May

Six years ago I was getting ready for this little being I didn't yet know as Henry to be born. I knew there was a small hole in his heart, and yet I wasn't freaking out. Otherwise, all was well. I felt great. The house was chaotic as Brian tried to finish up the painting projects we had begun before I got pregnant, but the glider was up in his room, a few clothes were washed and ready.

I was busy digging in my garden, trying to get things planted. I didn't expect to have much time to work in the garden, but lettuce and tomatoes would do their own thing if I could get them in. I think of this in flashes, remembering squatting, moving around my belly as I worked. I remember my simple expectation as I get my garden ready this year. And here's the thing: I still believe.

I still believe that my work will pay off even though unforeseen circumstances could pull me away from home come July or August or September as the bounty really begins to flow; we could get late blight on the tomatoes again this year or drought could shrivel up my plants or a late freeze could kill them before they begin to thrive. Squirrels will undoubtedly get the peaches from Henry's tree long before they are ripe. I don't think about what could go wrong when I'm out there digging and moving compost and spreading ash. I don't worry the what ifs while I sprinkle seeds or wield the hose while Kathleen flaps about the yard with the rhododendron branches I pruned recently. I dream. I look at where I might shift and expand. I try to figure out where to put a new strawberry patch next year and where to finally start asparagus. I contemplate fruit trees and blueberry bushes and how they fit in with dog runs and clothes lines and open space for play.

I see the magic in the rhubarb that is already humongous and the chives that greened up before anything else and the cilantro that seeded itself for me and is ready to use now. I see the wonder as little bits of green poke up where weeks, days I ago I planted seed. I, who am usually so linear and organized and planful, can't seem to finish prepping a particular section because there is so much work to be done and I see so much potential. I have new energy. It's been growing in me, and maybe I've talked about it before. I am refilling after the complete and utter wring out of early grief. I am refilling after the needs of the early days of mothering my girls. I am refilling by claiming a little time and space for me to run and write and dig in the dirt.

I am not thinking ahead to the rest of May, to Mother's Day and Henry's birthday, except to think about what I will get for his garden this year. His birthday isn't easy, even separated from the day he died by several months, but somehow, part of what I relive right now is the anticipation, of him and a garden of vegetables, this time of joyful waiting and wonder.

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?

For me

I read earlier this week a blog post about needing to mother yourself as a mother, about doing something for yourself, and my thoughts diverged in two very separate forks.

There was the memory of the sting of doing something, anything, for myself after Henry died. I wasn't supposed to have time for yoga. I was supposed to be pushing a stroller, not taking long walks by myself. I was supposed to be comforting a crying babe in the middle of the night, not staying up to read blogs of other mamas like me—and sleeping in (until 7, 10, noon) wasn't supposed to be an option. And yet I did all those things. And each thing I did for me was a little slap or reminder that my baby was gone. 

But now, with a toddler toddling about and getting teeth and loving being read to and being sure she doesn't want a nap, even though I know she needs a nap, there are many things I'd like to do for me that are hard to do. Like go to yoga or take a run or take a nap. 

The other day, I decided I was going to take a run anyway. It was a gorgeous day and I really needed it. I was having a pretty good run, too, despite the drag of the jog stroller. And then there was a car veering toward us. It was not a particularly close call. I slowed down, pushed the stroller off the road, and was more annoyed that I lost momentum going up a hill than anything. As I walked up the hill, I thought how nice sidewalks would be or a way to get to the bike path without getting in my car or the opportunity to go for a run without the jog stroller. But that last one caught me up. I had to add—with a baby to come home to. As much as I sometimes crave a little me time, I still remember how bitter that me time is when gotten in wrong way. 

But I do need to take care of me. So this week, I ran twice, I bought daffodils and put them all over the house, and I got myself some good dark chocolate that I enjoy as my nighttime treat. And I keep dreaming of a massage and considering who could babysit so I could get one. 

What have you done for yourself lately? 

