Past years in this project, I was on the verge of Henry's birthday, which meant that no matter how good I had been doing, I was wound tight, waiting. This year, though, his birthday is just behind us. He would have been six. I'm almost five and a half months away from last holding him.
Like last year, he feels far away. Even when my girls talk about him, about how we love him, how they wish he could be here, and they do talk about him often, he feels far away. That he was here, sometimes feels like a dream. Immediately after he died, it all felt unreal, that he had died, but also that he had lived, and the latter part of that bothered me to no end. If he was not real to me, what about the rest of the world who had not felt him kicking inside, had not rested feeling their body calming with his as he slept on their chest, had not felt the flash of his smile. Now, it is a gentler distance mostly.
It is still surreal to me if I let myself think about it. I had a baby boy and he is not here.
But day by day, I get my big girl off to school and hug her when we both get home for lunch. I snuggle in the morning with my little girl until I can convince her to come make coffee with me. I tell stories and sing songs at bedtime. I notice how big they are getting, and only rarely do I compare to where Henry might be.
Right now, I notice the tree we bought as a gift for his first birthday is heavily laden with peaches. Right now, the red-flowered hawthorne we planted on his first birthday, a gift from my husband's cousins, is starting to fade, but was absolutely brilliant this year. Right now the garden that I tend for him is full of color, early, purple phlox that is almost luminescent at dusk, tiny blue starry flowers that I can't name, brilliant red verbena and the red gerbera daisy I planted this year on his birthday, a hint of pink covered in ants that makes me think of Mary Oliver where my peonies are about to bloom for the first time.
Right now, I'm exhausted but feeling strong. Finally. I am tired, but not worn out. There is something left in me to give. I think in possibility again. I start projects like overhauling parts of my garden that haven't been touched in years, like writing something more than blog posts, and in that writing starting to delve back into memories and sometimes finding that things are closer to the surface than I realized, and sometimes realizing there are still little pockets I have not really explored since he died (though sometimes it seems I have explored every inch from every angle).
Right now I am grateful for the neighbor who knew me when Henry was born and knew Henry for sitting with me on Henry's birthday with a bottle of wine and the dinner I threw together. Right now I'm grateful for the neighbor who didn't know me when Henry was born and never knew him for asking how I was doing in the days before his birthday (not the first time she has given me that space to talk about him).
Right now I'm listening to the summer night sounds coming through the window and the silence from upstairs where my girls finally fell asleep. Right now I'm relieved that I can once again enjoy the quiet.
Right now, I'm grateful to Angie for hosting Right Where I Am again. Because five years and some plus, I still need to pause and reflect.
Right where I was 2012
Right where I was 2011
Showing posts with label growing and changing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label growing and changing. Show all posts
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Saturday, January 21, 2012
My View, Year 4
It has become a January tradition for me to sit in this chair that I got to rock my babies in and reflect on what I see and what has changed and where I am.
The view this year is much like last year. The swing is gone, replaced by the kitchen set, but toys still fill the shelves and block the fireplace. Kathleen's babies—Lulu, Baby, Maisie, and Jack (where's Bessie?) are jumbled on top of the stuffed animals along with "Sister's baby" Maxie, who Kathleen informed me is Lulu's brother. The stuffed animals are piled in a huge basket, made by our neighbor and given to us at our neighborhood party two days before Henry was born.
The milkcrates and CD stand still overflow with board books and picture books. One of our actual bookcases, however, is half empty, the books moved to save them from Elizabeth, who has a knack for destroying them.
CDs are piled above the TV all around Henry's picture, where I've stuck them after our pre-bedtime dance parties.
Up until last week, the Christmas tree lighted the corner by the stairs, the first time since 2006 a Christmas tree graced our home. Now, the Christmas ornaments are down, with some snowflakes and snowmen and cardinals (I categorize them all as winter) remain.
From here, I can see that much of the house is a mess, though I don't know if it is more so than years past. I think I just feel more overwhelmed with stuff. Toys, diaper bags, outgrown clothes litter the table and pile by the stairs. I don't worry really about the house being clean. I don't bother to apologize for my messy house. But sometimes, the clutter gets to me. Every time I make headway, we get an influx of clothes or laundry piles up waiting to be put away or I don't have time to finish sorting and everything gets jumbled again. Sigh.
It's messy and lived in and filled with things we love (and things we don't have the time or energy to get rid of (see above). Sitting now, remembering the many steps Elizabeth took today, it's hard to recall just how tiny she was this time last year, how many hours I logged nursing and reading and cuddling in this chair. Thinking of the songs Kathleen makes up, its hard to remember what it felt like sitting with her three years ago, making up songs for her. Looking around this room full of family and life and love and stuff, it's hard to remember the barren walls and just how shocked and adrift I was four years ago. I look again at his pictures and still wonder how this can be my life, how he can be gone. And I look around the room again and wonder how that fits somehow with all that is here, because it does. His being gone is somehow part of this life that we have settled into.
