Another Piece

This photo of Henry is one of my favorites. No oxygen, no cannula hiding his face. He's so alert and focused. So healthy.

He's in his car seat, the Graco Snugride in neutral colors that I registered for. He's in his car seat ready to go. Truth be told, he didn't like the car seat much. He wailed on most car rides. He cried when we tried to take a walk with the car seat as part of a stroller. Here, though, he looks content, with a tease of a smile.

All three of my babies came home in that car seat. They went in it to visit family, take walks, go to appointments. The cried in it and slept in it and spit up in it.

Five minutes ago, a young women showed up at my doorstep looking for the car seat I had offered to Freecycle. I handed it to her with a smile, told her I was glad it would get another use, but as she walked down the steps and I watched the familiar green, blue, and tan plaid move away from me, this image of Henry grabbed me and I wanted to snatch it back.

I remind myself that there is now a little more room in the barn and the attic, that we won't have to pay to get rid of the car seat, that somebody else will extend it's life before it gets relegated to a landfill. It's not something I can hold tight, nor something I can save to pass on to my girls. It makes sense to let it go. Rationally, I know this, but still, sometimes I find myself wanting to hold on to the things he touched and used, as if by doing so I could better hold on to him.

To all the mothers I've met

I walked today with our local support group to remember Henry and all the babies gone too soon. I walked to remember the babies I've come to know through their mother's words. I walked to honor their mothers. I have met so many wonderful, amazing women on this journey, and I'm so grateful for them (and if you are reading this, that likely means you). Wishing you a peaceful, gentle mother's day.

Stumbling Gratitude

I should know better what to do, what to say. I should be clear on what not to say. I should know there is no right thing, no magic thing, nothing that will really help. And yet, I want to say the right thing, the magic thing, the thing that really helps. And I worry about saying the thing that comes out wrong that hurts where it means to help. I want so much to help and feel helpless.

As I stumble through my friend's loss gracelessly, I think back to all the friends who stumbled through with me, all the people who didn't know what to say or do who offered words and hugs and silence for me to fill or not. I think of the people who sent cards and made donations and brought meals, the people who let me talk and cry after, long after, years after, who didn't shy away or change the subject, the ones who still remember his birthday and when he died. It's been almost five years since Henry was born, four and half since he died, and I'm welling with gratitude for the many people in my life who stood in the uncomfortable place of not knowing what to do and simply tried, because there are no right words, no magic things, because nothing really helps, but doing nothing at all surely hurts.

Hope and Hugs

Life here has felt mundane lately, which is not a complaint. Struggles over bedtime and early morning wake ups. Figuring out a new work schedule. What to have for dinner. Easy, every day stuff. This is where we are.

But my heart is so full for friends right now: full of hope for a baby to be born healthy and go home healthy, full of hope for succesful treatment, full of sorrow and love for a friend and her baby and the shitty (non)choices she has.

They are not my stories to tell, but they are the stories I am holding these days, sending love and hope and positive energy from afar, and when I can't do much else, hugs.

Ordinary

We finally got snow this winter, yesterday and today, and we did what you should do on a snowy day—get out an play in it and come in for cookies and cocoa.

This afternoon, Kathleen "helped" me shovel and clear off the car. Then we worked on her snowman from earlier in the day. It wasn't too cold and the snow was still coming down in heavy, wet flakes. It was fun and lovely and so ordinary, save for that brief moment of wonder that it could be so ordinary, so normal. It wasn't upsetting, didn't ruin the day—just made me wonder how it could be. How can he be gone? How can my life be so ordinary and normal and lovely with him gone? And yet it is.