Thompson Says

family, fashion, teaching, and everything in between

School-Mom Lesson #462: Read the dang folder

In my house, routines are the key to my sanity. Our mornings are planned to the second, and our afternoons run like clockwork. Last night, I made the commitment to working out this morning at 5:15am like I used to… Just give it a try to see if I could make it fit into my already chaotic morning.

I laid out my workout clothes and my work clothes last night. I planned what I would send with Aubrey for her school lunch. I ensured my husband knew the plan and his part in making it work. And I went to bed early.

I am actually going to pull this off- and get bikini ready for summer in the process.

4:30am, I popped up to my alarm, excited about getting back on track with my fitness. Out the door and into the gym I strolled, early for my first workout of the year. Knowing I had to be home by 5:50am to keep my morning on track, I left my workout class a little early and headed home.

Upon arrival at home, I was pleased that my husband was holding up his end of the routine as he soon thereafter left to pick up our nanny. Before hopping in the shower, I made Aubrey’s breakfast and strawberry milk, placed her wet paper towel by her plate and tuned the tv to her favorite cartoons. With a quick glance at the clock, I headed into her room to wake her up. 6:01- pretty perfect timing. I got her settled on the couch, and Maycee who woke up, too- collateral damage, but not going to ruin the routine. Both girls were in good moods and happy (shockingly might I add), so I confidently jumped in the shower.

I am rocking this mom thing today.

6:25- I’m dressed, made-up, perfumed, lotioned, deodorized, and hairsprayed. Right on track. I packed Aubrey’s lunch, and then proceeded to the couch to get the princess dressed, her teeth brushed, and decorate her hair with braids and bows.

6:38- 3 minutes late, but still in arrive-before-the-first-bell territory. Aubrey and I load the car and drive to my mom’s for our morning drop-off. We walk up to the door, backpack and lunch kit in tote, to be confronted with a locked door.

That’s weird. Mimi knows we are coming.

Knock, knock, knock.

My pajama-wearing mom opens the door with a look of surprise.

You know they don’t have school today, right? 

*insert face-to-palm emoji and momoftheyear hashtag

Yes, the holiday was announced in Aubrey’s take-home folder weeks ago. Yes, I probably saw it, but I don’t remember reading it. I’m doing well to make sure she comes home on green and does her homework every week. Now, I have to read the bulletins, too?

I’m really just kidding. I want to read them. It is just that after bath time and book time and don’t hit your sister time and no you can’t have candy for dinner time, I run out of time to read the school bulletin.

I think God may have cracked a smile at my shortcoming today because when I got home from work, some 21-year-old model was on Ellen talking about her goals when she moved to LA, which included being on the cover of Vogue and being on Ellen. I couldn’t help but think My what a different world she lives in.

You know what my goal is? Only take my daughter to school on actual school days, not holidays. That’s what I call #winning. Or at least #progress.


Resolution #1- Read until my eyes hurt

One of my resolutions this year is to rekindle my love affair with books. As an English teacher, you would think I had oodles of time to read. Wrong. Until diving headfirst into Reader’s Writer’s Workshop this semester, time to read was as scarce as winter weather in Texas this year. Now, I’m in full workshop mode in my classes, which means I get to read with my kids everyday! 10 minutes at the beginning of every class, every single day! And guess what? My kids are just as excited about it as I am! 
So when 2017 hit, like my kids, I set a reading goal– My personal goal is to read about one book every week and a half. I plan to read 15 books before this school year ends, and I’m taking you along for the wild literary ride!

As of 1/12, I am one book closer to my goal. I finished The Swans of Fifth Avenue by Melanie Benjamin–even though I welcomed many distractions in those last 30 pages because I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. You know that feeling? When you can sense a book is winding down… it turns philosophical, and you feel that tug in your heart because you know it is ending, and you’ll have to say goodbye to the characters, and you know you’ll miss them; you always do. Well, this book was no different. 

All I can say is that if you have any kind of fascination with New York, high fashion, high society, or Truman Capote and other celebrities of the time, this historical fiction book is for YOU! Growing up, one of my favorite movies to watch with my mom was Breakfast at Tiffany’s (written by Truman Capote), and one of my favorite books is To Kill a Mockingbird (written by Harper Lee- childhood friend to Truman Capote, whom the character Dill in the novel is supposedly modeled after). I also have always been drawn to the idea of New York- so naturally, this book screamed “Pick me!” from The Biggest Historical Fiction Books of 2016

It didn’t disappoint. I found myself wanting more throughout the ENTIRE book. Benjamin tells the story of Truman Capote and his “Swans”, as he called them- Babe Paley, Slim Keith, and the other “it” women of New York in the 1950’s. The novel follows Truman’s career and focuses specifically on his special relationship with Babe Paley, wife of Bill Paley, CEO of CBS, and reveals the controversy surrounding Capote’s final story that proved to be his demise. Benjamin blends historically accurate facts with fictional dialogue and details to create a masterful plot that puts you in the middle of the gossip with the most popular clique of the time. 

