Comedy of Errors

It's the first day of school.

Henry should be starting kindergarten today. He should wearing a new outfit and a too big backpack and a huge grin or maybe a nervous, tentative face. Back in mid-August, I sat at my desk one night picturing this morning, and I sobbed. Sobbed.

In reality, I would have dropped him off today a bit later than the bus. In reality, tomorrow would be the day I would see him climb on that big yellow bus for the first time, see him holding M's hand. Even though she sometimes rolls her eyes these days in a double-digits tween kind of way, I know she would follow through on that promise to get on the bus with him and make sure he wasn't scared, the promise she made five years ago after she climbed on the big yellow buss for the first time, while he was a baby, sitting in my lap watching. That's the image of the first day of school that has haunted me each September. Now it's here.

Five. Kindergarten.

Today is the first day of school, but not for us. Henry isn't here to get off to kindergarten and Kathleen's preschool starts next week. Still, we have a habit of seeing the kids off on the first day (and most other days too). Last night I made banana chocolate chip muffins like I did last year. This morning I brewed extra coffee. And at about 7:37 as Kathleen was saying we should eat the muffins with our friends, the bells on the back door jingled.

Despite the gray damp, I carried the muffins outside. We were just sitting down at the picnic table, reaching for our muffins when my friend J called out from down the driveway. "Where are the kids? Bus?!"

M ran into the house for her lunch box.

J ran across the dew-wet lawn in her wedge sandals trying to see where the bus was going.

Kathleen darted this way and that following M and J.

"This way!" J called and we were all off to the corner. N doubled back to grab a muffin off the table. I scooped up Elizabeth as we headed for the busy road.

"Oh, he's turning!" So we all looped back up around the house to the driveway where the bus had picked up the kids last year. M and N had crossed the road and were climbing the steps onto the bus by the time I got there.The bus roared away.

"I didn't get pictures!" J said. And she didn't. There was no excited, nervous, happy, grumbly waiting. No hugs and kisses before the bus actually got here and friends might see. No picture of smiling kids in new outfits and big backpacks waiting for the bus.

Maybe that was my saving grace this morning, that I didn't have to watch it all and think about what I wasn't doing, that I didn't have to see M actually get on the bus, or maybe this is yet one more milestone that is harder in the anticipation than actuality. Three weeks ago I sobbed one night thinking about the first day of school and the ghost of my boy getting on the bus, but this morning didn't even feel like the first day of school. I drank too much coffee and ate too many muffins and herded my girls back inside to start our day. This afternoon, when the kids get off the bus, I'll be on the other side of the river for an appointment for Kathleen. It's the first day of school. Just another September day for us.

My 30s

Today is the last day of my 30s.
Turning 40 doesn't phase me much. The weirdest thing is that I remember quite clearly when my mom turned 40. I was in high school—my kids aren't in preschool yet.

It's the last day of my 30s, which made me think back on this past decade and just how much has happened: I met Brian, got married, had a baby, learned more about various kinds of pediatric ICUs that I ever wanted to know, said good-bye to and buried a baby, had two more babies, watched them grow. Maybe it's not how much happened, but how momentous those each of those things were. The last half of the decade was particularly jammed-packed.

Maybe my 40s will be easier? slower? Probably not, I don't think life really works that way. Gentler, maybe? That might be nice.

I turn 40 tomorrow. The 40 celebrations I've allotted myself have already started and will continue. I turn 40 tomorrow. Feel free to use that as an excuse to enjoy cake or ice cream or to raise a glass of the libation of your choice.

Five and the Best Laid Plans

My plan for the day:
family breakfast of fried egg sandwiches
listen to You Are My Little Bird in the morning
plant flowers at his grave
work in Henry's garden today
have cupcakes with friends

This morning Brian stayed in bed after being up late with a feverish Elizabeth. I was leaving early to get Elizabeth to the walk-in hours at the doctors. No family breakfast.

I had a little time to spare, so I went to put the music on and the CD player closed and then opened and wouldn't close again. I fiddled with it for a bit, getting frustrated. No music in the morning.

And then I started to laugh. I don't know why I would think anything would go as planned on this day. Five years ago he was born, a day earlier than planned, and nothing, nothing really went as planned after that.

