Stephanie from Adventures in Babywearing is writing for me on my blog this weekend.  Her words and her love are so very powerful to me.  I am so fortunate to have her in my life because her love and her heart are so good.  (And she helped me paint until midnight and brought me Panera.  I love her.)

I am not
sure if Beth even knows this, but the day I found out I was pregnant with my
fourth baby, before I told anyone, I called her. I let it ring and ring
and then I’d hang up when there was no answer. I did that a few times. I don’t
know why. I couldn’t tell you the last time we had seen each other or even
emailed. Something in me wanted so desperately to share this moment with her
and say Guess what? I’m pregnant, too!

We would
be expecting at the same time, but I never got to see her pregnant with James
and Jake. I only know the before & after Beth. From reading her posts, of
course, I knew the “during” Beth in a certain way, I guess. The excitement and
the life- lives - which filled her body. And then before I could truly
cherish in this time with her, her belly and arms were empty. I never saw in
person what carried her eyes from full of fun and mischief to the eyes where
tears and hurt and immense loss had now made their home. 

The night
we finally arranged a girl’s night out, when Beth probably wasn’t quite ready
yet, my soul attached itself to her in a way I can not explain. But the girls
that were there know what I experienced. They felt it, too. Our very beings
united and have yet to separate. I’ve never seen Beth more beautiful and
radiant. There, sitting next to me full of heartbreak and grief. Me, with a
baby kicking inside when she should have two kicking inside her, too.
From then on I’d do anything for Beth. I ate a cheeseburger for her that night.

I
previously had thoughts of hiding my belly. Doing everything I could to help
her forget that I was pregnant like she should be. How can I be a good friend
in this time when I might just be a hurtful reminder? But, if you know Beth,
you know she is honest and raw and with her, there is never an elephant in the
room. It is the very thing she is against. And if one happens to show up, she
is the first to acknowledge it and call his fat butt out and make everyone
laugh about it.

I was
just with Beth the other night and saw a whole new light and dark within her
eyes. She’s not just the after Beth anymore. I’m really not sure who she’s
becoming right now, to be honest, but the deepness that is her heart and core
is none like I’ve ever seen before. I’ve almost felt guilty that I’ve learned
more from her during these past several months than I’ve been able to give
back. It is never my desire to be the taker. But she draws you to her and
reveals a spirit- a crystal clear window to look in and see her broken heart,
observe it, poke it with a stick, and tell you how much it sucks.

And because there are no elephants allowed, I never feel like I have to caress her
hair, feed her bible verses, and say it’s all going to be ok. Because to her
it’s not ok. Yes, everything will eventually seem better… someday.
Someday she might even be pregnant again and head down a whole new road and
life expanding her family in the way she dreams. And I trust those
dreams will come true. I also believe that James & Jake will always be a
part of those dreams, too.

No matter how long or short their time was with us, they will continue to
sparkle behind Beth’s eyes- sometimes with laughter and many times with tears.
They are breathed within her words on these pages. I feel their presence. And I
know that James & Jake, whether we speak it out loud or not, will forever
connect our magical sisterhood without end.

My love for this blogger is immeasurable and these words are beautiful.  The fabulous and talented Crooked Eyebrow guest posts for me today….

And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave…

When
our National Anthem is sung, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed with such strong
emotions and then of course tears. As an adult with more love and understanding
for my freedom, I can’t hear this beautiful tune without it bringing me to
tears. The words and music are powerful and heart tugging.  It’s a
reminder of our country’s veterans and the brave men and women in the service
today that are proudly protecting our land and our freedom. These great souls
each give so much from their lives and their own families so that we as
civilians can live our lives as uninterrupted as possible. It’s simply amazing
and I am forever grateful.

As
a proud sister of her twin Army brothers (yes we
have all seen the FABULOUS photos and demand a calendar), Beth herself knows
first hand the demands on our military and family. She has watched the news and
read the papers each day knowing her brothers were fighting for our country. I
can’t speak for her, but I can only imagine how difficult this was for her
entire folding laundry family.

On
this Independence day my family and I are celebrating the safe homecoming of my
cousin Sgt. Nater Tater. Although it’s only for a few short weeks before he
heads back to Iraq, this holiday weekend means so much more to all of us. Just
the joy and pure, honest happiness we all felt when we picked him up at the
airport. Simply amazing. The moment his mom wrapped her arms around him and
smiled, finally holding her only child will for ever be engraved in my memory.