I’m sad it is over because Truman Capote was such a richly colorful character- I mean obviously the brain behind the Holly Golightly had to be a little quirky, right? 

But, as much as I want to wallow in my grief over the loss of Babe and Truman, I don’t have time. I’ve got a lot of characters to meet and places to explore. 

It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Christmas is fast-approaching, and we are in full Santa swing at the Thompson house. Christmas lights are hung on the roof, garland is spread throughout the living room, and glitter is EVERYWHERE. Yep. It certainly is the most wonderful time of the year.

Christmas is one of the major reasons I had kids–to carry on the warm and fuzzy traditions my parents shared with my siblings and me as kids– Bing Crosby playing as we decorated the Christmas Tree, matching my sisters in itchy dresses for what seemed like the entire Christmas season, repetitively thumbing through JCPenney and ToysRUs catalogs circling our most wanted items and then writing them on lists so Santa and Mom could easily read them, helping Mom decorate with her Christmas AnnaLee dolls, watching my dad hang the Christmas lights– never forgetting the hand crafted star of lights on the front of our house, attending Midnight Mass and then eating at Waffle House (Dad’s favorite), curling up on the couch next to Mom to watch Meet Me in St. Louis and White Christmas every night, waking early on Christmas morning and waiting on the stairs while Dad got his huge video camera set to record– the thing was so big, it rested on his shoulder, took a VHS tape on the side, and had an eyepiece that came off the front and bent around to the eye, eating around the family table with my brother, sisters, Mom, Dad, and whichever dog we had at the time, laughing and smiling and loving life. I love Christmas because of these memories, and I want nothing more than to bestow that same blessing to my girls.

I have already introduced most of these traditions to my girls, while adding a few of our own along the way. We watched Meet Me in St. Louis  and White Christmas last night and on Saturday, we decorated our Christmas tree while Bing Crosby crooned in the background– when his songs were over, I added my own tradition of NSYNC’s Christmas album.

Last week, I sat down with the girls to make their wish lists for Santa, and what I got could not be more communicative of their two distinct personalities if I had written them myself.


Aubrey, my “no, I don’t want to wear that, I want to wear this, don’t you think I look cute, I dressed myself and applied three coats of lip gloss, I am bringing an extra headband just in case, I need to wear my dance shoes every time music comes on, cartwheels and handstand perfecting” four-and-a-half-year-old specifically requested the following:

  1. Rainbow rain boots
  2. A rainbow unicorn bicycle with a bag on the front so I can video all of the stuff I can put in the bag when I ride my bicycle
  3. A baby doll that walks and talks and closes her eyes when she lies down in her bed
  4. A Barbie Dreamhouse with three beds and a garage where I can park my Barbie car
  5. A gymnastics mat with hand and feet prints for cartwheels so I don’t have to use a blanket anymore

Oh is that all?  I will get right on that… But seriously, where do moms of picky kids who know exactly what they want shop? No really? How am I going to make all of these incredibly specific wishes come true for her? I really hope Santa can come through on this one.

On the other hand, Maycee Jo, my “yes I suck my toe, you gotta problem with it, I have two names because one can’t contain me, take me with you, chicken nuggets rule my world unless you have popsicles, do I have to wear pants and shoes, go with the flow, talk to EVERY SINGLE stranger everywhere we go” two-and-a-half-year-old simply asked for the following:

  1. Balls

That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. Done. Mom of the year in this one’s eyes for sure!

I laugh at their lists, but I know I probably had lists that looked very similar. Well, if I am being honest, my lists definitely looked a lot more like Aubrey’s than Maycee’s. I can’t tell you if I got everything I ever asked for. I know my mom and dad tried really hard. What I do remember is the way Christmas made me feel every single year and continues to make me feel well into my own adult life.

I know this year will be no different. Christmas Eve will come, and we will load up for church–taking up an entire pew and maybe half of another. Maycee will get restless and talk way too loudly. The people around us will laugh, and I’ll turn red with embarrassment. Santa will walk down the aisle and bow in front of Baby Jesus in the manger, and my eyes will fill with tears at the beautiful sight. We will go home, join hands in prayer around the feast we have prepared and eat until our tummies ache. The kids will run and scream and beg to open their gifts from Mimi and PawPaw. PawPaw will walk around with his video camera (much smaller than the one of the 90s), catching us all at a bad angle or inopportune time, but we’ll stop what we are doing to embarrassingly wave to him–humoring his need to capture the moments every year. We will remind the kids to leave cookies, milk, and carrots for Santa and his reindeer and to sleep well so Santa can leave their presents by the tree. We will load up once again and head home for the night. We will all wake Christmas morning and witness the magic of Christmas through our children’s eyes. And what magic it is.