The view this year is much like last year. The swing is gone, replaced by the kitchen set, but toys still fill the shelves and block the fireplace. Kathleen's babies—Lulu, Baby, Maisie, and Jack (where's Bessie?) are jumbled on top of the stuffed animals along with "Sister's baby" Maxie, who Kathleen informed me is Lulu's brother. The stuffed animals are piled in a huge basket, made by our neighbor and given to us at our neighborhood party two days before Henry was born.
The milkcrates and CD stand still overflow with board books and picture books. One of our actual bookcases, however, is half empty, the books moved to save them from Elizabeth, who has a knack for destroying them.
CDs are piled above the TV all around Henry's picture, where I've stuck them after our pre-bedtime dance parties.
Up until last week, the Christmas tree lighted the corner by the stairs, the first time since 2006 a Christmas tree graced our home. Now, the Christmas ornaments are down, with some snowflakes and snowmen and cardinals (I categorize them all as winter) remain.
From here, I can see that much of the house is a mess, though I don't know if it is more so than years past. I think I just feel more overwhelmed with stuff. Toys, diaper bags, outgrown clothes litter the table and pile by the stairs. I don't worry really about the house being clean. I don't bother to apologize for my messy house. But sometimes, the clutter gets to me. Every time I make headway, we get an influx of clothes or laundry piles up waiting to be put away or I don't have time to finish sorting and everything gets jumbled again. Sigh.
It's messy and lived in and filled with things we love (and things we don't have the time or energy to get rid of (see above). Sitting now, remembering the many steps Elizabeth took today, it's hard to recall just how tiny she was this time last year, how many hours I logged nursing and reading and cuddling in this chair. Thinking of the songs Kathleen makes up, its hard to remember what it felt like sitting with her three years ago, making up songs for her. Looking around this room full of family and life and love and stuff, it's hard to remember the barren walls and just how shocked and adrift I was four years ago. I look again at his pictures and still wonder how this can be my life, how he can be gone. And I look around the room again and wonder how that fits somehow with all that is here, because it does. His being gone is somehow part of this life that we have settled into.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Old Year, New Year
Last night I read through all of my posts from last year,
because I love doing a kind of year in review. If I had time, I’d read through
my journal from last year too, but we were up too late last night for New
Year’s Eve and I was up too early in the morning for Elizabeth. I’d do it
today, but my four-day vacation is over and work is piled up, and I’m still
unpacking from being away.
My family celebrates Christmas just before New Year’s, so I
spent this transition night with them. I rang out the old year laughing with
people I love. Laughing and loving is not a bad way to welcome the new year.
I’ve missed a lot of these family gatherings the past few years, and I am glad
I was there, but I think my ideal New Year’s Eve would be spent at home, eating
good food, enjoying a fire, and reading and thinking about where I’ve been and
where I’m going.
2011 was about embracing the fullness, holding the joy and
the sorrow together. It was about watching that first year of astoundingly
rapid growth from Elizabeth and the leaps and bounds of Kathleen. 2011 was
about starting to come back to life by making time for things I love and, in
some cases, simply remembering some parts of the old me that I had forgotten (or in the case of
Brian and I remembering what it was like to be us).
I don’t make resolutions, but I like to take stock at years
end and again mid-year at my birthday. I like to figure out what is working in
my life and what isn’t, what I want to keep and what I want to change.
In 2012 want to continue the opening I did in 2011, the
rediscovery of me. I want let go of anger and frustration and laugh more. I
want to notice what I am doing, not what I can’t quite figure out how to do. I
want to keep working at that priorities thing that I smugly like to think I
have in good order, until I can’t figure out how to get it all done, and as
part of that I want to keep work at the letting go that December afforded me
this year.
What are your resolutions/goals/hopes for 2012?
Thursday, December 15, 2011
One
It has been a week of celebrations and cake, but we couldn't let today go by without one more.
It was a small celebration, but she's a small girl. The cake was left over from earlier in the week, but I cut a fresh slice and lit a candle and we sang. Kathleen helped Elizabeth blow out the candle. Elizabeth helped herself to the cake.
They opened Elizabeth's present together, a copy of Jamberry to symbolize the blueberry bushes we will plant for her next summer (along with the ones we are overdue to plant for Kathleen). Kathleen pouted momentarily that she didn't get a present.
When Kathleen turned one, I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like her first birthday was more than a year in coming. The journey to that first birthday started in the fall of 2006 when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. Robbed of Henry's first birthday, getting Kathleen to hers seemed like a momentous feat. While I don't take for granted that my children will live, I am able to believe again that they will. Elizabeth's birthday was much more a regular first birthday. It's still amazing though, isn't it?
My baby is one. One!
It was a small celebration, but she's a small girl. The cake was left over from earlier in the week, but I cut a fresh slice and lit a candle and we sang. Kathleen helped Elizabeth blow out the candle. Elizabeth helped herself to the cake.
They opened Elizabeth's present together, a copy of Jamberry to symbolize the blueberry bushes we will plant for her next summer (along with the ones we are overdue to plant for Kathleen). Kathleen pouted momentarily that she didn't get a present.