For
months we’ve started our days praying for his safety, along with the
other men and women in the armed forces. So this fourth of July it’s just
a blessing to have him safe on American soil (even if it’s 2
weeks) and have him home…Home in his bed, driving his Chevy pickup,
playing with his son, just being(consuming beer). The perfect holiday for
our soldier.

So
as we all go wave our flags, sit and cheer through the town parades and light
fireworks, stop and think about those who have served and those
currently serving for our country. Love it. Enjoy it. But please, don’t forget
to be proud that we all have the freedom to just be. Please be safe and enjoy
your Independence day. I know my family will be…Happy Fourth of July
everyone!

Today’s guest poster is my friend Megan, at Fried Okra.  The first time I went to her blog, I remember thinking "what the hell is fried okra?"  And well, I still wonder that, but now I go to Megan’s blog and I feel love, optimism, brilliance and souther charm.  Megan’s tender heart has helped me so much since losing James and Jake, she’s been a solid rock for me.  Megan and I were both due with our sons in July, I can’t wait to see her son’s beautiful face.  A fantastic blogger, mother, wife, cook and friend, I introduce to you:  Megan.  (if you’ve had fried okra before, please tell me so I can stop thinking that Megan made that up, whatever it is.)

Dedicated to my sweet friend Beth and her
family, as a blessing on their beautiful new home, June 2008.

When Beth emailed me from the midst of her moving chaos to ask me to guest post
here at her beautiful and enviably cleverly-named blog, I got to thinking about
my own past moves, and bittersweet departures from my former domiciles, and the
things about each of them that have made them each a home. As a housewarming
gift for Beth and the rest of the FoldingLaundry family, I thought it’d be fun
to wax nostalgic for a bit on my own, and then step aside and do something I
know Beth loves to do – invite YOU to share your own thoughts – this time,
about what makes your home HOME.

I first set up housekeeping on my own in a little red brick duplex in downtown
Greenville, South Carolina, in the shady, sleepy little valley of the Reedy
River. To be so close to what’s become a diminutive but thriving mecca for
locals, with plentiful nightlife, restaurants and a vast array of cultural
offerings, the tiny, 50-year-old cottage nestled into a cloister of hardwoods
offered a quiet, peaceful haven for young woman fresh from her parents’ nest.
Even now when I close my eyes and remember, I can see my tiny orange tabby
kitten, Popper, perched atop a chair, peeking out the front window, watching for
my return from work in the late afternoon, his ears too-big triangles, flitting
this way and that on his soft, furry head as he listened for the familiar sound
of my car’s engine. I remember gentle evening breezes though the open bedroom
window, ripe with the sweet, wild fragrances of honeysuckle and damp, mossy
creek bed.

I remember the feel of crisp cotton hand-me-down sheets, washed with the only
cheap laundry detergent I could afford on my non-profit salary and dried
on the clothes line just outside that window – sometimes with the yellow of the
South’s inescapable pollen still lingering in creases, other times with the
surprise of a maple’s helicopter seed whirling and winking through a ray of
bright morning sun as I carefully smoothed down a colorful quilt both my
grandmothers made by hand. And I remember the dappled, filtered sunlight, the
arched doorways and wood floors, and the quaint, charming lines of that home.
These warm details etched themselves indelibly into me, and I’ll always cherish
and look for them in subsequent homes.

In Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin, a little village just north of Milwaukee where I
started my career in the financial services industry, I glimpse the streets
around my townhouse, this lazy grid of an old, established neighborhood,
graceful with tudors and stone cottages, the shade of a thousand elms
stretching branch to branch in a living arch, turning the North-South avenue
into a white, green or many-colored tunnel. I remember lush, sweet smelling
lilac hedges on green velvet lawns wreathed in tufts of cheerful daffodils that
bobbed in the spring winds. Shoulder-high snowdrifts lined sidewalks in winter,
and neighbors walked blocks with nothing to see to the left or right but dirty,
blackened walls of ice.

The picture window in my cozy living room showcased a vast swath of sky, blue
or grey or white with promise, and framed that same orange tabby as he blinked
regally out at the world, older and wiser but still full of youthful curiosity.
I remember cold, quiet Saturdays spent sewing curtains of bright floral prints
– the brighter the better to combat the long, slow, pale winter, and happy
golden autumn Sundays of beer, chili and Packer football on a tiny television
with long rabbit ears in the corner.