My Christmas list has changed significantly over the years. I really only want two things: that my girls grow up understanding the true meaning of Christmas–the birth of Christ on that Holy Night that truly is the reason for the celebration, and that one day, they will share our family Christmas traditions with their own families, fondly remembering the warmth of Christmases past like I do.

Thankful for my kids–all of them

I didn’t get to go to my daughter’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and Feast Friday because…well, work.

You see, in education, employees aren’t allowed to take off the day before a holiday. And when do preschools and elementary schools plan their holiday parties? You got it- the day before a holiday break.

I waited to tell her—waited until she asked. All week, I knew it was coming. So Thursday, as I walked through the door from work, and she greeted me with glee shouting, “Mommy, tomorrow is my parade! You’re coming, right?” I wasn’t surprised in the least. Ugh. Dagger through the heart. Lump in the throat. Punch in the gut. It took everything within me not to give in to those big brown eyes and ignore the rules just this once so I could tell her what she wanted to hear, “Yes, of course I am coming! I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

But that would’ve been a lie. I was going to miss it. And it didn’t even take the world to make that happen. So, instead, I swallowed that temptation and said softly, “No, baby, I can’t come. I wish I could, but I have to work.” Heartbreak furrowed her brow and rolled down her lip, so I quickly followed up with, “But Daddy will be there! And Mimi, too! Daddy is even cooking the turkey!” Her face grew slightly less devastated and she said, “Ok, Mommy” and walked away.


Being a parent is hard. Being a working parent is really hard. I don’t always get to be there. Moments like these make me wish I could give it all up so I could be there all the time. But I know that isn’t what I want either. I have a job for a reason. I love my job. I really do. Does it have its bad days? Of course. But it has its “change your world” days, too. Friday was one of those days.

As a teacher, I spend my days with other people’s children for eight hours Monday through Friday. 170 kids every year. I get to teach them how to read, write, and think critically about literature. I get to watch them rejoice when they finally grasp a new concept. I get to witness them pour their hearts and souls on pages of essays that reveal the incredible strength some of them possess.

In the process, I also get to show my daughter that women have purpose in the work field, and if she chooses to pursue a career with passion, there is no stopping her.

So, when I realized the obstacles present to attend her Thanksgiving Feast, I had to make a really hard choice. Something in my gut told me to go to work Friday. First of all, I am a rule follower. The thought of getting in trouble for a deliberate choice plagues my conscience with anxiety. Second of all, I respect my principal a whole heck of a lot. Taking off would be disobeying his authority and putting him in a tough spot, which I just won’t do. So I went to work.

As I turned the corner approaching my classroom, God showed me the real reason that little voice in the back of my mind was telling me to go to work. One of my seniors sat outside my classroom door.

Pause—Let me tell you about this kid. He spent most of last year by his dad’s hospital bed after working his tail off at school all day. Over the summer, he lost his dad to that long battle with illness. This kid inspires me. He is kind, compassionate, bright, optimistic, and genuine. Forever will this kid be in my heart.

Unpause—I walk up to him and ask what’s up. He says he needs to talk to me. He takes a folded paper from his backpack and follows me into my classroom. Here is the gist of what he said next:

Mrs. Thompson, yesterday the video about teachers being thankful for their students and vice versa really got me. When my dad was alive, he taught me to “trust the process.” He always said the worst part of being sick wasn’t the pain; it was knowing he wouldn’t be here to teach me lessons anymore. He wouldn’t get to see me graduate or see me off to college. But we had to “trust the process.” Today, I want you to know that my dad’s lessons are still with me and through people like you, they are carried on. I have to think the process brought me to your class. I am so thankful for you, so I wrote you this letter, but…it is blank because there are no words that could sufficiently express how thankful I am for you.

Wow—what an incredible young man. He had mustered up the courage and taken the time to tell me thank you. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but all I could manage through my tears was, “Thank you. Your dad sure did an excellent job raising a remarkable young man.”

That, my friends is why God wanted me at work Friday. And that is why I do what I do. I get to come to work every day and MAKE A DIFFERENCE. Even when I have no idea the difference I am making. I get to meet kids like this one who make the world a better place and make me want to come to work every day.