When Kathleen turned one, I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like her first birthday was more than a year in coming. The journey to that first birthday started in the fall of 2006 when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. Robbed of Henry's first birthday, getting Kathleen to hers seemed like a momentous feat. While I don't take for granted that my children will live, I am able to believe again that they will. Elizabeth's birthday was much more a regular first birthday. It's still amazing though, isn't it?
My baby is one. One!
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Three
My big girl is three.
I remember when Henry's third birthday rolled around feeling suddenly the difference between baby and kid. I realized he would have been a little boy and what I was missing, would miss hit me in an entirely different way.
Today, Kathleen's third birthday is here. And I see that I am right, that three is so much bigger than two. She is a little girl, not a baby. Even since last year, her face and body have thinned out. She uses the potty, and without her big cloth diaper butt sometimes she wears jeans. She gets the silverware for dinner and loves this little job. She explains things to Elizabeth: You have to be buckled in, sister. I'm buckled. Mommy and Daddy are buckled. You have to be buckled too! She plays, sometimes by herself and narrates her play (often interrupted by me thinking she's talking to me).
And sometimes she is still my baby who sits in my lap and wants to be held. But not too often. She's busy that big girl of mine.
That three year old of mine.
I remember when Henry's third birthday rolled around feeling suddenly the difference between baby and kid. I realized he would have been a little boy and what I was missing, would miss hit me in an entirely different way.
Today, Kathleen's third birthday is here. And I see that I am right, that three is so much bigger than two. She is a little girl, not a baby. Even since last year, her face and body have thinned out. She uses the potty, and without her big cloth diaper butt sometimes she wears jeans. She gets the silverware for dinner and loves this little job. She explains things to Elizabeth: You have to be buckled in, sister. I'm buckled. Mommy and Daddy are buckled. You have to be buckled too! She plays, sometimes by herself and narrates her play (often interrupted by me thinking she's talking to me).
And sometimes she is still my baby who sits in my lap and wants to be held. But not too often. She's busy that big girl of mine.
That three year old of mine.
Monday, October 17, 2011
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.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Just last year?
Kathleen has been climbing on the plastic play structure in our backyard. She climbs up the ladder section and right up over the top. "Look at this!" she calls me. Eventually she goes down the slide and climbs back up again and again and again.
Last summer, she could not climb the play structure. She wanted me to pick her up so she could slide, again and again and again. My belly was big and my back ached and I would pick her up a few times and sigh enough. Often a neighbor would take pity on me and help her up more and more and more until I convinced her it was time to go in.
Just last year.
***
Yesterday I stopped at the outlets on my way home from my sisters to buy pajamas for Kathleen and see if there were any other good deals. Kathleen ran around hiding under racks of clothes and played at the Lego table; Elizabeth checked things out from the Baby Bjorn.
As I poked through wintery, Christmas sleepers, I remembered searching last year for matching winter-themed pajamas for a newborn and a 2-year old, something not too girly in case that newborn was a boy.
Just last year.
***
Elizabeth roams the house on hands and knees, pulls herself up to standing anywhere she can, and jerks around whenever she hears her sister's voice.
Last September, a baby kicked and rolled and squirmed about as Brian read The Hobbit to me.
Just last year.
***
Nine months in seemed to fly by and take forever.
Nine months out has simply flown by.
Last summer, she could not climb the play structure. She wanted me to pick her up so she could slide, again and again and again. My belly was big and my back ached and I would pick her up a few times and sigh enough. Often a neighbor would take pity on me and help her up more and more and more until I convinced her it was time to go in.
Just last year.
***
Yesterday I stopped at the outlets on my way home from my sisters to buy pajamas for Kathleen and see if there were any other good deals. Kathleen ran around hiding under racks of clothes and played at the Lego table; Elizabeth checked things out from the Baby Bjorn.
As I poked through wintery, Christmas sleepers, I remembered searching last year for matching winter-themed pajamas for a newborn and a 2-year old, something not too girly in case that newborn was a boy.
Just last year.
***
Elizabeth roams the house on hands and knees, pulls herself up to standing anywhere she can, and jerks around whenever she hears her sister's voice.
Last September, a baby kicked and rolled and squirmed about as Brian read The Hobbit to me.
Just last year.
***
Nine months in seemed to fly by and take forever.
Nine months out has simply flown by.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
For Elizabeth at 2 Months
Two months ago today, I saw your head emerge from my belly where you fit so snugly, so perfectly, and when they finally let me hold you, warm against my chest, you fit there so snugly, so perfectly too.
You are growing, more quickly than I realize. Already the newborn sleepers are starting to have a little off the shoulder look, the 0-3 sleepers that you were swimming in look about right all of a sudden. Already you are beginning to uncurl from that impossible position you were in for nine months. Already at the end of the day my forearms are tired from too much one-handed while you nurse and I bustle about.
You are growing, more quickly than I realize. Already the newborn sleepers are starting to have a little off the shoulder look, the 0-3 sleepers that you were swimming in look about right all of a sudden. Already you are beginning to uncurl from that impossible position you were in for nine months. Already at the end of the day my forearms are tired from too much one-handed while you nurse and I bustle about.