I ate my fried egg sandwich, much like the one I ate the day he was born. I made one for Kathleen. Brian got up. I got Elizabeth in the car, and turned the music on there.

After seeing the doctor (Elizabeth seemed fine except for that fever), we all went to the cemetery together. As Brian stopped the car, in one of those coincidences or something more, "Peace Like a River" was playing, which was perfect. I often find myself not knowing what to say when we visit Henry's grave. Today I sang "Peace LIke a River' as I worked. Kathleen helped me dig a hole and water. Elizabeth tried to pull up flags. Brian blew bubbles.

Despite oppressive heat, I spent much of the day in Henry's garden, as I did last year. I loosened soil and weeded heavily and split and moved plants. I still need to add compost and transplant a few things and add a few things from some sweet friends who know that is what I do for his birthday.

We had dinner and cupcakes with our friend who asked so earnestly that first winter " 'Enry 'ome?" and his sister who had promised to help Henry on the bus his first day of school.

That's what a fifth birthday looks like here, for now. Five. My boy would be five.

8 Months

She's 8 months today, and as if on cue, to mark the event, she started crawling.

Oh, she's been on the verge for a while now, up on hands and knees, rocking back and forth, moving one hand, flopping onto belly . . . back up onto hands and knees, experiment with hands and feed on the ground . . . nope, back onto belly. She had quite mastered a very purposeful slither to get to what she wanted. But tonight as I sat trying to edit a chapter on game design, while she refused to sleep, I caught her out of the corner of my eye. "Is she . . . " but, no, as I turned to watch, she dropped on her belly.

Two minutes later she was back at it though.

Then she cried because she got stuck under the swing in the corner by my chair.

Then I put her back in the middle of the room, where she sat and smiled at herself and at me, clearly proud of her accomplishment. Then she crawled some more.

And I sat and watched, because crawling is new and exciting, and she is not very fast yet, and soon I won't be able to sit at all trying to keep up with her.

8 months and on the move

Three

Henry would be three.

This fact, this three-ness is hitting me in a way two and one didn't. Until now, I simply noticed he was gone. I thought of him as he was when I knew him last, not as he would have been if he had stayed.

I have always been surrounded by babies Henry’s age. There seemed to be a big crop of babies in spring 2007 among people I knew. I see many of these babies often, and while they sometimes reminded me that Henry should be there with them, I didn’t necessarily think, “Oh, look what Henry would be doing now.” I had expected him to be a bit behind in many milestones, even before his long hospitalization. During his short life, I didn’t compare him to others. After he died, I didn’t expect him to have been doing what his peers were doing.

And then, this spring, I saw pictures and heard stories of two kids from the baby group I took him too. I saw a little girl at an egg hunt. I heard about a little boy’s potty training and preschool open house—and suddenly I saw three.

Maybe it is the increasing distance from Henry that allows me to see not just who he was, but who he might have been.

Maybe it is watching Kathleen at 18 months—talking, walking, climbing, pushing, eating, smiling, laughing—and seeing what I missed with Henry that makes what he didn’t do, won’t ever do clearer to me know.

I don’t know. I just know that he would be three and that means something very different to me than he would be two did and he would be one did. He wouldn’t be a baby. He’d be a little boy.

He would be three. 

Baby steps

I was flipping through pictures on the camera, looking to delete some unnecessary shots to make room on the card, and there I was, pregnant with Kathleen.
There she was being lifted from my body but still attached,
tucked on my chest with her feet practically in her mouth,
bundled up to go home for the first time,
practicing lifting her head in tummy time,
enjoying her bath in front of the mirror,
seeing the lilacs bloom
and the rhododendrons.
There she is sitting in a chair by herself, so proud,
at the beach on 4th of July,
on the see-saw with me on vacation,
in the lake, in a backpack,
as a cat on Halloween,
in the Pilgrim parade on Thanksgiving,
holding Henry's cardinal for our Christmas card.
There she is cake on her face, one year old!
How did we get here?

Sunday, she was taking tentative half-steps between ottoman and chair.
Monday, two steps toward me in the afternoon, three in a row that evening.
Tuesday, she took a break.
Today, she is fearless, taking four, five steps, a couple of shuffling sideways steps, before BOOM!