I bought my first home in the Atlanta suburbs in 2001, a two-story, white-sided
testament to my independence. The vaulted ceilings in the master bedroom
crowned me with all the glory I craved, a new homeowner, proud of her castle,
sleeping in a room fit for a queen. The back windows overlooked a small pond
beyond which lay a rolling pasture for three the horses I came to think of as
my own.

I married from that house, and my handsome groom came home with me. Two months
shy of our first anniversary we carried our tiny baby girl over that threshold
and tucked her into her crib in a room filled with memories gathered from the
homes of our families. We watch videos now of that baby, that tiny toddler, and
as she becomes herself, I see the low-slung windowsills in the living area
where she first pulled herself to her feet, the steps she tottered up time
after time as my heart sat pounding in my throat, the watermelon pink bathroom
I painted for her when I was round as a melon myself, but full of determination
to give my unborn daughter the world in brilliant color. The day we before left
that home for good, my mother bathed her youngest grandbaby in the kitchen sink
- both of them laughing and splashing, oblivious to the monumental memory they
created in this daughter’s and mother’s heart.

Home’s a place, yet surely
more a feeling that
transcends the simplicity of four walls or three steps up. A house becomes what
happens inside it and around it, memories paint colors as brilliantly as any
brush can, and a family’s love shines as radiantly as sunlight through windows,
be they old or new.

Beth, I wish for your new home, as you tuck your family inside it for the first
time, the sweet, fragrant breezes of hope and joy, the brilliant rays of
laughter and fun, and the warm, comforting quilt of love and contentment. May
this new house of yours be a place alive with all of the comforts of home for all of you, now and
forever.

Now it’s your turn to share what makes your home home to you.

Megan makes her bloggy home at FriedOkra.
Please stop by for a visit sometime soon.

Arianne is a dear friend of mine, in blog life and real life.  Not only did she help me paint my new house yesterday until one in the morning (I know!), she has also graced this blog of mine with a guest post.    Arianne is a mom of autism and does everything she can for her boys.  She researches, prays, loves and devotes her life to them.  I’m not certain Arianne gives herself enough credit for the battle she has fought thus far, but she is one of the bravest, strongest, most beautiful Mommy soldiers I have ever come across.

During
a recent conversation Beth and I had about our children, she asked me what my
connection was like with my boys.  She wondered what it felt like to be a
mom of autism, and how the disorder affected the bond between a mother and
child.  I had to take pause and think about this question, because in all
my many, many conversations about my kids, this question had never before been
asked of me.  How does autism affect our bond?  Do we even have a
bond?

I
know that we do have a bond, even if sometimes it’s hard to describe, or even
for me to feel.  My boys need me, at the primal level that a baby needs
its mother, but also at an emotional and spiritual level.  They need the
security, the love, the faith that I give them.  Their need makes me feel
loved, even if they hardly ever show me.  I know that when they are having
a hard day they need me to understand, and when they calm down due to my
understanding, their peace shows me their love.  The angst leaving their
face is my reward for another day of persevering.

In
some ways I feel blessed that my first born has autism, as do his brothers,
because I don’t really, truly know what I’m missing out on.  When I say
that my son and I are bonded, it’s because once we had a moment where he had
peace, looked me in the eye and told me he loved me.  But that only
happened once, and while I’d love it to be every day, once is still enough.

I
have heard that other mothers experience hugs and smiles and amazing conversations,
but I do not.  I do see the world through their eyes, and even though that
world is mysterious and sometimes finite, it makes me notice the wind more than
most moms.  Or the ant, and his mission from the grass to the ant hill.
Or the floating leaf, and its path down the street, over the house and
around the corner, watching it long after it has disappeared from sight.
These things may have gone unnoticed if they were "typical", in
their place a talk about the kids’ day at school or for a round of Go Fish or
bedtime stories, but most of the time I prefer the wind, or the ant, or the
leaf.  Those things touch me and remind me of life and its perfect
creation and place in this world.

As
my boys progress slowly, day by day, I continue to get a tiny glimpse of who
they are, and that they’ve been inside themselves all along.  And I see
that their love for me, too, was waiting inside their hearts the whole time.
So for now, the fleeting eye contact continues to give me butterflies in
my belly, because seeing their eyes, their souls, is such a rarity for me.
But I know they see me, feel me and know my love deeper than I realize.
And that is a bond that exists whether I feel it or not, and so I sit and
wait.  And try today, to catch their eye once more.

***

Arianne
also blogs at her personal blog To
Think Is To Create, and you can subscribe to her
blog here.   