Someday you'll have to scrunch up a bit as you nestle in to nurse. Someday I'll find you are too long, too heavy to sleep on me for long. Someday you will sit on my lap, legs dangling like your sister's do now and I will wonder how you got so big, so long, so old. For now, you still fit neatly across my lap when you feed, head snug at my breast, feet tucked in on the other side. For now, you still fit snuggled on my chest afterward as I sleep with you, holding you upright just a bit so you don't spit up and choke. For now, I just notice you have gotten bigger but you still look so small.
People see you and guess at your age. I stop to think before I answer their question, because always more time has passed than I expect. Two months today. Two months already.
Friday, December 31, 2010
The year in review
As I sit here with Elizabeth nestled on my chest, it is hard to believe this year began without even the tiniest presence of her, not even a glimmer. Yet here she is, solid and warm and snuggly.
In some ways it was a year of waiting—waiting for Brian to finish with school, waiting to be ready to try again, waiting out my pregnancy. All that waiting was worth it. Brian graduated in May and has been working as a nurse. He's still hoping for a full-time position in a hospital that will give him the experience he feels he needs, but for now he's working, gaining experience, feeling like he is doing his job again after two years of school. Since he's been out of school, we've had more family time for walks and hikes and visits and meals and play. And of course, Elizabeth is here and healthy and settling right in to our family.
Waiting for her had me looking ahead but also had me firmly planted in the present, watching, soaking in Kathleen and her rapid change. At the beginning of this year she was just starting to totter about. Now she runs and jumps (with both feet off the floor) and dances and climbs. She shouts, "Mine," and sometimes shares. She reads, cooks me water on her play stove, delights in her swing, and wants to hold her baby sister. She seems to have gotten bigger and sturdier in the past two weeks as we remembered just how little newborns, even those who start out over 8 lbs, are. I can hardly comprehend that two years ago she nestled on my chest like this. Two years ago, she was this small. Two years already—just two years.
As this year winds down, I am remembering how to be ambidextrous—how to cut my dinner, sign my name, and do most anything with my left hand if the baby is sleeping or nursing on the right. I've learned that football hold is good for avoiding pressure on an incision, but also for making more room in a lap. Along with Good Night, Moon and The Big Red Barn, I've now memorized The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Kathleen's current favorite (bunny book!). I'm finding time in my day for two little girls who need to eat and be held and changed and sung to. We are shuffling things around making room for baby gear and two sets of diapers and 0-3 clothes along with 2T clothes. We've made room in our house for two and room in our hearts for three.
I'm sure there are things I'm forgetting about 2010, but as I sit here with this snuggly girl breathing sleepily on my chest listening for my big girl to wake up from her nap, I know I remember what matters.
In some ways it was a year of waiting—waiting for Brian to finish with school, waiting to be ready to try again, waiting out my pregnancy. All that waiting was worth it. Brian graduated in May and has been working as a nurse. He's still hoping for a full-time position in a hospital that will give him the experience he feels he needs, but for now he's working, gaining experience, feeling like he is doing his job again after two years of school. Since he's been out of school, we've had more family time for walks and hikes and visits and meals and play. And of course, Elizabeth is here and healthy and settling right in to our family.
Waiting for her had me looking ahead but also had me firmly planted in the present, watching, soaking in Kathleen and her rapid change. At the beginning of this year she was just starting to totter about. Now she runs and jumps (with both feet off the floor) and dances and climbs. She shouts, "Mine," and sometimes shares. She reads, cooks me water on her play stove, delights in her swing, and wants to hold her baby sister. She seems to have gotten bigger and sturdier in the past two weeks as we remembered just how little newborns, even those who start out over 8 lbs, are. I can hardly comprehend that two years ago she nestled on my chest like this. Two years ago, she was this small. Two years already—just two years.
As this year winds down, I am remembering how to be ambidextrous—how to cut my dinner, sign my name, and do most anything with my left hand if the baby is sleeping or nursing on the right. I've learned that football hold is good for avoiding pressure on an incision, but also for making more room in a lap. Along with Good Night, Moon and The Big Red Barn, I've now memorized The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Kathleen's current favorite (bunny book!). I'm finding time in my day for two little girls who need to eat and be held and changed and sung to. We are shuffling things around making room for baby gear and two sets of diapers and 0-3 clothes along with 2T clothes. We've made room in our house for two and room in our hearts for three.
I'm sure there are things I'm forgetting about 2010, but as I sit here with this snuggly girl breathing sleepily on my chest listening for my big girl to wake up from her nap, I know I remember what matters.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Aware
We're in the home stretch here.
Physically, I am ready for this pregnancy to be over. Physically it has been harder for me than either of my other pregnancies. I know I complain about my back a lot, because when I grimace or groan now, Kathleen looks at me and says "Back." Yes, my back hurts. My legs are tight. I've felt like I was struggling to breathe since the earliest weeks. More and more foods seem to bother me. This is mostly new for me.
With Henry, I felt great. I walked, did yoga, swam. I glowed.
With Kathleen, I walked and meditated and meant to start swimming. And probably the fear and anxiety and grieving kept me from noticing much about the physical.