Work in progress

In comments about my post about patterns, Catherine and Kate both talked about the trust factor and I've been thinking on that.  Trust is huge.

I've only recently gotten to the point where I find myself really, truly trusting that people I know--people who knew Henry, who loved him and love me--will not forget him, will understand that we continue to miss him, despite the joy and blessings that have entered our lives.

So how do I trust people who never knew him to feel his powerful, determined spirit and not simply the weight of “dead baby”?

I suppose that is where I feel I fail, because I am still mired down in the separation, the oxygen, the ambulance rides, and the ICUs. I’m still burdened by the codes and the med schedule and the endlessly shifting ground of new diagnoses. I am still, for myself, trying to dig Henry out from that rubble.

I can list all the meds he came home on in December 2007, but I can’t remember what he smelled like or if his eyes were the same clear blue as Kathleen’s or if he had my fingers as it looks like she does.

I get him in flashes: A cardinal streaking by my window brings to mind his smile. Kathleen’s face studying a flower reminds me of Henry’s effort and determination to kick his babychimes. I have felt his wholeness in an inky black sky strewn with stars. I have felt his absence standing before the vastness of the ocean, my love stretching away beyond the horizon.

Saying that Kathleen is 9 months old, has three teeth, is taking great delight in feeding herself Cheerios, and nestles her head into her mama’s shoulder only when she is tired, does not tell you who Kathleen is, but you begin to get a picture.

Do you begin to get a picture when I say Henry died at 6 ½ months, had hardly any hair, worked doggedly at getting his pacifier in his mouth (when he didn’t have a tube in there), and kept his mama going with his smiles? Or do you get stuck at the word died?

That’s where I get stuck most of the time. So maybe it isn’t about trusting others and their responses, but about trusting myself to be okay in that moment when somebody asks how old my son is and to remember and express my Henry, my baby boy, who I carried and loved, not just the medical interventions and loss that swirl between us. I’ll keep working on it.

Honest Scrap

Cait's Mom at A Fifth Season chose me for the Honest Scrap award. I'd pick her back if I could. Her comments on "everything happens for a reason" and on Down syndrome being only two reasons why.

The rules are:
Choose a minimum of 7 blogs you find brilliant in content or design. Show the 7 winners’ names and links on your blog, and leave a comment informing them that they have won the Honest Scrap award.

Here are my 7 (comments to come):
Cover Her Briefness in Singing
Demeter's Feet
Ezra's Space
Happy Sad Mama
I Lost a World
Surviving the Day
Tuesday's Hope

List at least 10 honest things about yourself

1. The first thing you should know is that I'm terrible at things like this because I overanalyze the task/question. To be honest, does it have to be deep or important or can it simply be a statement of fact? Does it mean things nobody knows about me? Should they be things I don't like to admit? That said, here are my other nine.
   
2. Before Henry got sick and everyone kept telling me how strong I was, I kind of liked thinking of myself as a strong person. I learned that having your strength tested sucks. Whether or not I was strong, I didn't want to have to be strong.
3. I have toe thumbs.
   
4. I hate being shy. I've gotten better, but I still struggle with it.
5. When my yoga teacher said repeatedly, "Yoga can change your life," during my first ever class years ago, I rolled my eyes. But it did, and I miss it.
   
6. Lately I love running, or to be fully honest, I love the me time running affords me and knowing I'm getting in shape and the way I feel after a run.
   
7. The ocean is in my blood, and if I go too long without being near it, I get off balance.
8. I can get very grumpy, downright mean, when I'm hungry.
   
9. I often think of Henry's life in terms of my garden. He was born just after our last planting. We were able to pick lettuce when we brought him home. He sat in the stroller while we picked strawberries. My mother-in-law babysat while I picked blueberries. I made peach jam with my neighbor while waiting for an Early Intervention visit. He was in the hospital for most of tomatoes and all of squash and leaf raking. This is how I mark time.
   
10. I am slowly starting to find out what is happening in my friends' lives after two years of focusing on my baby or my grief.