions about vaccinations and healthcare.

I believe that baby boys are perfect and should be able to make their own choice about circumcision.

I believe in co-sleeping and baby wearing.

I believe our children should be treated with kindness, love and respect, always, not threatened with separation, coercion or harsh punishments. 

I believe in learning at home and allowing my children to learn at their own pace and according to their own interests.

I believe in apologizing when I make mistakes ALL. THE. TIME.

I don't have many secrets, so if you have a question about me and the way I do things, feel free to ask.

Welcome to {hands full of happiness}, and please enjoy.