Emotionally, I'm in a much better place than last time, but physically, I'm done. But . . .
I'm so aware of these last weeks. This baby seems to move so much more than Henry and Kathleen did. I remember being in the pool during the last week before Henry was born, floating in the water while he floated in me. I remember a sudden awareness that soon he come out, that the quiet closeness we had, just him and me would end, would change into something very different. I'm aware now that these few weeks will likely be the last time I feel a baby move within me. Given my age and the fact that after this birth I'll have been cut open four times, I just don't see another pregnancy in my future. So this is it. The last time I feel the strange, amazing sensation of another life moving within me.
I try to pay attention, to really feel it, so I'll remember it. I probably won't. But right now, I'm aware.
I'm aware too of my little girl of the here and now running around asking why. I'm aware this is the end of our time of just us. I don't remember being an only child, don't remember my sister being born, and likely Kathleen won't either. She doesn't know how her world is about to change, but I am. I'm aware of this time with her.
When she says, "Seat!" or "Rockee!" and points to my chair, I'm more likely to sit at least for a few minutes, through one book, even if I'm in the middle of getting dinner ready, even if it's early morning and I'm chilly without a sweater. I sit and feel the warmth of her body, notice how tall she's gotten, how long her hair is. I am aware of how quickly she is taking things, learning, changing, growing. I look at pictures from earlier this year and wonder if it is the same little girl.
I know that what we have will not be lost by bringing other baby into our home and hearts and family, but our routines will change. Love may expand, but time does not. It will be different. I don't think that is bad; I'm simply aware of and cherishing what we have right now.
In a few weeks, things will change. Right now, I'm ready for what is to come but not rushing to get there, just here enjoying what is.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
The view from where I sit, revisited
Last January, I wrote about sitting in my glider rocker in my living room and how that experience had changed from sitting in that chair the January before.
As I sit in my chair now, my view has changed again. The room itself is different. The pictures of Henry are still on the mantle and on top of the TV. His memory lamp and picture still sit on the bookcase next to dried flowers from one of the arrangements from his funeral.
But the walls are no longer bare. Paintings and the shelves we took down to paint the room before Henry was born are finally back up. The table of sympathy cards and thank you notes in that sat next to my chair in 2007, made way in 2008 for the baby swing. Now that corner is home to a giant basket of stuffed animals and a milk crate full of board books. The homey braided rug made way for a cushy Oriental, and the golden tones pick up the light of the morning sun. The coffee table is gone (one less thing to climb or bump a head on), more room to play. Toys of all types fill in the perimeter of the room.
My chair sits in the living room where it has been since we brought Henry home the first time. These days it sits, but I don't sit in it much. I'm on the floor playing with Kathleen or we are out visiting people or running errands or having a snack together in the kitchen, and if she is asleep, I'm most likely sitting at my desk trying to get a little work done.
My surroundings have changed. The rhythm of my day has changed, too. Mostly I am asleep in those quiet pre-dawn hours Kathleen and I used to share; rarely do I see the darkness turn gray and then rose and then bright yellow as day begins in earnest. Kathleen still sits with me when she is not feeling well and sometimes when she is tired, but mostly she is busy: pulling books off shelves, testing her balance, trying to climb onto the ottoman, finding the Cheerios she dropped earlier, emptying and filling bins of toys . . .
Much has changed in a year.
But when I have a chance to sit again, this remains: I still look at the pictures of Henry, now two years gone, and I still struggle to believe, to comprehend that I had a baby boy, that I sat in this chair and rocked him, that he is gone, gone, never to be held, never to be rocked again. I look around at all the signs of my girl, who I held so new and so precious last January; she is still with me, now chubby cheeks and chunky thighs and giddy giggles.
I sit in this chair and remember, remember sitting with both my babies, rocking them, feeding them, singing to them.
I sit in this chair, one baby tucked into bed, the other tucked into my heart.
As I sit in my chair now, my view has changed again. The room itself is different. The pictures of Henry are still on the mantle and on top of the TV. His memory lamp and picture still sit on the bookcase next to dried flowers from one of the arrangements from his funeral.
But the walls are no longer bare. Paintings and the shelves we took down to paint the room before Henry was born are finally back up. The table of sympathy cards and thank you notes in that sat next to my chair in 2007, made way in 2008 for the baby swing. Now that corner is home to a giant basket of stuffed animals and a milk crate full of board books. The homey braided rug made way for a cushy Oriental, and the golden tones pick up the light of the morning sun. The coffee table is gone (one less thing to climb or bump a head on), more room to play. Toys of all types fill in the perimeter of the room.
My chair sits in the living room where it has been since we brought Henry home the first time. These days it sits, but I don't sit in it much. I'm on the floor playing with Kathleen or we are out visiting people or running errands or having a snack together in the kitchen, and if she is asleep, I'm most likely sitting at my desk trying to get a little work done.
My surroundings have changed. The rhythm of my day has changed, too. Mostly I am asleep in those quiet pre-dawn hours Kathleen and I used to share; rarely do I see the darkness turn gray and then rose and then bright yellow as day begins in earnest. Kathleen still sits with me when she is not feeling well and sometimes when she is tired, but mostly she is busy: pulling books off shelves, testing her balance, trying to climb onto the ottoman, finding the Cheerios she dropped earlier, emptying and filling bins of toys . . .