I cannot tell you how many people have told me they don’t want their children to be teachers because they don’t make enough money or the education system is terrible or whatever their reason may be. And while they are right—I make half of what I should for the time and effort I put in, and yes, the education system is flawed— it doesn’t matter. What does matter are the children sitting in the desks in my classroom who feel loved because I have taken the time to know them and care about their education and their well-being. The children walking the hallways who go home to an empty house with no food, so school is their safe place. The children who come from sheltered homes who have never known heartache, but yearn to belong. The children who are caught in the middle of their parents’ fighting and anger only to be bounced back and forth from home to home like a ping-pong ball. The children who hide scars from hurting themselves thinking it might help them escape from the reality of their lives. The children who have experienced loss so great that they aren’t sure they can continue on, but see a light in a teacher like me who promises to listen if they need to talk or sit silently if they just need to be. Those are the reasons my job matters.

So yes, I missed my daughter’s Thanksgiving Feast, and it probably won’t be the last one I will have to miss. I received pictures of her all day from my sisters and husband who did attend the party. Just like these two:


And when work was over, I came home and showered her with love and affection, and taking a page from my student’s book, I told her I am thankful for her because she makes my life better. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a bag of candy, “Here Mommy, I saved this for you from the parade. I love you.” I think she is going to be just fine.

A lesson from my 4-year-old daughter

Parenting teaches you a lot of things. Like how much you value alone time. How to love unconditionally. What your own parents must’ve felt all the time. How to be overly specific in directions so that no confusion can be possible. Who am I kidding? That last one never happens. But nonetheless, just when you think you have reached adulthood and have all of this wisdom to impart upon the apples of your eye, BAM! They turn around and teach you more than you ever realized they would. This week has brought with it some particularly valuable lessons from my oldest, double-dose-of-independence-daughter, Aubrey.

Earlier this school year, Aubrey had pictures for PreK-4. Excited about the opportunity to dress up and smile pretty, she and I set out on a shopping adventure to find the perfect outfit. And perfect outfit we found- a teal green and white striped turtleneck swing dress with the cutest brown floral belt. She would top it off with her favorite pair of boots. Not only did she have the perfect outfit, she also had the chance to show off her new bob haircut. All was right with the world.

Fast forward one month to the day her pictures came home in her folder. We went out to eat that night as a family, so I had to wait until right before bedtime to see her pictures. I had seen all of her cousins’ beautiful pictures posted on Facebook, so I knew they were sitting at home in her backpack awaiting my oohs and aahs. Imagine my shock when I opened the folder to see the adorable smile I recognized, the perfect teal and white stripes on the turtleneck we had picked, and a foreign plaid headband I had not purchased for her nor planned as part of picture day holding her hair back from her face.

Confused by the added accessory, I called to her and asked why she wore the plaid headband in her picture.

“I wanted to, Mommy.”


Immediately, I called my sister to ask when retakes would occur. In my mind, she had to take new pictures as the plaid headband messed everything up. After all, I spent $40 on these pictures, and she would forever be remembered in the yearbook as the little girl who wore the headband that didn’t match her outfit…and she possibly stole (I’m still not sure where it came from).


Now, let me pause for a second to add, she is absolutely beautiful in the picture- mismatched headband or not.  The part that posed difficulty for me was that she had added to our perfectly planned outfit- without asking me.

I think as a working mom, I experience guilt that I probably shouldn’t but do nevertheless. I leave every morning before she gets up and goes to school. We do hair and lay out clothes the night before, but sometimes bedhead happens, and I’m not there to fix it. Sometimes, I get caught up in working late and forget to check her folder, missing the announcement that she is responsible for snack this week, and our pantry is bare. I don’t take her to school or pick her up from school. Working moms often have to miss Thanksgiving parties and Christmas parades and Pumpkin Patch activities and field trips. This school picture was one more reminder that I don’t get to be there all the time.

As our family gathered this weekend as we so often do, the pictures came out and everyone loved Aubrey’s precious smile. What they loved even more was the story behind the headband- how totally Aubrey to find a way to add her own stylistic flair to what Mommy had planned for her. That’s when it hit me. I had been so caught up in the “imperfection” of the picture, I had failed to notice the statement my little one was making. She wanted to wear the headband, so she did. She didn’t give it a second thought. I was the problem in the equation, not her (or the headband).


Therefore, no retakes are in our near future. Her pictures are absolutely, perfectly Aubrey.

I would love to say that after this, I won’t stifle her independence ever again, but I don’t think I could make it through that statement with a straight face. However, I am working on it. I am working on understanding that everything doesn’t have to be “perfect” by some arbitrary standards all the time. If I stopped thinking about how many things aren’t “perfect,” I would realize just how many things are.

The Things I Carry

“They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.” – The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien

My AP seniors have been reading The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien over the last three weeks.  Teaching the book has brought forward two very major revelations for me:

  1. Stories are our paths to our past. They keep those who have left us alive- not in body, but in spirit.
  2. We all carry so much more than we realize- both tangible and intangible.

Through the course of reading this powerful book, I have stopped to ponder the things I personally carry.

