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Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Lena at 1


 One year.

Your little sister is one year old now.

I can't believe how fast this year flew by. The milestones. They just came and went, one by one. I feel like such a new mom still, and yet it's been over 365 days since we met Lena for the first time. 

She is amazing. She crawled at 7 months and walked at 9. We weren't at all ready for that. Right now, she runs. Mostly AWAY from us (already!). She dances. She is obsessed with Yo Gabba Gabba and Peppa Pig. Anytime she hears singing, she shakes her bootie. She just figured out that she can give kisses to us, and she opens her mouth and just slobbers all over.  

She loves nothing more than playing with PJ's bowls in the kitchen. She dips all of her toys on her water bowl. She loves eating. Alllllll the food. She also enjoys putting every. Single. Thing. In her mouth. A couple of weeks ago, I pulled 3 screws out of her mouth. I almost died.

I think her favorite pastime might be feeding US food.  After she's already tried it.  

We've only had to go to the doctor for a sick visit once. And it was for a fever that went away that night.  She's been an incredibly easy baby.  She loves sleep. 

And she's happy. You can see it. 

And she makes ME so happy too. 

I'm so thankful for this little girl.  She's made our cloudy days so much brighter.  She wouldn't be here without you, Luke.  I can't help but think about whether I'd rather have you or her.  It's a thought no parent should ever think about and I could never settle on an answer because I want you both. 

So I like to think that a piece of you lives on in her.  I sincerely hope that's true.
 



Tuesday, December 30, 2014

2015

In 2012, when we lost you, 2015 seemed like eons away.

And here we are, on the brink of another new year.  Another new year without you.  Another new year where I continue adjusting to the life that I live now--The one where I lived through tragedy that no one could ever imagine happening to them.

Since losing you Luke, I've read and heard so many stories.  So many unbelievably heartbreaking stories.  It's like I've became a magnet for them.  Once you've had your own unbelievable heartbreak, I suppose you almost seek more of those stories out.  As if it dulls the blow?  I don't know.  I think it does help sometimes, to know that I'm not alone.  To know that there are some other humans on the planet who have gone through this. And lived to see joy in life again.

What I do know now that I didn't know then is that my heart has so much room in it.  I didn't know how much love it was possible to carry--Especially for someone I never did, and never will know.  But also for others' lost loves.  For all of the families that have lost their much-wanted babies.  Every. Single. One. I hear about, my heart hurts.  And holds a place for them. I feel like you gave me that.

And the relief is that now, almost 2.5 years out, I've found happiness again.  I count myself really fucking lucky.  Because Lena is the most amazing thing to ever happen to me (us). It's so hard, being a parent after losing your first baby.  Because a lot of times, I feel like I need to be better.   Like I need to appreciate everything more. And that's a lot of pressure to put on yourself.  Especially considering it's fucking hard just being a parent in the first place. I'll admit that a lot of times...I feel like I fail at being that really-effing-amazing parent.  Because I'm too caught up in trying to get the dishes washed or the laundry put away or keeping Lena out of the dog's water bowl.  I feel like I kind of suck at being present more than I should.  Because I know what it means to have everything taken from you.  I know I need to really take in all the moments.

And there's the guilt again.  The guilt in grief.  The guilt about not being a better parent?  I'm not sure I saw that one coming.  It's not pervasive, but it lurks.

Again, I wish I was one of those naive people that had no idea what any of this feels like.

So in 2015, I'm gonna do my best to kick that guilt to the curb.  Cause I'm doing the best I can.  And in the words of Thom Yorke, "The best you can is good enough."

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Will I ever feel different?

You know what sucks?  Feeling bad about feeling bad.

There are some parts of grief that just make you feel bad about yourself.  As if what happened wasn't bad enough.

For me, it's cropped up pretty often in the past two years.  And it's about birth.  I hate how I feel when I hear about babies being born.  

It's the worst bipolar feeling.  I sit and wait--wait for other mama's pregnancies to come to an end.  I think about them so much.  And I keep them close in the back of my mind. Because I want those babies to be OK.  I want them to arrive and be fine and crying and everyone gets their happy birth.  I want it to be normal for them.

Because I don't want to hear about an ending like yours, Luke.  My heart doesn't want to have to hear about that happening to anyone else.  I don't want anyone else to have to go through what we went through. I read stories--about it happening to someone else--total strangers, and it hurts me.  I know that pain and I hate that others feel it too.  

But at the same time, the jealousy creeps in.  When I breathe that sigh of relief after hearing baby and mama are doing fine, it begins. Will I ever not be jealous?  That that baby hung on just long enough to make it out to the other side?  That that family won't have a hole in their family tree like we do?

I would never wish stillbirth on anyone.  And yet the jealousy and hurt always come creeping back in.  It's so unfair. It makes me feel like I'm a bad person.

But then I heard about Lydie.  And I know that I'm not a bad person. Because talking to her Mama, and realizing there still are people out there, going through what we went through, my heart is broken for them.  I'm jealous about others' healthy babies, but when I hear new loss stories, my heart still breaks for them. I know what shoes they're walking in now.  I hate it FOR them.  

I know that I wish this would never happen to anyone else.  

I'm just wishing for the family that I thought I had, but never will.  And that will always suck.