There is still a momentary pause before she goes, as she looks and sizes up how to get from here to there. Then she goes for it, smiling and laughing as she collapses into one of our laps.

Soon she'll just go, no thought, no wondering how to get from here to there. And I will try to stay in the present, but part of me will look back and wonder how we got from there to here, because I can't believe we are here already, that we did all this in just over a year.


And as I write this, I pause and start to make connections to the milestones missed, to the steps that will never be taken, but I stop, because this is Kathleen's moment and because everything, it seems, can tie back to Henry or to grieving or to sadness or to what is not, but right now, like the day when I danced with Kathleen, I just want to feel the joy. I want to feel the wonder and the awe, and I can.

Taking stock

I'm not one for making New Year's resolutions, but I do pause at the end of the year to take stock, to figure out what is working in my life and what's not, what I like and what I want to change. 

So where am I at the end of 2009? What do I want to change going into 2010? 

I have loved watching Kathleen grow and change this past year. I look at her baby pictures and wonder that it was just a year ago she was born. She is so fun right now, cruising around on the verge of walking, taking note of everything around her, figuring out how things work. I'm looking forward to exploring this world with her in the coming year, seeing things through fresh eyes. There will be walks in the snow and sugar shacks, gardening and the beach, crunching leaves and pumpkins, and eventually another birthday. It will come sooner than I think. 

I continue to miss Henry, to accept over and over again that he is gone. Through much of the year, I thought I was doing well with this grieving life. I thought I had made progress. I have made progress. But I forget that this is not a linear process, that I slide back and forth, wend round and round. Some days are good, some are hard. It will keep going this way, like it or not. I'd like to change this part of my life. I'd like to make peace with this loss and not struggle so with it, but this isn't one of those things I have control over. But I will continue to work at making peace with the memories, finding the good buried under the rubble of bad memories and holding onto the joy and hope behind the sorrow. 

And I'm busy. Finding quiet, finding time to rest and think and write is hard, so I'll wrap up now. 

Wishing you peace and joy in the new year. 

Remembered

Two years ago today, already and only, we said good-bye to Henry. 

Henry in October, days before we almost got discharged from his long hospitalization for the first time. He was so awake and alert and interactive this day. I remember his smiles and little noises and how intrigued he was with this little caterpillar. I had such hope and expectation for my boy.  

All month, I have been wanting to just sit, to be quiet, to have time to think or the space to not think, and it hasn't happened. But today, I gave myself that gift. I took the day off from work. I didn't hop on the computer first thing in the morning as I usually do. I didn't plan or try to do anything. When Kathleen napped, I rested on the couch, remembering lying there with Henry on sticky summer days. I remembered how perfectly he fit on my chest, how our breathing would slow together. I remembered how as he got bigger, he wouldn't just lie there anymore. I smiled at the effort he made to raise his head, the only time he liked tummy time. I rested while I could with these memories, the peace of those moments settling with me briefly. 

And when Kathleen got up, I played and I snuggled with the baby here with me. I smiled and I laughed with her. And I cried too. Cried in amazement and thanks for all she is and does. Cried with anger and sadness for all Henry never got to be and do. And yet he was and did so much. He is still so much; he's just not here. 

Brian and I went to the cemetery, standing briefly, huddled together in the bitter cold and blinding sunlight on the icy snow covering his grave. There was nothing to do there but leave the little heart shaped wreath I brought, let sobs wrack through me, hug Brian tight, and nod that it was okay for us to go, get in the car, get out of the cold. I felt so much the need to go to the cemetery today, and yet there I felt helpless and didn't know what to do. 

Tonight with dinner, I listened to his CD, filled with memories of sitting in the weeks before his surgery, tears streaming down my face, worried, worried, worried, despite what the song told me, worried that every little thing would not be alright. It's strange looking back on those fears. I was so anxious, and yet I never really imagined or believed that I might end up where I am. 

But here we are. 

I knew Henry had not been forgotten. I knew that Brian and I had been in people's minds and hearts during this dark month. Still, I have felt lonelier in my grief this month than ever before. But there were notes, emails, flowers, calls to let me know that truly we are remembered, Henry is remembered, and that we are all much loved. 

