Kelle, Author at Enjoying the Small Things

Weekend Highs.

May 2, 2010 By Kelle

If days of the week are ice cream flavors, then Monday’s about a vanilla and leads up the flavor wheel respectively until the weekend which is definitely a Peanut Buster Parfait. It’s nutty and chocolatey and melts into sweet puddles of milky swirls that pool at the bottom of the cup.

I love weekends.

I love sunshine that fingers its way through curtain openings and wakes us with its happy plea to join it for coffee on the lanai and pajama trike rides in the driveway. I like my girl’s crazy hair that twists into wild tufts of spun sugar overnight and stays that way until our bath.

It was the perfect weekend. Nowhere to be in the morning so we lazily moved about, refilling coffee cups and lying around in sun spots, playing with babies and dogs and taking breakfast short orders.

We’ve tested just about every ‘waterhole’ in the house for Nella’s baths, alternating between tubs and sinks until we found her favorite–safe and secure nestled into the small bowl of the bathroom sink with folded towel cushions and Burt’s Bees bubbles. She loves it.

She fits perfectly and snugly, and the sight of her little froglegs curled up in that pool of water with her drippy lashes and rosebud lips and the way she coos when I wring out the washcloth with warm water that rains down on her little cherub cheeks…well, I wish I could share that with every scared pregnant mama out there who knows she’s getting a little something extra too. It’s pure loveliness and just the kind of love I thought I was going to have.

This weekend brought its usual loveliness with sunscreen-greased cheeks and sweaty babies. We had company and stayed up late sipping wine and swapping stories, and I cooked–like really-good cooked–pasta with homemade alfredo sauce and lemon caper chicken yesterday and taco soup and biscuits today. Brett washed cars in the sun today to the sounds of the Zac Brown Band humming from the little beat-up radio in the garage while rivers of sudsy water rinsed out faded chalk stains on the driveway. And the sprinkler once again proved its worth as it double-dutied drenching parched, brown grass spots and sun-kissed blonde pigtails simultaneously.

We were blessed to celebrate the birthdays of two of our sweet friends this weekend.
Chase turned one…and I’ll never forget walking in the delivery room just minutes after this sweet boy tasted his first breaths one beautiful year ago.

And our bud, Samantha, turned two and celebrated today with an Elmo party at the park.

And I could not stop laughing at this scene…

Elmo just showed up and walked across the park to the party under the pavilion and it was hilarious watching him make his way there–like he was just there, taking a walk and happened to say ‘hi.’ Lainey was glued to my hip during his stay, but she did manage to shake his hand…and was very proud for doing so. Me shake Elmo’s hand was the first thing she told her daddy when we got home.

In traditional Hampton fashion, I ran through the house fifteen minutes before the party, scrounging for some kid wrapping paper. We found none. We did, however, find some nice Christmas paper which rocked out nicely with a white bow.

If weekends are Peanut Buster Parfaits, then celebrating a little’s birthday on a weekend is the heaping dollop of whipped cream on top and watching them play and grin and drink in each others’ company? Well, that’s the cherry.

High on life. Because it’s delicious and grand and missing out on loving it would be such a pity.

“I will not die an unlived life. I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire. I choose to inhabit my days, to allow my living to open me, to make me less afraid, more accessible, to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch, a promise. I choose to risk my significance; to live so that which comes to me as seed goes to the next as blossom and that which comes to me as blossom, goes on as fruit.”
-Dawna Markova (thanks again, KC)

The Corridor, Part II

April 30, 2010 By Kelle

by Poppa
(continued from Part I)

Kelle has more than impressed me with her photography. I especially appreciate the subtle adjustments she makes with the lens to focus on one element and send all the rest into an ambient blur. So it was when I stepped into the birthing room. Moments ago it was filled with such abandon and joy. Now it seemed so still. The only thing in focus to me was my daughter’s face as she held our new gift, amplified by the echo of the nurse’s words “She wants her dad.” Everything and everyone else slipped into a blur. The glisten in her eyes told me there were tears. And she wore a smile…not the smile I so often saw on this happy soul. No, this was the smile reminiscent of the little girl years ago who tried to muster a smile after a deep hurt. This was a pained smile. The smile was for me; the pain was for us all.

Her voice, as she began the six words that would forever change our lives,
was apologetic…almost an appeal. An appeal to accept, to love, to receive.

“They think she has Down syndrome….” were her words—no softening preface, no commentary after…just fading down to the smile still sending its plea to accept the news and the sweet one she was snuggling close. While something within me wanted to cry to the heavens, “No….” a softer yet stronger voice simply said, “Well, we love her…she’s our gift.”