Today’s guest writer makes me giddy.  Not all that long ago I told this person that I could print out every e-mail she has ever sent and print every comment she has ever written and I would have the most beautiful book to read, anytime I wanted. Sharon, from Mom Generations (formally Pinks & Blues) is one of the most amazing women I have ever come across in my lifetime.  I am so fortunate to have her love and support in my life.  Her soul is so, so good.  This post is so beautiful, I will treasure it forever.

I was honored beyond words when Beth asked me to guest-host for her while she is
very, very busy cooking all of her meals ahead of time, wrapping individual and
group servings, and then placing them lovingly into the freezer… for, you
know, when she and her family move into their new home and need nourishing
feasts.  I mean, I have to do my own cooking and freezing too… but for Beth, I
will put that off for now.  Or, for eternity.

But seriously (yes, man can
live by pizza alone)… Beth said that I could blog about anything, anything
that I want, so I choose Beth. 

I met Beth at an extraordinarily
happy time.   Happiness radiated through each syllable of her every word.  She
had her beautiful family… but there was something of the miraculous going on. 
She was expecting twins.  Identical twin boys.  Little boys who were loved
beyond measure and anticipated beyond bounds.   There is a saying for happy
people… "The better part of happiness is to wish to be what you are."   

Well, Beth was what she wished to be, and she glowed.

I will
leave you with this perfect picture for a moment… and I will take you to an
assignment that I used to give my seniors when I taught high school English.  I
had them draw the "river" of their lives… the source, the banks, the
tributaries, the topography, the geography.  The rapids or whitewater or
waterfalls.  The bends, reaches and flow.  Were there dams, levees or canals? 
What did the river sound like?

Of course, I was always given a
very hard time with this assignment.  "Come on… that is impossible (substitute
stupid, sick, psycho)."  But at my gentle insistence (translation:  the threat
of a big fat "O"),  the artistic rivers formed.  And what was always interesting
were the waterfalls.  My students generally explained the waterfalls of their
lives as free-falls… changes that could not be avoided.  Changes that, well,
changed everything.  And using the logarithmic scale to classify the fall, most
were the most powerful… a 10.

A 10.  A fall like Niagara’s.

And
as Beth’s perfect river carried her in the glorious sunshine, she couldn’t have
seen the waterfall that changed everything.  The geography that didn’t look the
same.  The rapids that carried her so far and so fast from her happiness that
words cannot describe the pressure, the power, the turbulence.  Beth’s two baby
boys, James & Jake, had been lost. 

Her extraordinary joy became
lament.  Her tears became her river. 

Moments turned into hours.  Hours
turned into days.  Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months.  And
through this time, Beth has kept each and all of us who love her in her "boat"
on her river.  She has let us feel the rain.  We have seen the sun.  We have
cried. We have laughed.   It takes remarkable generosity to keep people "in"…
because people are often too timid to ask to be included in the processes that
we call grief and healing.  Beth does this for us.  Nearly every day. 

Beth is one of those brilliant women, who with her words, touches our
hearts and souls.  I have always said that only a brilliant writer can make
someone cry… and make someone laugh.  I have laughed out loud with Beth.  I
have cried her river. 

And now I will share the most pure act of love
and friendship that any woman could share with another.  Two weeks ago, my
dearest friend lost her first little granddaughter, Caroline, at birth. 
Caroline was born a baby angel.  With unthinkable grief, I turned to Beth.  At
first I hesitated because I did not want to burden Beth was such tragic news. 
But I found myself emailing her late one night, tears streaming from my eyes. 
Beth was there in an instant.  Beth’s divine reason and perfect nature and true
beneficence carried me through my darkest moments.  And I kept thinking over and
over… and my friend said to me… how can this woman who has experienced the
most unbearable pain imaginable have the solidity and strength of heart to
console in such a life-giving way?

I don’t know.  I just know she can. 

This is the Beth I know.

This is my friend. 

I love her
more deeply than I can express… and I am never at a loss for words (just ask
my kids)!

And you know the most fascinating thing of all?  I have never
met Beth face-to-face.  I don’t know the color of her eyes or how the sun may
make her hair shine.  I don’t know how tall she is or how long her arms are in
an embrace.

I know Beth through our blogs.  Through her words.  Her
honest, funny, deep, expressive, powerful, beautiful words. 

Beth, who
knows that the softest breeze, the littlest flower, the most unique traffic
sign, the greasiest hamburger or the coldest Miller Lite make happiness. 

Beth, whose great river has so many, many tributaries.  These
tributaries are all of us.

I love you, Beth!  Happy moving!