One Year

One year ago today this tiny girl entered my world.


Her first birthday feel like it has been more than a year in the making and yet wasn't it just yesterday she was perched like this on my chest?


Happy birthday, Kathleen.
Happy birthday, my baby girl, my light, my joy.

December

We are two days into December and I already I can feel it. There is a darkness to this month that has nothing to do with our winter short days. There is a weight that drags along with me. 

December 17 looms ahead. It will be two years. Two years since Henry left us.

But in this darkness, my light—Kathleen turns one. Her smile dimpled, different than her brother's, adds brightness. Her laugh makes me smile—even in this dark month.

I have been holding deep sorrow and great joy together, give each its due, knowing that each can stand on its own without muddying the other, but this month tests me.

December, my time to weep and my time to laugh; my time to mourn and my time to dance.

Well Visit

Kathleen is feeling much better. The fever broke yesterday and the rash appeared, just as we were told it would. With the fever gone, my baby girl seemed more herself, aside from a need to sleep. Two daytime naps of almost two hours each? Unheard of since she outgrew the swing.

We were back at the doctor today for Kathleen's regular 9 month appointment, scheduled way back in June. The doctor's office was a completely different place this morning. Friday evening it was chaotic with their walk-in flu clinic and my swirling memories and simmering anxiety. This morning it was calm, quiet, routine.

We will go back in a couple of weeks for a flu vaccine and a hearing recheck. Hopefully that's all for a while. Three times in a month is enough.

Yet I remember when three appointments in a week were routine for Henry. What progress I felt like we were making when we began to average only one appointment a week. Pediatrician, weight rechecks, visiting nurse, cardiologist, hearing rechecks, geneticist, chest x-rays, blood tests, PT . . . and we never made it to the ENT or the audiologist or the ophthamologist, didn't get to pulmonologist, pulmonary hypertension specialist, OT, speech therapist, and who knows what other specialist were waiting for us down the road.

That Kathleen has seen only a pediatrician and had only one non-regular visit is a fine thing. That they let us walk out and don't expect to see us for three months at at time is still amazing to me. May she stay healthy and strong.

Weaning

Three times today, Kathleen fell asleep, head nestled just below my shoulder. She went from restless hands and squawks to warm, quiet weight in my arms. I kissed the top of her head and rested my cheek or chin there, and I closed my eyes and sat with her. Eventually, I got up, walked slowly, carefully up the stairs and deposited her in her crib, where she took a much shorter nap than she needed. Since she was a few weeks old, Kathleen has napped best in her swing. My fussy baby would be relieved and quickly settle to the rhythmic motion of the swing, and she'd wake up smiling. But she is growing fast and the swing doesn't seem to be able to handle her weight, so I'm trying to wean her from this favorite place. (It's genetic. My grandmother thought my mother was awful for putting me in my swing, but one day they were trying to do something together and suddenly my nana wanted to know where the damn swing was.)

As for the regular kind of weaning, it's done. I washed my nursing bras yesterday and put them in a pile of things to pack away, things I'm done with for this baby. Kathleen has two teeth now, and she BITES! If she were getting actual nourishment from me, I'd try to stick it out. But I have never made enough milk, not nearly enough, and since I've been mainly providing comfort for a while now, she can suck—and bite—on something else.

We gave it a good run, Kathleen and I. For the first four months or so, she sucked long and hard from me before getting her bottle, but somewhere around four months she realized, "Hey, want my food the easy way." So she started taking the bottle first and then having some time on the breast. And slowly her willingness to go to the breast diminished until we were only doing it at night as part of our bedtime routine. Even then for the last few weeks she's been off and on, not satisfied. So it was time for both of us.

It feels like a rather small milestone of how big my girl is getting. In many ways it was harder for me when I stopped with Henry. Five weeks we lasted. Five weeks of pumping and pumping and pumping with brief stints of putting him to the breast when he seemed like he could handle it, trying to judge how tired he was getting, knowing he needed his bottles with his extra calorie formula and knowing that taking that in was hard work for him.

