Hindsight, or Music and Me as a Mom

Last night, just after midnight, I sat in a steamy bathroom with Kathleen. We read stories until we finished our stack, and then I began to sing to her. I started "One Man Shall Mow My Meadow," a song I like but that she usually doesn't have patience for, but being tired and not feeling 100% right, she snuggled onto my lap and let me sing verse after verse. 

I learned this song when Kathleen was a baby, maybe four months old, from my friend Carol, who hosted an informal music class at her house. Every week we'd go and sit in a circle in her living room and she'd teach us songs and lead us in songs we had already learned. Kathleen was one of several babies in the group made up mostly of slightly older kids. There was a mom I had met at baby group and another I had met at Carol's support group. 

I smiled and sang and changed diapers and gave bottles and and talked to the other moms. I thought I was doing fine. I thought I was comfortable as a mom, not overly worried or sad or nervous. And I suspect for who I was at that time, I was doing great. 

Looking back I see that me so differently. 

Carol is again hosting a music "class" at her house. We went last week for the first one, me and Kathleen and Elizabeth. I smiled and sang and changed diapers and gave bottles and talked to the other moms. And it felt completely different. 

Three years ago, I was still really struggling to figure out how to talk with other moms. To be able to talk about being Kathleen's mom, I needed to talk about being Henry's mom and I was never quite sure how to do that. Even there, even in that house where pictures of a much loved daughter who never took a breath line the walls. Even there where more than one person knew my story. 

I thought I was relaxed, comfortable in my parenting, but I think I was more anxious than I knew, wanting, needing to do it right. Believing very much that everything was different this time around, but too aware of what it really meant if things went wrong. I was defensive about how I gave birth even as I truly believe that the outcome, the healthy living baby is what matters. I was defensive about bottle feeding, even though I truly believe I did the best I could. 

A lot of what I was going through was typical new mom kind of stuff. Even though Henry lived six months, and we were still within that timeframe for Kathleen, I was a brand new mom in so many ways. 

So last week we went back to music, me and Kathleen and Elizabeth. I was relaxed enough that Elizabeth crawled into the other room before I realized she was missing. I handled Kathleen's near meltdown because the toy kitchen she remembered wasn't there. I gratefully accepted a pretzel for the ride home to keep her happy, and I laughed about something as I said my goodbye to Carol and ushered Kathleen out with Elizabeth on my hip. And as I got into the car, I noticed how very different it felt from those days when I buckled Kathleen into the baby seat. 

A time to dance

I was feeling sluggish and missing our daily walk, but it was frigid here today, far to cold and windy to go out. So I cranked the music, a little Rani Arbo, a little Squirrel Nut Zippers, and we danced. I danced for Kathleen and she watched and laughed, and then I scooped her up and zipped her all over the room. Brian heard the Squirrel Nuts and came down and danced with us for a song too.

Joy and laughter and delight
twirling
twirling
twirling
twirling around with Kathleen in my arms.

Mid-twirl, the memory caught me for a moment, made me miss a step.
The memory of
twirling
twirling slowly
with Henry in my arms.
Twirling to show that I can,
that there is nothing attached to him
no lines to trip on or step over.

All that in an instant. I pushed it away, wanting to stay in the vortex of pure joy of dancing with my giggly, grinning girl. So fun, so silly, so alive.

But tonight that image came back to me, the image of me with Henry, not in our living room, but in a hospital room eight floors up, overlooking busy city streets, sun streaming in the windows. There was no music, unless my excitement was audible.

Tonight the memory of twirling with my boy made me smile. It was the first time I was able to dance with him, the first time we were untethered, free to move, to go, to twirl.

Another day, I might lament that we will never dance together again, never twirl until we fall down dizzy and laughing, but not tonight.

Tonight it is simply enough that we got to dance.

The Weekend in Reverse

Today, a friend came to visit. I had volunteered in Dr. Olu's ABE class several years ago until she retired and moved back to Nigeria. I showed off Kathleen and we chatted for a bit. As she was getting ready to go, Brian shared the story of Kathleen's name. I lost the thread of the conversation for a moment, but the other woman there, a woman I knew from the same organization but hadn't seen in years, said, "Did your husband say something about a son?" It made sense she did not know. I thought I had emailed Dr. Olu at some point. I thought she had actually met Henry, but I wonder I'm mixing up memories of visiting her at the school after I got married and visiting the school without her there after Henry was born . . . I don't know. So I gave the short version of Henry's story. It is getting easier to tell his story, or it was easier today anyway. No tears. No need to lie down or retreat from the rest of the world for the rest of the day.

I told his story. But I still wish it had a different ending. No matter how good I get at telling it, I'll always wish for a different ending.

***
Saturday afternoon, Brian and I went for a paddle. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. Hot (a dip in the river felt good) and sunny. We worked hard paddling upstream, pausing only briefly to pull out the binoculars to study the bald eagle still in a tree above us. How much easier the return trip was.

We stopped in to change and see the girl before heading out to dinner. Oh, how she smiled to see me. We earned a good dinner: a beer and shrimp on the deck of a local brewery and then dinner at the Sierra Grill, where we had had my birthday dinner. Ribs with blueberry barbecue sauce for him; duck with Thai coconut sauce for me. And we split a peach lambic as part of our dessert. Yum.

It was good to get out, to spend time together, to remember things we love to do and hope to do with kids some day.

***
Friday, friend had extra tickets to the Green River Festival. I envisioned going with a hot, sticky, fussy, overtired, up-past-her-bedtime baby and it seemed less than appealing. Oh, and it was supposed to rain. Brian wasn't inclined to go. I checked the line-up and saw a number of familiar names (though only one singer I knew well). The friend with the ticket had to come to our town to pick up her tickets and stopped by and I was convinced to go.