Much has changed in a year.
But when I have a chance to sit again, this remains: I still look at the pictures of Henry, now two years gone, and I still struggle to believe, to comprehend that I had a baby boy, that I sat in this chair and rocked him, that he is gone, gone, never to be held, never to be rocked again. I look around at all the signs of my girl, who I held so new and so precious last January; she is still with me, now chubby cheeks and chunky thighs and giddy giggles.
I sit in this chair and remember, remember sitting with both my babies, rocking them, feeding them, singing to them.
I sit in this chair, one baby tucked into bed, the other tucked into my heart.
I sit, as I did last year, with the grief and the gratitude, the ache and the awe.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Someday
Kathleen was pulling books of a shelf today, and I saw one I hadn't seen in a while, one that came as a gift soon after she was born, one that made me cry. Just looking at it, I felt my tears welling up. Kathleen looked at me and laughed, and I smiled back.
Then, instead of putting the book back on the shelf, I opened it and read it. And then I did cry. It is a lovely little book called Someday. It begins with a mother talking to her small child, telling him or her about how she counted their toes when they were a baby. It tells things the she has done with the child and then moves into the things she will watch her child will do someday.
I cried for Henry and his lost somedays, for all the things he will never do, all the things I will never watch him do. And I cried in wonder at the potential there in front of me on the floor, for all Kathleen's somedays, for all the things I hope the see her do. For all the somedays that seem to be every day right now as she is changing so fast.
The heaviness of those tears is lingering with me tonight as I think of the somedays lost, but I smile with those tears thinking of the somedays yet to be. Ah, this endless tangle of sweet and bitter.
Then, instead of putting the book back on the shelf, I opened it and read it. And then I did cry. It is a lovely little book called Someday. It begins with a mother talking to her small child, telling him or her about how she counted their toes when they were a baby. It tells things the she has done with the child and then moves into the things she will watch her child will do someday.
I cried for Henry and his lost somedays, for all the things he will never do, all the things I will never watch him do. And I cried in wonder at the potential there in front of me on the floor, for all Kathleen's somedays, for all the things I hope the see her do. For all the somedays that seem to be every day right now as she is changing so fast.
The heaviness of those tears is lingering with me tonight as I think of the somedays lost, but I smile with those tears thinking of the somedays yet to be. Ah, this endless tangle of sweet and bitter.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
So fast
After Henry died, everything slowed down—my brain, my body, the world. Or maybe the world didn't slow down so much, but I just wasn't much in it. Now everything feels a-whirl.
Each night I turn off the computer, get into bed and my brain starts writing the things I meant to say here, the email I meant to write to another babylost mama, or my grieving friend, or the women who supported me throughout my pregnancy with Kathleen. I just didn't get to those things throughout the day and if I thought of them at night I thought better of it, for that girl is likely to wake up 2 minutes after I lie down or 20 minutes or 2 hours. And then I will be up settling her or snugging her into bed with me. i will be tired in the morning and she will climb on me, scratch at my face making happy sounds all the while until we get up and begin our day. I will yawn but I will also smile at her laughter.
She is changing so fast.
Each day she is different. A new tooth. Pulling a toy off the shelf. Moving, moving, moving. She is not quite crawling yet, but she is so close. She moves herself backward. She sits up, lies down, rotates herself on her bum. She creeps on her belly and gets up on hands and knees. And any moment she will figure out how to move one knee and then one hand and then the other knee and the other hand and she will be off and running.
I packed away more clothes today and pulled out the 9-12 month clothes, the ones that seemed so big, the ones I couldn't imagine her ever wearing. You will forgive this failure of imagination because the last time I looked at 9-12 month clothes they were never worn.
So big, so fast.
I want to slow it all down, really capture all this. But the world picks up its pace. There is work and laundry and grocery shopping and cooking dinner. There is an untended garden that needs weeding and final picking. There are friends to visit, outings to take. It is so easy to go out, so we do.
My world, which for so long was so slow, is swirling faster and faster, and I'm along for the ride.
Now, to bed that I might be alert to the wonders tomorrow will bring.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
It's Good to See You
As I was getting off the phone with my sister last night, she said, "It's been really good to see you lately." She meant that she enjoyed the fact that we've been able to get together more lately, but also that when we do it is me that she sees, the Sara she has known all her life, the Sara she lived with for years after college, the Sara she knows better than anyone else in the world.
She was quick to add that while she wanted me to know how good it was to see that me again, she was hesitant to say it because she didn't want me to feel like I couldn't be sad or angry or anxious with her. Because she gets that mourning and missing don't end in a year, that having a new baby fills me with love and wonder and awe but does not fill the gaping hole left in my heart by Henry's death. And she knows that there will be times when this new me gets buried again, but lately she has seen me, and she's liked it.
I've kind of liked it too.