I cried when I returned the pump. I had to return it to the birthing center at the local hospiatl where he was born. I cried for the happy beginning we didn't have as I listened to an ecstatic new dad talking on his cell phone in the hallway. I cried thinking of the two days I lay in a bed in the hospital while my baby struggled elsewhere. I cried over my body's failure to do what it was supposed to do. And I cried because it was just one more piece that was not what I expected, what I wanted, what was supposed to be.

And then I went home and I tried to let it go. I still regret that I was unable to breastfeed Henry, but giving up when I did was one of the best decisions I ever made. I was literally getting drops when I pumped, unmeasurable amounts. Still I hated to give up, but I found myself talking to Henry, promising to pick him up in just three more minutes as I tried to finish out a solid pumping stint. It just seemed silly. So I turned in the pump and I picked up my baby. So many times in the later months of his life, when he was too unstable to move, I gave thanks that I did that, that I held my baby when I could, because we got to so many days when I couldn't. And of course now, I can never hold him again. Breastfeeding is best—but not always.

I knew that part of my problem in breastfeeding lay with Henry and part lay with me, so I resolved with Kathleen to do what I could to make the experience as successful as possible given underlying issues I had with producing milk. I put her to the breast early and often. I took fenugreek until I smelled like maple syrup. I ate oatmeal every day. I offered the breast first every time. I stayed hydrated and tried to relax. I pumped after or between feeds. I talked to lactation consultants who all said I was doing all the right things. And still my baby was hungry. So I gave her a bottle. And I was irritated every time I bought formula and it doubled my grocery bill. And I was touchy when I read or heard pro-breastfeeding stories. I wish it worked. I wish I worked. Because I liked it. I loved snuggling with my baby. I loved the that time of slowing down, the quiet mornings together, the way her hand rested on my breast, her eyes peeking up at me and then closing sleepily. And it was worth it. The extra long feedings, the pumping, the frustration were all worth it for those quiet moments.

So we're done now. But my girl still snuggles in to me, her body still and warm in my lap. We can still stop for a moment in our day and sit together and slow down the world with sleepy breaths. That's what we did today, and I loved it.

A Lifetime

Kathleen is 203 days old today. It's not a typical milestone, but it means she has now lived as long as her brother lived. When she wakes up tomorrow, something that despite everything I assume will happen, she will start day 204, something he never did. It will be new ground for us as parents, though it's really been new ground for sometime now. Kathleen has done so many things Henry never did.

She has tried about 10 foods, so far. She is working on sitting up and can do so unsupported very briefly. She has two teeth poking through on the bottom. She holds her pacifier in, grasps it and pulls it out, and is sometimes able to get it back in. She has seen the ocean.

And he did some things I hope she never has to do. He rode in an ambulance three times. He was on a ventilator numerous times He had open heart surgery and a lung biopsy. He was on a med wean to avoid withdrawal. He lay in a crib and I couldn't pick him up. He spent half his life in the hospital.

But both my babies have been here in our home. Both have sucked at my breast, though briefly. Both saw the rhododendron bloom. Both heard me sing a song just for them. Both listened to You Are My Little Bird. Both heard me read Good Night Moon and On the Night You Were Born. Both kicked at the baby kick chimes. Both smiled at their mama. Both of them are loved immensely.

One of my babies lived a lifetime in 203 days. One of them is just getting started. I hope it is a long, sweet life.

6 Thoughts* at 6 Months

* And 4 pictures at Sally's request—and an UPDATE



Kathleen hit the six-month mark yesterday. I can't believe how quickly this time has gone, how big she has gotten, and how much she has changed. And I can't believe how much she does that Henry never did already, while she is still within his lifespan.

Kathleen is on the verge of rolling over. I've been saying it for about three months now, but I think now it is really true. She goes from back to side regularly, and I can see her just itching to get to a toy that's just beyond her reach. Right now she kind of tumbles out of tummy time into a roll onto her back. Henry rolled over—twice. It was the last night he was home, and he was so riled up with his stomach bug that he managed to get himself over. I didn't see it though.
SHE DID IT! Today, she did her flop and roll from her belly to her back, and then, as I was coming back from brining out the trash, I saw her get from side to belly. I'm so impressed!