  1. My Aggie ring- a symbol for the countless hours I spent studying and reading and at Northgate with friends and standing during every second of Aggie football games and bleeding maroon and giving t-sips the horse laugh and beating the hell out of our opponent that week and sharing my love and pride for all things Texas A&M
  2. My engagement ring- beautifully designed by my husband and presented on Thanksgiving Day 2009 and blessed in the church on December 4, 2010 forming an unbreakable bond between the two of us ’til death do us part
  3. My two wedding bands- one to represent each of our daughters
    1. Aubrey Murl’s with simple, yet stunning diamonds in orderly rows to match her desire for everything to be according to her plan
    2. Maycee Jo’s with an alternating pattern of round and rectangular diamonds to showcase her big personality that changes with the wind
  4. My wallet with too many credit cards and not enough cash
  5. Sometimes I carry a backpack with me to school filled with everything I need to be a good teacher:
    1. Mechanical pencils
    2. Student papers- some I have graded, most I have not
    3. Annotated copies of what we are reading in class currently
    4. My laptop and charger
  6. Other times I carry an Anna and Elsa backpack with diapers, wipes, and snacks…all the snacks.
  7. The book I’m currently reading- you never know when the opportunity will present itself to turn a page or two
  8. My cell phone in case of emergencies- like when Maycee decides dinner is taking too long at the restaurant and needs a distraction from her screaming.
  9. The lipstick or lip gloss I am wearing that day…and the one from yesterday and the day before.
  10. My sunglasses- when I remember them- because the Texas sun is brutal all year long.

Beyond these tangible items I carry on the daily lie the things I carry that people can’t see.  These are the things that weigh so much more than the physical things I carry, and these are the things that make me who I am- even if some of them are pretty tough to carry.

  1. Mom guilt of whether I am making the right choices for my girls- like the choice not to force my two-year-old to stop sucking her toe or my four-year-old to sleep in her own room.
  2. The haunting loss of our first baby
  3. Sadness that none of my grandparents were alive to see me marry the man of my dreams
  4. Memories of my childhood that fill me with nostalgia that hurts because I can’t ever go back in time
  5. Regret that I didn’t follow my earliest dream into the world of fashion
  6. Embarrassment that I use technology to entertain my girls when I just need a break.
  7. Fear that my parents will not be here forever, and that I haven’t said all I want to say to them yet
  8. Stress from the tiring efforts I put into teaching my students in the best way I know how, all the while worrying that it isn’t enough
  9. Frustration that nothing is ever “done”—there is always something else to do
  10. Immense pressure to not make mistakes—or even worse, not to learn from them

However, the beautiful thing about life is that while I could focus on the heaviness of these burdens I carry with me everywhere I go, I could also focus on the things I carry that warm my heart with love and fill my soul with joy.  Those are the things I gladly carry daily to lead a blessed, fulfilled life that has surpassed my wildest dreams.

  1. The forgiving and unconditional love of my Lord, Jesus Christ, who sees in me imperfect perfection- even when I fall asleep in the middle of my nightly prayers
  2. Thoughtful gestures from my loving husband who has only wanted one thing in the twenty years he has known me- my happiness- even when I complain and whine about my day more than I should
  3. Hugs around the neck and squeaky “I love yous” from the two girls who give me worth and purpose- even after I have put both of them in timeout seven times in a row because my patience has run thin
  4. Protection and guidance from my loved ones in Heaven who watch me daily with pride and compassion
  5. The passionate thirst for knowledge that keeps me reading, writing, and searching with fury and ferocity
  6. A foundation so strong in genuine love- modeled by my parents and siblings who have stopped at nothing to stand behind me every day of my life
  7. Laughter and smiles from my circle of friends who keep me grounded and choose me time and time again, even despite my faults and flaws
  8. Words that float around in my head and spill on the paper allowing me to cope, process, and share
  9. Pride in watching my former students, but forever kids, march into their futures with vigor and confidence, finding their own voices and taking the world by storm
  10. Confidence in knowing that my life has been one filled with many more good times than bad, and gratitude because I am one of the lucky ones
  11. Excitement for what the future holds—brilliance and brightness shining from the numerous blessings coming my way

I hope that you will take the time to read the book by Tim O’Brien about the soldiers of Vietnam and the worlds they lived in before, during, and after the war.  It is such an important book not only to understand the war and soldiers who fought in it, but also to understand humanity and why we must continue to read and tell stories.  While you read it, I encourage you to stop and ponder the things you carry- both tangible and intangible- and search for a newfound appreciation for the life you have been given.

And so I leave you with this quote from The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien:

“…and for all the ambiguities of Vietnam, all the mysteries and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry.”


O’Brien, Tim. The Things They Carried. New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1990. Print.