And I had a great time. There were three of us and a two-year-old. I didn't until I started writing this realize that it was the three of us who were pregnant together when I had Henry. I did have my bittersweet moments watching the two-year-old dance. These lyrics struck me: "I wanna be ready. I wanna be ready. I wanna be ready when joy comes back to me." The music was infectious and joyful and I let it lift me. I stood outside in the rain on a summer night watching a tethered hot air balloon light up against the darkening sky listening to live music and it felt good. Good to be out. Good to be in it, not, as I felt so long, as if the world were swirling around me. Joy has come back to me. Grief and longing for my boy have not left, but joy is back. Sometimes muddied by sadness, but other times instead sharpened by it.

Henry's Song

Under the Tree—March, part III
Do you have a special poem, song, prayer or quote in memory of your baby/ies?

I've written before aboutthe Elizabeth Mitchell CD You Are My Little Bird that I played for Henry in the morning both at home and when he was in the hospital. I still love that CD and even though I play it often for Kathleen, we still call it Henry's CD. We played that CD in the background at the funeral home.

In particular, I think of Henry when I sing "Peace Like a River." I sang that song often to him without the CD. It is the one song we chose for his funeral. I wanted to pick music and readings that were meaningful, but I just couldn't think at that point.

Henry had his own special song, too, one I made up and sang to him all the time. It was very simple.

Your name is Henry. Your mama loves you.
Your name is Henry. Your daddy loves you.
Your name is Henry. Grandparents love you.
Nana loves you.
Papa loves you.
Nana loves you.
Grampy loves you.
Big Nana loves you too.
Yes, they do. They really do.
They love their Henry.
They love their Henry.

It goes on. There is a verse for aunts, a verse for uncles, and one for cousins. Sometimes I would add other family members or friends or neighbors. I started singing this song to Henry in the NICU. I sang it to him at home when he was on oxygen and I was so scared and waiting for his surgery. I sang it to him in the hospital when he was recovering from surgery, and home again during the golden two-week period when we had a healthy baby. I sang it, choking with tears and fear when he ended up back in the hospital again, and as he was dying, as they did chest compressions and gave him medicine and watched his monitor, I started singing to him and my song was a thread of connection to him until they made room around the bed for me and I reached out to hold his foot and I kept singing until he was gone.

I sang this song at his grave side. I sang it months later, deep in despair, the night he visited me.

Your name is Henry.
Your mama loves and misses you.

Music, Memories, and Meetings

Music and memories
Saturday I took Kathleen to see Elizabeth Mitchell (our morning music in the afternoon!). I enjoyed it (Kathleen slept through it in her sling), though some moments made me sad. Two songs almost brought me to tears.

When they played "Three Little Birds," a montage of Henry images played through my head: sitting on the end of our couch feeding him a bottle with his surgery approaching, me singing along almost desperate to believe that "every little thing's gonna be alright"; smiling at him in the bright morning light of his room in the CICU, scared, but hopeful; standing with Brian's brother and sister next to Henry's bed, the night he almost died in October, when we still weren't quite sure he was going to make it . . .

They ended with "Peace Like a River." This is one of the songs I sang to Henry all the time. It was the only song I picked for his funeral. I felt like I should choose music and readings that were meaningful, but I couldn't think. I think Brian suggested something from the CD, and that was the first thing that came to mind. Henry did bring me peace and love and joy, though so often during his life I felt fear and anger and frustration.
***

Vanishing act
At the show, another mama came over, noticing I had a very little one. Both our babies were two months old. We chatted about front carriers and neck strength and when they could face forward. Before I could ask her name or where she was from, she posed "the question." Is she your first?

I don't have trouble with this one. No, our second. It's the follow up that gets me every time. Oh, how old is your first? I took a deep breath. He passed away just over a year ago. He was 6 1/2 months old. I had a chance to say that he spent half his life in the hospital, but not that I played Elizabeth Mitchell for him every morning. She murmured an I'm sorry. And then she was gone. No nice to meet you, no enjoy the show. Just gone.
***

Finally we meet
When the show ended, I went over to talk to Birdie's Mama. We have been emailing and talking and not quite managing to get together, so it was good to finally see her and especially to meet her sweet Holdyn. We stood there after the show, both teary, recognizing each other's happy and sad, meeting each other's second baby for the first time and honoring the ones we were missing.

Morning Music

At one of my showers before Henry was born, a friend gave me a CD called You Are My Little Bird. I had never heard of the CD or the artist or most of the songs on the CD. It got stacked with a bunch of other baby CDs and forgotten until the friend who gave it to me asked if I liked it. So I pulled it out and played it. And I did like it. Very much.

I started playing it for Henry in the mornings as I fed him. I especially liked tracks 5 and 6 with their messages that everything would be OK, for I was scared and worried about Henry's health and his upcoming surgery. Later, when we were in the hospital for so long, I began to play that CD for him again each morning. (His evening music was a Louis Armstrong/Duke Ellington CD that was very popular with the night shift in the CICU.)

After Henry died, I kept listening. We played it as background music at his wake. I kept it in the car to listen to after yoga or to play when I stopped at the cemetery. Different songs jumped out at me, the lines "Angels in heaven know I love you" and "In the silence that surrounds, deep peace and love are found" spoke to me. I often cried as I listened, but I loved it for what it was and for what it reminded me of.

I hadn't played the CD for Kathleen. She has perhaps heard it in the car, but then I played it for me. The other day, I played it for the first time for her. And I played it again the next day and the next day. I wasn't sure how it would feel to play "Henry's CD" for her, but it was good. Instead of being "Henry's," it felt like a tradition revived, something shared by him and her.

Kathleen is starting to wake up, getting ready to eat again. I need to go change her, warm up her bottle, and put on our morning music.