Ashby and Abram: March 2018

I have written a thousand updates in my head. I have actually typed out two updates that remained in the draft folder. I keep vowing to blog, giving up, deciding that no one cares anymore, resorting to Facebook for updates, forgetting the whole thing, and then starting the cycle all over.

But Facebook memories reminded me that two and three years ago, I used to consistently update my blog. I re-read one blog entry this morning and realized it's more than just an update of what's going on in our family. Or at least, it used to be.

I used to write because I like writing. I used to capture not only the "where are we now" moments, the "which country are we in and how many babies have we had" moments, but the in-between moments: the homesickness that catches you unaware when you're rinsing dishes in the sink. The life-loving moments that fill your heart to bursting when one of your boys holds hands with his neighbour and leads her gently to the sandbox to play. The when-will-this-end moments that come in waves, malaria on top of colds on top of dirty diapers on top of funerals. The what-did-I-learn-today moments that occur on a daily basis but fade gently into the back of our minds as we fall asleep each night, things that build us up and make us into better people, but don't get written down or overtly observed.

Back when I only had one or two children, I made time to capture all this. And I'm not even sure how many people read this blog, but I realized today how important it is for me. Even if no one reads it, it's there for me, and since I can type faster than I can write, it can be a journal of sorts. Our life here is unusual, and since sleep deprivation causes memory loss, perhaps I can look back on this when I'm old and grey and have adjusted the font on my computer to geriatric size, and I'll sit in my rocking chair and squint at the screen and mutter under my breath about the memories I chose to capture here.

When I'm washing dishes, nursing a baby, or trying to fall asleep at night, and chastising myself about my lack of blogging, I wrestle back and forth: first of all, no one is beating me up about this except myself, and I need to be gracious with myself and "let it go", etc etc. Second of all, can you imagine if I told one of my neighbours about this internal struggle? Me: I just really need to blog, you know? It's been a year. Them: I have no idea where our next meal is coming from...what's a "blog"?

So then the pendulum swings back to "who cares" and "no blog at all". But then I swing back the other way, again, to this: I need to write. It used to be life giving to me. And so I'm going to try. Again. And I may neglect it, again. But that's okay. I can care for my neighbours, and keep perspective, and still make time to write. Right?

Eleven months ago I wrote about our upcoming trip to Nairobi. At that time we were expecting twins. In June of last year, we lost Simeon at 27 weeks gestation, and in August of last year, Simeon and Isaiah were born at 36 weeks. We buried Simeon in September and had a memorial for him in October. All of these things are worth blogging about, and I don't know if I'll ever get around to it. This is one of the reasons I didn't get back to writing- because the things I need to write about were piling up, and I got overwhelmed. And how can I write about the little things if I haven't caught up on the big things? But here we are. I might never get around to writing down all the details of 2017. It wasn't a great year. Our son died.

But so much of that has been captured by camera and by memory. We don't forget the details anytime soon (some I wish I could). Nor will I forget the kindness of our neighbours, our families, our home church and our colleagues. They lifted us up in that time and carried us to this point. I still ache to hold Simeon every day. But the pain has lessened. I wonder, when Isaiah smiles, sits up, or rolls over, what it would be like to watch them both grow. To watch them grow together. To watch James try to kiss both babies, instead of just begging to "kiss Saya?" every morning, noon and night. To discuss a living child with David, instead of talking about where his brother is now, and why he can't play with him just yet. To hold them both. To hold all four of them.

So here we are, nine months after we lost our baby, almost seven months after we brought Isaiah home from the hospital. We are exhausted. We are busy. We are happy. We laugh every day. I cry every other day. Boys are no joke. They climb windows and bring dead beetles to the dinner table and stick their fingers in every single thing you bake. They have big feelings and strong opinions and loud voices and dirty feet. They have the energy of a dozen caffeinated puppies. They hate brushing their teeth.

Abram finished his dissertation at the end of February, which is a huge accomplishment worthy of celebration. He still has to write two articles to be published in journals by the end of May. At that point he will defend his dissertation, and at THAT point he will truly be done. The dissertation is a huge load off his shoulders, but he's still quite anxious to be finished with all assignments, and to move on to the next chapter of our lives. (Which is basically the same chapter we're in now- teaching and child-raising- but without a PhD hanging over our heads.)

We stayed in Nairobi for five months last year, but we've been home in our little village in Tanzania since late October. I made a quick trip to the States with Isaiah in November, which warrants another blog post at another time. Since then, we've been here at home, Abram has been teaching, and I spend every waking moment trying to parent our children, or trying to recover from parenting our children.

Below are a few pictures from the past seven months, everything from the birth of the twins up till now, in no particular order. Next week is James's second birthday, so I'll make every attempt to blog about that in the next, oh, six months or so.