What I’m loving right now

One of my favorite parts of the day is when I first wake up in the morning and pick out my outfit for the day.  In fact, some mornings, it is the only reason I can muster up the strength to actually get out of bed.  Let’s be real- I am a working mom of two precious, but often exhausting kiddos…ages 4 and 2.  #thismommaistired

Selecting my outfit usually begins with staring at my well-organized closet wondering which pieces will win the war that day.  This pensive period of time is almost always followed by several wardrobe changes.  After about three trips between my closet and the full length mirror, my husband shoots me “that look.”  The look that says, “Not again.  I just don’t get it.  What was wrong with the first outfit?”  Some mornings, when I let my perusing run too long, his look adds, “You know you wouldn’t be late to work if you didn’t change clothes ten thousand times.”  What does he know anyway?  The other day, he came out wearing plaid shorts and a striped polo.  Together.  With a straight face.  Thank goodness I stopped him before he hit the door. #whatwouldhedowithoutme

If it is a really good morning, one piece jumps out at me and becomes the foundation of my look.  Sometimes, if inspiration is sparse and grogginess prevails, I perform a quick search on Pinterest to find ideas about how to wear my #ootd.

I’m still recovering from grading over 400 essays this past weekend, so I was in desperate need of some serious #pinspiration this morning.  Lately, I have been feeling my army green skinny jeans.  When I searched Pinterest for “olive green pants outfit,” I found exactly what I needed to put together my super cute outfit.    **Side note: If you don’t have a pair of army green pants in your closet, drop what you are doing and get them.  They are seriously the cutest neutral for this Fall.**


My “Pinspiration” today


The look from my closet
I bought this top YEARS ago at Express (although they still have have it here) and the skinny jeans at Francesca’s toward the end of this summer.  I decided to top my look off with my black ankle booties for a Fall feel.

I consider it a total victory when my high school students, who are completely in tune with the hottest trends and styles, compliment my outfit.  One girl even went as far as to say that I am #lifegoals, and my outfit today was #onfleek.  Let me translate the teenager talk- I rocked my army green skinnies, polka dot blouse, and black ankle booties today. #micdrop

On a more serious note, I can’t wrap up this post until I take a moment to talk about this necklace.

I inherited this necklace from my grandmother, Dodo, when she passed away in 1997.  It has not only become one of my most prized possessions, but it is also a staple in my jewelry box.  I wear it when I want a piece that transcends all trends and never goes out of style.  I wear it when I want to feel her hug my neck.  I wear it when I know the day is going to be long and tough, and I need her strength.  I wear it so she can continue to see the world.  My world.  Just like her, this piece is timeless and will ALWAYS be a piece that I love…long after right now fades.



Forever Mine

I’ve known for a long time that I wanted to start a blog.  I have also known for a long time that this would be my first post.  Miscarriage and Stillborn Remembrance Day on October 15th allows me the perfect opportunity to dive in to blogging head first.  Below you will find the raw account of my miscarriage 5 years ago.  It took me 3 years to feel ready to write about it and 2 more years to feel ready to share.  What I learned from my experience was that so many women share in my grief, but so many of those same women remain silent.  To do my part in breaking the silence, I will take you on my very personal journey of losing my baby physically, but holding onto it both emotionally and spiritually.

“Everything is fine.”

My husband and I had felt the joy of seeing “pregnant” on the little screen.  Hugging each other and crying—well, I cried, he just smiled—we were ready.  With every ultrasound came more excitement as we watched our energized baby spinning and bouncing around in my belly.  It was June 9th, and everything was fine.  Doing what looked like baby aerobics, our baby didn’t have a problem one.  Healthy heartbeat.  Healthy movement.  Healthy baby.  Everything was fine.

“Let me try something different.  I am not seeing any movement from the baby.”

Fast-forward one week to June 16th.  One short, innocent week.  Our 12-week ultrasound had arrived.  Secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of the baby’s sex, we couldn’t wait to witness its fervor again so soon.  No fear, just sheer joy.  After all, what did we have to fear?  Only one week ago, we had seen our healthy baby.  Lying back on the table, I cringed at the shock of the cold nozzle.  Even the nurse’s constant adjustment of the ultrasound wand didn’t alarm us.  That is until she added the words, “Let me try something different.  I am not seeing any movement from the baby.  Megan, roll over to your side.”  I did as I was told.  Nothing.  Just a motionless dot that had sunken to the bottom of the screen.  False justification filled my mind. “Maybe our baby is sleeping.  That’s why there is no movement.”

“There isn’t a heartbeat.”

That’s it.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  That is all she said.  Like a punch in the gut, her words sucked the breath out of me.  Tears flooded my cheeks.  My husband’s embrace only made them fall faster and harder.  Gluing my eyes to the screen, I hoped she had made a mistake.  I was sure it would move if I just kept watching.  As I quickly realized, I was wrong; it was over.  My baby was dead.

