Tell me about him

I had coffee today with two preschool mom friends.

A. gave me a big hug upon arrival and then twice while we were there. I'll take them. I'll always take a heartfelt hug.

Then B. said "I wish I could do something, but . . ." and she paused knowing there was nothing really to do. "Can you tell me about him?" And I almost cried and half smiled and I told her about Henry's smile, how the picture I posted on FB shows just a hint of it, how we captured it only once in all it's bright openness on the day of his surgery, how when Brian, narrating for the camera said that we'd soon get rid of the oxygen, Henry's whole face lit up and burst into that brilliant smile that carried me so many days, the one that still makes me smile.

"Can you tell me about him?" Nobody asks that. People ask what happened or say that must have been hard, which launches me into what happened and how hard it all was. He was only 6 1/2 months old. He was sedated during an awful lot of that time, so sometimes I'm not sure I have much to tell about him, and I still, five years later, find myself sifting through the rubble to find the pieces of him I lost as our world kept shifting and falling. But today, I collected just a bit and shared it with a friend who never got to meet him but wished she did.

Smiles

I never saw much of Henry in Kathleen. Sometimes other people would tell me they saw a similarity. I was gratified, somehow, that other people made that connection between my children, even if I didn't see it myself.

I see something of Henry's smile in Elizabeth, though, something around the eyes. It makes me happy.

I love her smile simply because it is so big and happy, but I love it too because it reminds me of Henry.

I love it because it links two of my babies together.

I love it because it brings a little Henry into my day when he was starting to seem faded and far, far away.

Relax

Brian and I were supposed to go canoeing today for my birthday. His mom was coming up to babysit, and we were going to take a paddle and then go out to dinner. We've only seen the sun for bits and spurts all week, but today was simply steady rain. We aren't afraid of a little rain mind you. We did an all day paddle and nearly got hypothermia a few years ago (also a birthday outing, hmmm maybe canoeing and my birthday don't mix), but we decided we didn't need to do it again. Maybe a movie? Nothing playing near us looked appealing. What to do, what to do.

Ah, a hot tub and massage. Just the thing.

We had talked about doing just that after Henry died, but neither of us was motivated enough to make a plan. And then I got pregnant and the hot tub was out (though help in relaxing was needed more than ever). So we finally got around to it today. I wouldn't have minded the massage going on longer, but it was good. Lots of tightness melting away.

Then a yummy dinner out—sea scallops with a ginger, carrot, orange butter, grilled asparagus, and roasted potatoes/sweet potatoes. We ended our meal with a peach lambic. (If you have never tasted a peach lambic, you really should. Brian proposed to me over peach lambic, and we toasted with peach lambic at our wedding.) This place has it on tap, which is even yummier.

And then I came home to a girl who was starting to get sleepy, who woke right up when she saw me, and was delighted to see me. She smiled and smiled and laughed and babbled.

I had had a lovely day despite the rain and our change of plan. But even a crappy day would have turned around with that welcome home.

Happy Baby

I did yoga all through both of my pregnancies. With Henry, I took tough intermediate level classes up through seven months and a prenatal class; with Kathleen I went more for meditation and easy beginner. One day the teacher had us do happy baby pose. Feet up in the air. Hands on feet. "Think of your favorite baby," she said. "Or," standing over me, "your favorite baby to be."

It was the one time I had to leave class. I wept my way through half the classes I took when I was pregnant, but that day, I walked out of the room. I stood in the bathroom and gasped and cried. I couldn't think of my favorite baby to be, only my favorite baby who had been, my favorite baby whose feet I'd never see sticking up in the air.

Henry was a pretty happy baby despite everything he went through. On more than one occasion he pulled me back from the brink of despair with his smile, his big, bright smile that seemed to light up his whole body.

When I was pregnant with Kathleen I worried about her happiness. I worried that to get a healthy baby I'd have to trade off happiness. I worried that the tears I shed nearly, if not every day, the pall of sorrow that hung over me would seep into her as she grew in me. So I prayed for her to be healthy and happy and whole and I told her how much I wanted her, despite my tears, despite my lack of delight and anticipation.

And she is happy. She has a smile as bright as her brother's and a ready laugh. She makes me smile too.