I've liked being Kathleen's mom and watching her change so fast. I've liked laughing and smiling. I've liked spending time with Brian, working in the garden, picking berries, playing cribbage, running, making jam. I've liked singing and reading. And I've liked being happy without reminding people that I'm sad too.
I'm loosening my grasp on my need to remind people that Henry is gone, that we still miss him. It's not so much letting go of Henry as trusting people to remember him. I do still speak of him. I do sometimes still compare Kathleen to him, but some days I simply say, "Listen to her laugh in the tub," instead of "She loves her bath, but Henry hated his." I'm tentative about easing up, though, because I want people to remember Henry, because there are still days when I am crushed by the weight of the foreverness of his death, but I need to let go a little.
My five-year-old niece was riding through one of the tunnels in Boston last weekend, and she said, "I remember this tunnel. I went through here the last time I saw Henry." She's five and she remembers this. I can ease up a little.
My sister and my aunt were talking about being second born, listing the people in our family who are. My sister added Kathleen to the list, Kathleen who will be the oldest in my family, but still my second born. I can stop holding so tightly to the reminder.
Yes, there will continue to be the awkward moments of people who don't know about Henry and the hurtful, unintentional comments that gloss over him, but mostly people remember. They remember him; they recognize that Brian and I are shattered but recovering and rebuilding.
I'm not the me my sister knew for years, though she thinks she sees me again, but I have incorporated some of the pieces of the old me into the new me, the me who is still emerging. I'm still getting to know her, this new me, as she steps out into the light and begins to open up again to the world.
She was quick to add that while she wanted me to know how good it was to see that me again, she was hesitant to say it because she didn't want me to feel like I couldn't be sad or angry or anxious with her. Because she gets that mourning and missing don't end in a year, that having a new baby fills me with love and wonder and awe but does not fill the gaping hole left in my heart by Henry's death. And she knows that there will be times when this new me gets buried again, but lately she has seen me, and she's liked it.
I've kind of liked it too.
I've liked being Kathleen's mom and watching her change so fast. I've liked laughing and smiling. I've liked spending time with Brian, working in the garden, picking berries, playing cribbage, running, making jam. I've liked singing and reading. And I've liked being happy without reminding people that I'm sad too.
I'm loosening my grasp on my need to remind people that Henry is gone, that we still miss him. It's not so much letting go of Henry as trusting people to remember him. I do still speak of him. I do sometimes still compare Kathleen to him, but some days I simply say, "Listen to her laugh in the tub," instead of "She loves her bath, but Henry hated his." I'm tentative about easing up, though, because I want people to remember Henry, because there are still days when I am crushed by the weight of the foreverness of his death, but I need to let go a little.
My five-year-old niece was riding through one of the tunnels in Boston last weekend, and she said, "I remember this tunnel. I went through here the last time I saw Henry." She's five and she remembers this. I can ease up a little.
My sister and my aunt were talking about being second born, listing the people in our family who are. My sister added Kathleen to the list, Kathleen who will be the oldest in my family, but still my second born. I can stop holding so tightly to the reminder.
Yes, there will continue to be the awkward moments of people who don't know about Henry and the hurtful, unintentional comments that gloss over him, but mostly people remember. They remember him; they recognize that Brian and I are shattered but recovering and rebuilding.
I'm not the me my sister knew for years, though she thinks she sees me again, but I have incorporated some of the pieces of the old me into the new me, the me who is still emerging. I'm still getting to know her, this new me, as she steps out into the light and begins to open up again to the world.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
These Days
What I'm loving in these hot, sticky, damp days of summer:
watching my baby girl sitting up, reaching for books and toys,
seeing her splash in the tub or the pool to cool off,
feeling her solid little body nestling into my shoulder when she gets tired.
Yes, even on these hot, sticky, damp days of summer, I love to feel her snuggled in close to me, love to feel her heavy warmth relax and grow still pressed up against me.
watching my baby girl sitting up, reaching for books and toys,
seeing her splash in the tub or the pool to cool off,
feeling her solid little body nestling into my shoulder when she gets tired.
Yes, even on these hot, sticky, damp days of summer, I love to feel her snuggled in close to me, love to feel her heavy warmth relax and grow still pressed up against me.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, June 12, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Sunday to Wednesday Catching Up
Baptism
When I was cleaning out Kathleen's closet, I found a card. Part of the handwritten note said, "I believe Henry is an angel sent from above to teach us to live and love." It was a card for his baptism from his godmother. It was written before his surgery, when we were scared but hopeful and we believed his heart would be fixed and all would be well. And yet, she was right.
Kathleen was baptized this past weekend. It was an event that I looked forward to and dreaded. I feared the memories it might bring up. For a while we had a priest who was always admonishing people to SMILE. I wrote dozens of letters to him in my head, because had he told me to smile at Kathleen's baptism as I was having a Henry moment I might have lost it. I needed him to know that we had a son, that he had been baptized in that same spot about two years before, that he died months after he was baptized, that his casket had sat in the center aisle feet away from the baptismal font, that six months later his godmother had died, so that while we were happy, we were also sad and we would smile—and cry—as we felt like it. But our priest was replaced and I never sent the letter or let forth that flood of anger at him.