“I’ll give you some time.”

Time?  Time for what?  Was time going to bring back my baby’s heartbeat?  Time had not been our friend.  A week had passed, and that was enough time to kill my baby.  I didn’t want more time.  I wanted my baby to move.  I wanted to hear its heartbeat and return to the anticipation of possibly finding out if it was a boy or a girl.  I wanted to wake up from the nightmare I was living.  My mind raced with thoughts of the recent week.  What had I done to make this happen? Meals—maybe I ate too unhealthy; water intake—maybe I didn’t get enough; vitamins—maybe I forgot to take them.  I needed a reason, an answer, something to blame.  I wouldn’t find one.

“It is very common.  We will schedule a D and C for next week.  It is a routine procedure.”

My doctor had come to console us and share our next step.  She assured me that miscarriages happen often, and although she knew that would not wipe away my pain, it should help me know it was nothing I had done.  If they were so common, why was my mom the only person I knew who had one?  Why didn’t other people talk about it?  Even if others had experienced this, they couldn’t possibly understand what I was feeling.  She continued explaining that the only way she would run any tests was after my third miscarriage.  Three?  I had to lose three babies before I could know why I was losing them?  The reason my baby didn’t survive would remain a mystery until, God forbid, I had two more devastating ultrasounds.

“Missed Abortion”

The days that followed brought on a rollercoaster of emotions.  My doctor told me that I might experience some cramping (my body’s way of getting rid of the fetus naturally), and if I began to bleed, I should go to the hospital.  The last thing I wanted was to lose the baby my baby at home.  Fighting through the cramping in my abdomen, I made it to my appointment on Tuesday.  Minutes ticked slowly, and my trepidation grew.  Finally, a nurse walked me into a coldly sterile room where she put a stack of papers in front of me.  “I need you to sign these before we get started.”  I turned the pages and signed on the appropriate lines until I got to the page where two bolded words stopped me dead in my tracks.  “Missed Abortion.”  What?  Bewilderment covered my face.  I protested, “I’m not having an abortion.  I had a miscarriage.  I did not choose to abort my baby.  I wanted my baby.”  I couldn’t stop the tears.  The thought of signing a paper that implied I had chosen to end my pregnancy brought back the “punched in the gut” feeling I had felt only days ago.  The nurse explained that an abortion is the removal of a fetus from the uterus.  I was not ending my pregnancy, but the baby would be aborted from my uterus.  I didn’t have a choice.  I had to sign the paper to have the procedure.  While it went against every ounce of my morals and values, I didn’t want to experience the alternative—losing my baby at home—so I signed the paper.  When I woke from the surgery, I also awoke to the reality that my baby was no longer with me.  Just minutes prior, it had been removed from my uterus.  It all became very real.  I wanted to go back; I wanted my doctor to give me back my baby.  Dead or alive, I wanted my baby with me.

“I’m so sorry.”

If I had a nickel for every time I heard that, I could’ve paid for my D and C.  As the word spread, my inboxes filled with emails, messages, and voicemails.  Because I couldn’t bear to answer the phone, I just let it ring.  “I’m so sorry.”  It is the go-to phrase when you don’t know what to say, and people didn’t know what to say.  I’ve said it.  You’ve probably said it.  It is what people say.  I appreciated the sympathy.  I still do, but at the time, it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.  One person didn’t say this to me.  Her words made the difference.  She told me that it was okay to be sad, that my baby was still a part of me.  I didn’t have to give that up. Ever.  I didn’t have to “feel better soon” or “get back on my feet” if I didn’t want to.  She also told me that I was already a mother, and that was making it hard.  I felt it in my heart and had lost the baby I had come to love and nurture.  No wonder my heart had been ripped in two.  I needed to hear that.  I needed someone to justify my feelings, tell me it was okay to get sad at the thought of the names we had picked out, the bedding we would purchase, or the Father’s Day gift I had already bought for my husband.  All of these emotions were completely normal, and they were all part of the road to recovery.

“You’ll get through it.”

Lie. Lie. Lie.  You don’t get through it. Or over it, or in front of it, or on top of it.  All of these imply one thing—you can or should put it behind you.  That one day, you will wake up and not feel sadness at the thought of the baby you lost.  Thankfully, it is a lie.  I didn’t want to get through it.  “Getting through it” or “over it” meant I would forget in some way.  I didn’t want to forget.  That baby was real.  It made me a mother.  It was, and always will be a part of who I am.

“How far along are you Mrs. Thompson?  Wow! You aren’t even showing yet!”