Other words were spoken, I am sure, but I don’t remember them. I was reordering myself—walking around in my mind, looking for doors to be opened, finding them only in my heart. I just wanted to hold my baby and have everyone else go away. I wanted to begin to feel what this was and where we were going. And then I heard my daughter’s voice again, as she lifted Nella toward me, asking, “Can you pray?” And my throat suddenly burned as my arms moved without thought to cradle this little one who fit so beautifully in them. And I suddenly just wanted to thank God for her…for all of her…for what we knew and what we didn’t know. And I wonder if gratitude is the uniformed doorman of the heart needing to be healed. I do know tears must improve vision, for Nella looked even more beautiful through my weeping eyes.

I am not sure when or how I arrived back there, but I stepped back into the corridor. Kelle had asked me to call Brett’s Dad and Donna Nana and tell them…she wasn’t sure Brett could quite yet. And she wanted me to call all my family, tell them and ask them to pray. She wanted everyone in the corridor to know…now.

Like tidewaters fingering up the beach, the news spread. Words were shared, tears were released and friends connected in embrace all down the corridor. These beautiful friends—who moments ago looked like a casting call for Sex and the City as they crowded into Kelle’s room—now cared nothing about running mascara or those really face-distorting sobs. All this, I thought, was Nella’s welcoming embrace…it was her first glimpse of her loving “family.” It was good.

Brett joined us in the corridor. Strong, sure and solid, he had been Kelle’s rock in the birthing room. His first question there, after hearing the pediatrician, Dr. Foley’s strong suspicion, was to ask, “Well, we can take her home can’t we?” That is classic Brett. Home is his Command Central. It is “The Bridge” of his USS Enterprise. It is where he sets his strategies for life and solves his problems. He needed to get his baby home and all would fall into place. But for the moment, he needed the corridor. I remember seeing him and Poppa Gary—two non-criers, holding each other and actually shaking as they wept…no words, no consoling comments, just shared tears between silent souls. Weeping in a safe corridor. The embrace of tears ended without a sound. The two stepped apart and Brett spoke. They weren’t profound words about destiny and accepting the challenges of life. They were practical words about a decision to stay the course of celebration and welcome a present that was present:
“We need more champagne…more people are coming” (he knew the rescuing troops would quickly be deployed). Wise words. Good plan.

And then he broke my heart. I don’t know why his simple words and daddy plans caught me off guard, but they did. Maybe it was the timing. Maybe it was the wounded-soldier-struggling-to-raise-the-flag image I seemed to see. Maybe it was how very important this was to him. In these first moments of life after Nella, Brett asked Gary to look for one of those big pink stork lawn signs used to announce a baby’s arrival—as big as he could find. He wanted it on his lawn. He wanted it there soon. And pink balloons when Nella came home. Lots of them. This is so Brett. This is why I love him so.

From there, it was in and out of the corridor to the room where Kelle and Nella were. No one told us to close the door between. We just did. We did because we needed it closed—we needed our backstage. It was where Kelle’s friends cried. It was where secret strategies of support were arranged. It was where honest cell phone conversations were connected and we could say words and express feelings we couldn’t yet in that room. It was where we could be broken and be put back together. It was where we could greet the just-arriving, receive them in our arms and send them into the room and onto the stage.

And then…after some time and what seemed a hundred friends’ arrival later— about the time a quick transfer to a post-partum room upstairs was to be made—it seemed we were done with the corridor. We didn’t need it any more. What was happening IN the room seemed real and even relaxed now. Oh, there would be new arrivals still and there would be tearful reunions, but the two realms seemed to be blending like dawn blends night and day. Nella’s world now knew. The champagne run had been made. And a very large pink stork was on its way to the yard of a very pretty little girl and her new family. She was here now—and her little loveliness was even seeping into the corridor.

As I helped those who were enlisted to pack up the bags and bundles of the very well-planned Welcome Nella Celebration onto wheelchairs and shelved carts for the move upstairs, I watched Kelle take one last look at the birthing room that brought her more than a baby. I followed the parade to the elevator and, before boarding turned for my own farewell glimpse—of the corridor. Yes, we were now done with the corridor—with its little alcove where I had paced while talking on my cell phone to Brett’s dad and my family, with its tiled floor where I saw Jeff and Heidi, hugging, slumped and weeping and then on their phone to help fly Kelle’s sister down and with its long window where I saw dads and grandparents I didn’t know greet friends they did with laughter and levity. Yes, I was leaving our consoling corridor and it was ok. Even the little lighted arrow on the button by the elevator reminded me…we were going up.

Once again, I am brought back to that evening and the pain becomes more beautiful every time I go there. If I could go through that evening again–even the rawest, most painful parts–I would, in a heartbeat. It changed me and, in the end, we get Nella. How cool. Thank you, Dad. I love you. Yes, Up we go. Can’t wait to see the view from the 31st floor.