We've started solids—oatmeal, squash, rice cereal, pears, sweet potatoes. I'm a fan of the pears and sweet potatoes myself. Tomorrow we start avocado or banana, which ever is riper. I've been pureeing the food myself, just like I planned to do for Henry.


I play music for Kathleen as part of her bedtime routine, either You Are My Little Bird (song 7 onward) or an instrumental CD my sister gave us. (Cait's mom, I sing too!) The CD player in Kathleen's room is a little portable one. It has a piece of medical tape on it that says Henry B— from when Henry was in the hospital. I don't want to leave it there forever, but I can't quite make myself pull it off.

I've been working a lot lately. A lot meaning several hours outside of the time that Kathleen naps in the morning. I'm surprised by how much I miss my baby girl in that time, and I feel lucky that I work at home and can control my hours somewhat.

Can we slow things down a bit? This is all flying by in too much of a blur. I soak up and savor something each day.

Ah, the wonder.

Would Be, Should Be

My boy, my Henry would be, should be two today.
I would be, should be making a cake with two candles,
would be, should be wiping frosting and ice cream off chubby cheeks,
would be, should be following little toddling legs around.
I would be, should be remembering the day he was born and marveling at how big he has gotten.

But he is gone.
And I will be visiting the cemetery to plant a batch of johnny jump-ups,
will be digging around in his garden, in the rain,
will be planting red flowers,
will be holding and loving his little sister and telling her of her angel brother.
I am remembering the day he was born and and wishing he were here.

Late May

We are sneaking up on Henry's birthday. Just two more days and my boy would be two. Last night at a regular potluck dinner with friends, we celebrated the birthday of one of the babies from the spring/early summer 2007 crop, the ones whose mamas I posed with for big belly photos, the ones Henry was supposed to grow up with.

There were three of those babies there last night, one born in March, one just days before Henry, and one two weeks later in June. For months after Henry died I couldn't look at these babies, or I could only give them sidling glances. Now I can watch, I can smile, I can interact. The sadness is not overwhelming during these interactions, but more of a wearying, lingering thing, thinking of Henry and what he should be doing right now.

Distance

I'm slow, as I was last month, in getting to Under the Tree, but the first question hit on something I've been thinking about lately.

How long has it been since you lost your child? Has your grief changed at all? Is your life becoming any easier or is it just harder as time passes?

I've been saying lately that Henry died a little over a year ago, though I can't say that much longer. Soon it will be a year and a half, then almost two years or two years in December.

My grief has changed in part because of time and in part because of circumstance.

The first days and months were a haze. Henry died on December 17. We buried him on December 22. I don't remember what we did for Christmas that year. I have vivid memories of Christmas Eve, of sitting on the couch with my friend who's dad had died a couple of weeks before Henry with the energy of kids at Christmas swirling around me. I walked around in that haze for a while. It was a strange mix of numbness and searing pain. I slept with Henry's blanket every night. I avoided going to bed because it always made me cry, so I stayed up late reading babylost blogs or doing mindless tasks. I mediated and cried my way through yoga classes.
I hated the time I had to do it, the time I had to do anything for myself.
I didn't have the energy for the day to day stuff that needs to get done. So a lot of it didn't.
I was exhausted.
I cried every day.

In March, three months out, it hid me harder. I felt like any bit of protective numbness was gone. Outside was mud and dirty remnants of snow, nothing green in sight. It was bleak and lifeless, and it fit my mood perfectly. But March was a turning point: I didn't necessarily feel ready to have another baby, but I felt the need to make the effort, to work to create life as sickness and sadness and death past and approaching surrounded us.

My sister-in-law died in June, and in addition to the grief at this new loss, I was plunged back to December, to a place where just getting up, just breathing felt like too much. Brian and I struggled to communicate, both stumbling to find words and mistaking what the other was trying to say.

Some days were harder than others. Some days just knocked me out--I'd wail and weep, I'd literally be too weak to stand. As time moved on, these knock out days became less frequent, though no less intense.