I survived the summer and welcomed the new school year with open arms.  Anything to take my mind off the tragic summer I had endured.  I walked into my classroom with a newfound confidence.  Work would provide the distraction I needed until my husband and I got the all clear to try to expand our family again.  Shortly after I took my seat at my desk, the students started pouring in.  All my sweet angels from the previous year came in to see my pregnant belly and request that we choose his or her name on the birth certificate.  To their surprise, my belly had not grown an inch over the summer.  High school students lack filters, usually one of my favorite things about them, and they proceeded to ask me why I was not showing.  Through tears, I had to explain to my students that my baby had not made it long after school had ended.  Their sadness hurt my heart.  They apologized for bringing up the touchy subject, and I assured them it was okay; they couldn’t have known.  These conversations continued as the day progressed until the word spread through the hallways not to mention the baby to Mrs. Thompson.  My students weren’t the only ones who made this mistake.  Several of our friends missed the news and asked us about our pregnancy.  Every time ended with the same look of embarrassment on their faces and an empty promise of our well-being.  Despite the awkward encounters it caused, I wouldn’t change how we handled our pregnancy.  We were overjoyed to become parents and wanted everyone to share in our excitement.  It just meant we had that many more people to share in our grief.

“I’m in the arms of Jesus, and He sings me lullabies.”

So, how did I move on?  On my darkest days, I looked for a new perspective.  I had to understand in some capacity why this tragedy happened to me.  Desperate for answers, I turned to poetry and literature.  First, I came across a poem by Claudette T. Allen, which describes the loss of a baby beautifully.  I found solace in the lines that read, “You see I’m a special child, I am needed up above.  I’m the special gift you gave Him, a product of your love.”  Knowing that my baby was with God gave me a sense of peace.  I have always been strong in my faith, but it wavered in this dark time.  Questioning His plan, I wondered how He could give me such pain.  Allen continues in her poem:

“When you see a child playing and your heart feels a tug, don’t be sad mommy, that’s just me giving your heart a hug.  So Daddy, don’t look so sad, and Momma, please don’t cry.  I’m in the arms of Jesus, and he sings me lullabies!”

After finding Allen’s poem, I looked for more inspiration.  I stumbled upon a poem by Jennifer Wasik called “What Makes a Mother,” Wasik brilliantly captures the essence of motherhood in her poem about the loss of a child.  She writes,

“I miss my mommy oh so much, but I visit her each day.  When she goes to sleep, on her pillow’s where I lay.  I stroke her hair and kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear, ‘Mommy, don’t be sad today, I’m your baby, and I’m here.’”

Allen and Wasik’s words provided me with confidence that my baby will find ways to make its presence known to me.  I will always see it “dancing in the rain” or among the stars.  I often read this poem and remind myself that I can see my baby anytime I want; all I have to do is pause long enough to look.

Heaven is for Real because our baby is there.

Finding hope in times of pain proves difficult.  My strongest sense of hope came from the book Heaven is for Real by Todd Burpo.  Among the letters and emails I received was a book suggestion to read “just what I needed.”  I downloaded Heaven is for Real and enjoyed its message about a boy who went to Heaven and met God.  The book affected me in a number of ways—it solidified what I had believed all along, it gave me hope that I would reach Heaven one day, and it reinforced the miracle of faith.  It wasn’t until I reached Chapter 17 that I realized the remarkable power this book would hold for me.  In Chapter 17, Todd’s son describes another encounter he had while in Heaven to his parents.  He informs his mother that he has two sisters- one still on Earth with him, the other in Heaven.  Shock overwhelmed Todd and his wife, Sonja because they had never told Colton of the miscarriage they had before he was born.  Colton had met the baby they had lost in Heaven, and it was a girl, novel information to Todd and Sonja.  Since my miscarriage, I have often regretted not asking my doctor the sex of our baby.  I longed to know if my baby was a boy or a girl.  I wanted to call it “he” or “she” instead of “it.”  In addition, I wanted our baby to have a name.  Names give people identities.  We never named our baby, and I wish we had.  The Burpo family got that chance, and reading this chapter gave me hope that one day, we will, too.  Also, the Burpo family strengthened my faith that I will meet my baby someday and until then, it is in good hands.  My baby is right where it needs to be.    Whether it was sick, weak, or simply too beautiful for Earth, I find unbelievable comfort in the thought of my baby walking with Jesus in Heaven, awaiting the day we will meet in joy, share stories of our adventures, embrace in unconditional love, and walk the golden roads hand in hand.

A note to end on… Even five years later, my first baby remains at the forefront of my daily prayers and thoughts.  I do find peace in knowing had I not lost my first baby, I would not have my two precious daughters, Aubrey and Maycee.  It doesn’t make it easier or less painful, but it does give me faith that God has a plan for every single one of us, including my first baby who lives with Him in Heaven.

Heaven is for Real by Todd Burpo

“In the Arms of Jesus” by Claudette T. Allen

“What Makes a Mother” by Jennifer Wasik

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