The Corridor

April 29, 2010 By Kelle

I asked my dad awhile ago to write what happened throughout Nella’s birth from his account. I wanted to know what happened behind the doors of that beautiful room where our girl was welcomed. I am told many different stories from the friends and family that gathered there before they entered our room.

He finally did it…wrote it all down and sent me the first part last night. And I, with tears, read it and remembered all the love.

This is his account.

The Corridor.
By Poppa

If you have ever been in theatre, you can draw from your memory…the backstage. It is awfully real. It is filled with the props and backdrops of all the theatre that has occurred and will occur…on stage. It is the antithesis of the other side of the velvet curtains. It is comfortably unkempt. It is gritty and unmagical, honest and blemished. It is raw. It is where the last minute checks of the tattered script are made. It is where we ask each other how we look and turn to have another once-over of our costume. It is where we cough and clear our throats away from the audience and rehearse again our memorized lines. It is where our expressions can be flat and faces sour until we step on stage where, with exaggerated smiles and pumped up expressions we project with rich resonance our character voice.

Such was the first floor corridor of The Birthing Center of Naples Community Hospital on the evening of January twenty-second, two thousand and ten. It was our backstage, our barrier reef, our solace in the storm.

The corridor was first just the space we quickly walked through to enter the anticipated enchantment of an already loved baby’s debut. I remember arriving. I was wearing my black polo shirt on which I had carefully iron-appliquéd POPPA in rhinestones.

Silly me, I had brought my Nikon D40, knowing it would be like a child’s play camera in comparison to the equipment of the pretty-girl paparazzi I knew would be in the room. My heart was skipping beats and I was the usual close-to-tears I generally am when in those intensely wonderful moments with my children. I had never actually witnessed the birth of a grandchild and was only here at the insistence of my Kelle-girl. I would be positioning myself carefully…
to be there for the first glimpses of the baby out-of-the-chute…with the operative timing and visual perspective being “out-of-the-chute.”

There was a festive mood in the room, with that rapid cadence conversation of gal-pals, punctuated by laughter and all appearing like a music video with the music in the background being the steady underwater sound of a baby’s heartbeat on the fetal monitor. The room was filled with the signs of preparation…the little favors awaiting first guests, hand lettered champagne toast glasses, small flameless candles and music subtly competing with the din.

Things began to move quickly, like planets aligning for some cosmic event. I saw the bed broken down and stirrup braces suddenly emerge. The obstetrician and nurses stepped into position. Paper sheets like sails unfurled. Faces and friends, like guests at a wedding awaiting the bride’s entrance, formed an arc around my daughter. I was deeply moved with the welcome assembled for my new and precious granddaughter whose name I already knew and was whispering in my heart.

Swiftly she arrived. Almost instantly we heard her little voice. Just before she stepped into the world, I had called my niece and Kelle’s kindred cousin, Joann, on my cell phone and she was, in Michigan, part of that circle hearing Nella’s first sweet Hello!

Ooohs and ahhs spread like a wave around the room. With everyone’s “She’s so cute!” and “She’s beautiful!” the resounding message, I remember being almost annoyed with Kelle’s sober, “Is she alright? Her nose looks smooshed.” I quickly assured her she was just fine, and had my answer amended by Katie, the nurse, who explained something about a posterior birth and that, yes, her nose might appear a little flattened but it would pop up with time. Only then did I even see anything but a perfect little nose—which incidentally did pop up with time. Kelle’s queries would continue.

It was probably thirty minutes of jubilant and detailed birth reviews later that it was announced Dr. Foley was here and would now do the new baby examination. It was then, we would be directed to…the corridor. Still light and laughing, we stepped out one by one…like a team that was winning taking a break to the locker room. I can recall hearing Kelle ask Dot, the nurse, as I walked away, “Why is Dr. Foley here? Did you call her in? Is everything alright?”

By then, we were in the corridor. We positioned ourselves all over. Excited reviews of how swift and smooth the delivery was were shared. I-phones seemed in every hand, as the glad news was called out and texted. I remember being amazed that there were more in this amazing circle of friends than were in the room…and they were all awaiting word.

I don’t know when the corridor boredom turned to worry. I don’t know how long we were there. Working in a hospital, I began to be concerned. I could hear nothing through the heavy wooden fire door that separated the birthing room and my babies from…the corridor. It seemed too long. It seemed too quiet. I later would learn that others in the corridor were watching me. My face was telling.

I didn’t have many moments to wrestle with worry in the corridor. I heard the heavy latch release and saw the door open and my eyes…all eyes…met with the somber face of the nurse I knew least. Her voice had a faint tone of sadness. While her words were few, they spoke volumes…of a chapter we did not want to open. She simply said… “She wants her dad.”

The rest of his account coming tomorrow.