As we approached the first anniversary of Henry's death, a day I dreaded, we were also approaching Kathleen's birth. Kathleen's birth has had a huge impact on my grief. I cannot focus so much on Henry or on the hole left behind in my heart anymore than I would be able to focus solely on him if he were here. This isn't to say I don't feel it, but more that it has taken more of a background role, tinging my whole life, but not the center of it.

Henry is retreating from me in some ways. I feel more distant from him. This bothers me, though I think it is normal and bound to happen. I don't have guilt, but sadness at the growing separation. In some ways, Kathleen increases this divide as my attention rightly goes to her and her needs, but at the same time, she bring Henry back to me in some ways. I can't help but contrast the experience of living with my two babies, and that brings him back.

And lately, many people have been telling me that they think Kathleen looks like Henry. I have seen it myself in flashes, a certain expression, a particular angle. So I feel heavily the growing distance between Henry and me and I love the anchors that help hold him near, part of our family, part of my life.

Some days still knock me down; they come out of the blue and hit hard and sudden. But they continue to be less frequent. I still start to realize sometimes that I will always carry this loss, that it is part of me forever. It's too disheartening to think that, so I just try to go day by day. I am able to feel joy more, to see the light more. I'm not sure life is easier, just different and still changing. Sometimes it seems so long since I held him, and yet he wouldn't yet be two. It is almost too much to take in, how much has happened since May 2007.

Welling Up and Subsiding

I cried today. Tears welled up and there was no stopping them. It was a quiet, but persistent cry as the tears seeped out of me. I cried while Brian held Kathleen. I cried as I worked in the garden, wiping snot and dirt on my old t-shirt. I cried as I washed the dirt from my hands and finished making dinner. And then I just stopped. For now.

Next week Kathleen will "graduate" from the baby group. The group goes up to four months, and Kathleen hits four months a week from Saturday. Maria, the group leader, is going on vacation next week, so she wanted to say good-bye to the three of us who will finish up next week. As she stood there and told me she was glad I came back, I thought of coming with Henry. Reaching the end of the group feels like a milestone in and of itself, one I didn't hit with Henry. He turned four months, but he was in the hospital at the time. We got back once after his surgery. It felt triumphant to go, to just carry him in, no oxygen! I thought we were really just getting started.

I feel us moving with Kathleen into things that Henry never did—finishing the baby group, wearing 3-6 month clothes, grasping toys . . . . And I know there are so many more to come.

The First Hundred Days

Kathleen hit the three-month mark last week. Today she is 100 days old.

Three months, 100 days, however you count it, it has gone fast. My baby girl has grown and changed so much.

She is longer, heavier, stronger. She's able to hold her head up steady, face out instead of in when we go out walking. She is getting herself ready to roll over, hips up, legs swinging. She pays more attention to her mobile now and looks at toys around her, not quite ready to reach for them.

She is trying out her voice—and she has a lot to say. Cooing, babbling, trying out different pitches, different mouth shapes, different sounds. It has been a rough week, lots of fussiness, but my smiley girl was back this morning. I caught her laughing in her sleep the other day. I wonder often what is going on inside her head.

She's been to a sugar shack (no syrup for her yet), a farm (a horse stuck her nose right in Kathleen's face and the goats came over to nibble on her coat), church and a church supper, an art show at the library, a kids' concert, a neighborhood party, potluck dinner with friends, one of our favorite restaurants. So many firsts.

I've savored these days, tried to pay attention to enjoy this time, this stage in her life that is passing so quickly.

100 days . . . so much has happened and it's just the beginning.

2 Months

Kathleen is two months old today!
Time flies. They grow up so fast.
Clichés but true.

Kathleen was born in an ice storm, though it all started after we had arrived at the hospital. But the day we brought her home from the hospital was freakishly warm for December. I had her bundled up in a long-sleeve t-shirt and fleece sleeper and a hat and the Bundle Me over the car seat. It was overkill, but it was December. I bought the fleece sleeper specifically to have something warm for her to wear because all the newborn clothes I had were for a spring baby.

Like that day we brought her home, today was unseasonably warm. It was sweater weather, near 60. We got out for a wonderfully warm but sloppy, slushy walk today.
I know this weather is a tease, but it makes me so hopeful.

And the sleeping baby in my lap makes me feel so peaceful.