Cuts Like a Knife

My 7 year old daughter is currently studying the past, present and history in social studies.  She brought home an assignment the other day to do a personal timeline.  We were discussing important things that have happened in her life and I pointed out she had missed the birth of her siblings (3 have been born since she was).  So she went back to work at the timeline and showed it to me later.  She had included the birth of her two younger sisters but Eli was missing from the timeline.  I pointed out where he should be and asked her if she wanted to include him.  She said "probably not".

In that split second my insides crumpled like newspaper.  Outside, I hope, my face registered nothing unusual.  Casually I asked "why not?"  to which she explained that earlier in the fall during her student of the week time she had explained she had two brothers in addition to her three sisters.  The children apparently questioned her about her brothers and she told them her brothers didn't have kidneys and they couldn't breathe when they were born.  Which is about as good of an explanation as any.  But then she said they made fun of her.  I asked how and she said they asked why her mom didn't just have another girl.

I'm not exactly sure what was said and how it was said but whatever happened made an impact on her and not one she cared to repeat.

While I'm sad that this happened to her, I can't blame her for wanting to only include her living siblings.  How many times have I only included my living children when asked by strangers or acquaintances?  I don't always feel like explaining or dealing with the looks on their faces or whatever else accompanies what I tell them.  It has nothing to do with Eli and Wyatt but everything to do with me.  They will always be my children, ever in my heart and my mind, but they are also very sacred to me and sometimes sharing them doesn't feel as sacred as I want so I selfishly keep them to myself.  I can't blame my daughter for reacting in a similar way.

So I thanked her for telling her class about Wyatt and Eli and left it alone.  It hasn't left me alone quite yet.

Something Different About a First Child

Eli's second birthday is quickly approaching and I find myself this year, for the first time in two years, not pregnant in February.  The memories of the last two years haunt me during these few weeks.  My husband's birthday and our second daughter's birthdays are also rapidly approaching so it is hard not to remember our celebrations last year and how joyous (and plump) I was compared to the year before when I was just a little less plump and a whole lot less joyous.

But the pregnancy, birth and loss of Eli was different from Wyatt's.  The knowledge of what was to pass made things easier but so did my children.  For all of my worry about what Eli's death would do to them and then when he did die, having to watch my children suffer through the same emotions that I felt, it was nothing like watching our first child, Wyatt, die, and living through the aftermath.  I now know why.  Because when Wyatt died, in a way, so did my motherhood.  I had nothing but pictures, a few clothes, blankets and stuffed animals to remember him by and to identify myself as a mother.  But without the baby those things could not be so readily displayed and I found myself visibly robbed of claiming that identity.

When Eli died I suffered through many of the same emotions and difficulties.  Some of the worst for me was my milk coming in and still looking pregnant but not having that baby to make it all worth while.  But I was still a mother to everyone else.  I had three little girls at my bedside the day I gave birth to him and every day after.  They needed me and more than they'll ever understand, I needed them.  They gave my days purpose and eventually they helped me to see the little joys again.  After Wyatt died it was just my husband and I.  But he went back to work and then it was just me alone with my grief and my wounded body.  Physically and mentally I probably healed more peacefully since I was really able to go at my own pace.  But it was so lonely and overwhelming that I ended up going back to work as soon as my doctor would let me.  We tried to fill our hearts by getting a dachshund puppy but her needs and our abilities to meet them did not quite match up so we made the gut wrenching decision to find a family who could make her happier.  That didn't exactly help my grieving process.  But neither did banging my head against a brick wall over a five pound puppy!  It just wasn't the same.  My husband gives me an identity as a wife but only my child could identify me as his mother.

So with Eli even though it was physically, mentally and spiritually exhausting to care for our children while going through a pregnancy that would end in loss and then experiencing that loss and trying to heal from giving birth via c-section, it was those three girls that saved me.  They kept me afloat and for that I am so thankful.

No Wonder

Over the last eight years I find myself wondering what Wyatt would be like and what I have been missing raising three girls and not my precious son (and now sons). Today I am not wondering.