And Kathleen's baptism was a joyous event. I had my Henry moment at the end of the mass that preceded the baptism. Tears welled up as I stared up at the font. During the ceremony, I was able to focus mainly on her; I only noted that she cried much more than Henry did when the water was poured over her.
***
Love Like an Ocean
I just got back from visiting my parents with Kathleen. It is a trip I never made with Henry. My parents met him as did my aunts and uncles—even my grandmother. But I never got to bring him there.
I grew up on the coast. The ocean is in my blood. It is the one main complaint I have about where I live now—too far from the ocean. I used to sing to Henry about the ocean in "Peace Like a River." I'd sing that I had love like an ocean, and I'd tell him that he had never seen the ocean, but when he did, he'd know what I meant. But I never got him there. I remember standing looking out over the water for the first time after he died, how I choked on the words as I sang to him.
But Kathleen made it, in what I hope is one of many trips. She saw and smelled the ocean. She was held by her nana and grampy and by her great-grandmother, aunt, and great-aunt. Her cousin Thomas brought her toys when she cried and helped feed her a bottle.
We walked up to the handicapped accessible playground, and my mom showed me the sign that remembers several kids who left too soon, including Henry. We wheeled Kathleen right up to the top level where the sign is, and I saw his name and cried.
Henry loved his baby swing. I imagine he would have loved the playground swings too.
***
Watching You Grow
In the past few days, Kathleen has changed remarkably. She went from tolerating and showing mild interest in her play mat to grabbing and holding onto the dangling toys and half -rolling herself over. She wants to creep forward. She writhes herself backward on her back. And she laughs! She continues to amaze me daily.
I wrote about Henry's song, and Kathleen has her own. One of the last verses is this:
Kathleen Avery we love you so.
We are looking forward to watching you grow.
You will get much bigger, so many things you'll do,
But one thing won't change. We'll always love you.
It took me some time before I could sing this verse with confidence, before I could believe that we would indeed get the chance to watch her grow. I hope to have a long lifetime of watching her grow, but right now she is changing so much I'm trying to just focus on the moment.
When I was cleaning out Kathleen's closet, I found a card. Part of the handwritten note said, "I believe Henry is an angel sent from above to teach us to live and love." It was a card for his baptism from his godmother. It was written before his surgery, when we were scared but hopeful and we believed his heart would be fixed and all would be well. And yet, she was right.
Kathleen was baptized this past weekend. It was an event that I looked forward to and dreaded. I feared the memories it might bring up. For a while we had a priest who was always admonishing people to SMILE. I wrote dozens of letters to him in my head, because had he told me to smile at Kathleen's baptism as I was having a Henry moment I might have lost it. I needed him to know that we had a son, that he had been baptized in that same spot about two years before, that he died months after he was baptized, that his casket had sat in the center aisle feet away from the baptismal font, that six months later his godmother had died, so that while we were happy, we were also sad and we would smile—and cry—as we felt like it. But our priest was replaced and I never sent the letter or let forth that flood of anger at him.
And Kathleen's baptism was a joyous event. I had my Henry moment at the end of the mass that preceded the baptism. Tears welled up as I stared up at the font. During the ceremony, I was able to focus mainly on her; I only noted that she cried much more than Henry did when the water was poured over her.
***
Love Like an Ocean
I just got back from visiting my parents with Kathleen. It is a trip I never made with Henry. My parents met him as did my aunts and uncles—even my grandmother. But I never got to bring him there.
I grew up on the coast. The ocean is in my blood. It is the one main complaint I have about where I live now—too far from the ocean. I used to sing to Henry about the ocean in "Peace Like a River." I'd sing that I had love like an ocean, and I'd tell him that he had never seen the ocean, but when he did, he'd know what I meant. But I never got him there. I remember standing looking out over the water for the first time after he died, how I choked on the words as I sang to him.
But Kathleen made it, in what I hope is one of many trips. She saw and smelled the ocean. She was held by her nana and grampy and by her great-grandmother, aunt, and great-aunt. Her cousin Thomas brought her toys when she cried and helped feed her a bottle.
We walked up to the handicapped accessible playground, and my mom showed me the sign that remembers several kids who left too soon, including Henry. We wheeled Kathleen right up to the top level where the sign is, and I saw his name and cried.
Henry loved his baby swing. I imagine he would have loved the playground swings too.
***
Watching You Grow
In the past few days, Kathleen has changed remarkably. She went from tolerating and showing mild interest in her play mat to grabbing and holding onto the dangling toys and half -rolling herself over. She wants to creep forward. She writhes herself backward on her back. And she laughs! She continues to amaze me daily.
I wrote about Henry's song, and Kathleen has her own. One of the last verses is this:
Kathleen Avery we love you so.
We are looking forward to watching you grow.
You will get much bigger, so many things you'll do,
But one thing won't change. We'll always love you.
It took me some time before I could sing this verse with confidence, before I could believe that we would indeed get the chance to watch her grow. I hope to have a long lifetime of watching her grow, but right now she is changing so much I'm trying to just focus on the moment.
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