While vacuuming the enormously ugly and ugly enormous rug we have in our entry way, which is there for a reason which will soon become obvious, I heard the distinct crickling sound of gravel entering my vacuum cleaner. Gravel which literally falls out of our oldest daughter's shoes every day after school. Gravel, which combined with dirt, makes perfect mocha imprints of her little toes on her once white socks. Gravel which even finds its way into my washing machine courtesy of her jean pockets. I'm pretty sure Wyatt and her are two peas in a pod but I nonetheless would have loved to see it for myself.

Seriously

I debated on this title - because it can read "Seriously?" but the sad truth is it is "Seriously" as in no question about it.

My oldest daughter came home from school last week and announced that her friend would not be able to have a play date this past weekend because her mom would be at the hospital having a baby. Simple, right? I should be happy for her, huh? Yes, and . . . not so much. I really try to take the high road and let some of the unintentionally hurtful things flow underneath but this one sucker punched me right in the gut. My daughter's friend happens to have four, now five siblings. The oldest of whom is a third grader. This family has had six beautiful healthy children in about the last eight to nine years! The newest coming less than eighteen months after the last one (two since my daughter started kindergarten and she's only in second grade now). Three boys, three girls. Ugh.

I just wonder if they have the slightest clue of just how lucky they are to have so many blessings in their house. I can't help but think of all those families whose houses are empty time after time or houses like ours which are one or two children emptier than they should be.

Fairness

Yesterday it occurred to me for perhaps the first time that something doesn't necessarily have to be fair or unfair. Sometimes things are just not fair or not unfair. Let me explain. I would hope that I'd be hard pressed to find someone who would characterize my loss of two sons at birth as fair. Probably quite the contrary. But are those losses really unfair? Especially in light of my last post about others' children. Perhaps. But I think that maybe my losses are best categorized as not unfair. I would definitely not consider them fair. But, what makes them so unfair? Because my neighbor or my sister didn't suffer the loss of two babies? If they had, would that make it fair - tit for a tat kind of thing? Hardly, it would just double the sorrow in the world and mean that another family had to bear the heavy burden of losing two children. Is it unfair that they haven't lost two children like I have? No. Who am I to make such judgments?

I have been raised in terms of fairness. One of three children, the oldest at that, I learned the word "fair" at an early age. This concept of fairness was fostered and soon enough life was gauged in terms of fairness. Sure the phrase "life isn't fair" was tossed around here and there. But lessons to really drive that point home were so very missing. I find myself dealing with fairness issues and arguments on a daily basis dealing with three young girls. Three children of the same gender tends to make things more complicated than it was for me growing up with a sister and a brother. It seems that our parents were quite concerned with fairness when my husband and I were children and have yet to let those pesky concerns go. Not me, as a parent I seize opportunities of unfairness. I think it is an important lesson to learn and the earlier the better. Because that's just it, life isn't fair. People are not treated fair and despite any and all efforts to the contrary, true fairness and equality is a mythical concept. Plain and simple.

So I'll just stick with not unfair. Instead of asking "why me" maybe the better question is "why not me"? I would be a fool to hold myself out as so divine that such things should not happen to me. I'm far from perfect. Imperfection has taught me that things don't have to be constantly measured in terms of fairness but that doesn't mean they can't be not fair or not unfair.

In Search of Beauty

Amidst the words death, funeral, autopsy

I am searching for beauty. February is melting into March and I am seeking beauty. Dirty white snowbanks conceal the green grass and flower blooms that spring will soon offer. My hands ache to be covered in soil, which with the addition of seeds, water and sunshine will burst forth with tiny green seedlings which in time will grow small buds that will unfold into delicate and colorful flowers which delight the eye and perfume the air.

Not incredibly different from bringing a child into this world. Every child begins like a seed. With time and nourishment it grows and thrives until at last he or she bursts forth into this world and brings color to our lives. Some of these children grow and bloom and change. We will see them bloom again and again, each time more beautiful than the time before. Some will remain forever budded, only blooming in our imaginations.