Happy 11th birthday, Peanut.

We miss you so very much, but today is a day of joy and remembrance. There was so much joy that day - and funny circumstances- that happened that day.

Momma was at a pedicure appointment that morning and thought she might have had an upset tummy. An hour later I started keeping a journal of my contractions. When we got to 5 minutes between contractions I called Dadda, who was coaching a football practice and told him to get home. Now. 

Dadda came home and didn't seem too concerned about the timeline until he realized I was 2 minutes between contractions. The drive to the hospital was pretty exciting. By the time we got to the maternity floor they rushed Momma into a room and tried to start an epidural. The first didn't work, so we had a second one. Dadda almost passed out watching the epidurals, so I told him to just look at my face.

After that, Dadda had an "angry cam," because childbirth class had terrified him. We saw a lot of people yelling/screaming on film during that class. He was shocked when all I wanted to do was watch a St. Cardinals baseball game until it was time to push.

Then we had a situation where you, my Peanut, weren't positioned for birth. Momma was so numbed by the epidurals that the nurses needed to lift me onto my hands and knees - and at that moment your aunt walked in!

When it came time to actually push, your Dadda, the gentle giant, bumped into the tray of sterilized equipment and knocked it all over. Our delivery doctor declared, "We have a dad going down" and then ordered him to a couch to order Momma some dinner.

But then...you arrived. And one of the nurses declared you were a perfect little Peanut at 5.1 pounds. And the nickname stuck. 

Thank you for teaching us to love as parents. 

How much do I love you? You know! To the moon - and back.

- Momma

Guess How Much I Love You

Peanut -

Hi there kiddo. I know it's been a long time since my last letter. But, you know I talk to you, cry over you, and have lots of conversations with your little brother about you. We keep you as alive as we can every single day.

It's just over nine years since you passed away. I never say we "lost" you. We know where you are...it's just not here with us on earth. The more time passes the more your Momma tries to imagine the boy you would've grown into - especially as I watch your younger brother grow up.

I was cleaning out books the other day from your brother's shelf and found "Guess How Much I Love You." I let myself read it and cry a little bit, but they were happy tears of remembrance. The joy you and I shared in reading that book every night is so powerful, amazing, and healing for your Momma. I love focusing on that memory.

Sending you so much love, my sweet boy. How much? Come on - you know! To the moon...and back.

Love,
Momma

Happy 10th Birthday, Peanut

Peanut -

Today you would be turning 10 years old - double digits. While we choose to focus on the joy this day brought us when you were born, this particular milestone has been breathtakingly hard for Momma.

I try to picture 10-year old you, and what I envision is a tall, lanky young man who still has that extraordinary smile, laugh and love of music. Tennis or swimming would most likely have been your sports. And I know you would be an amazingly kind person given your "old soul."

Last night, as I reflected back on the day you were born, I pulled out a journal from 2009. Sure enough, I had a page where I wrote down the timing of my contractions (picture included below) since I wasn't fully sure - at first -  if I was actually in labor. It turns out we cut it pretty close given how close together they were, and we had a 15-20 minute drive to the hospital. As soon as we made it the maternity ward, the admitting nurse told us two things: "Yep, you're having a baby today!" and "We'll see if you still have time for an epidural." Turns out we had time for not one, but two epidurals since the first only took effect on one side of Momma's body. But you entered this world less than five hours after we arrived at the hospital, when one of the nurses immediately called you "A tiny little peanut." And your nickname was officially born.

Peanut, our hearts, family, friends and the world have been so blessed and lucky that you entered this world. And in your death you have continued to impact people across the globe - your Peanut Effect.

Today we will do a little dance with your younger brother, in your honor. And, of course there will be a birthday cake in celebration of your life. You changed the shape of my heart forever, and for that I am forever grateful, my Peanut. I miss you. I love you. How much? You know! To the moon - and back.

Love -
Momma

The Peanut Effect Revisited

Peanut -

Hi, sweetheart. It's been a year since my last post, but I still talk to you every day. Today is significant for Momma since it marks eight years since the last time I took you to daycare, received one of your amazing Peanut hugs, read your favorite book to you (Guess How Much I Love You) and heard you whisper, "Momma..." in my ear.

In the time we had on earth with you, and in the subsequent years, your spirit, love and influence softened Momma's heart. You taught me to be to be kinder. To assume good intent. And to always listen when someone needed a friend. I named it "The Peanut Effect" and it is still active in my life today - and I think it is with others as well. The world needs more of your Peanut Effect today. That is part of Momma's mission - to remind people that one act of kindness creates another, and another and they start to multiply. The Peanut Effect.

Your little brother turned seven years old last week, and I know he desperately wishes you were here to celebrate with him. He has hit milestones you never got to experience on earth but we talk a lot about what you're doing in heaven, and those are magical conversations. Every family picture he draws includes you - and it makes Momma's heart sing. More Peanut Effect.

I know you see everything we are seeing and doing, and I feel your touch, your love. Just know, we/I miss you desperately. Tomorrow is not a day we "celebrate" which is why I wanted to write this letter today - because it is full of good memories. And tonight, I will read you your favorite book. Because I know you will hear me.

Peanut, please know I cry and have moments of sadness, but also joy, because I love you so very much. How much? Guess. OK, OK - you know this one. To the moon - and back.

Love,
Momma

Anticipation and Seven Years Without You

Peanut -

Hi sweetheart. It is so hard to believe it’s been seven years since we last held you. Seven years since our world was turned upside down. Seven years of committing to live, love, grieve, cry, laugh, hug, and be a mom and person you can be proud to watch from Heaven. And, while I am sure I often fail, I can say that on the flip-side I do often succeed in that effort.

When Monday of this week arrived I felt the black fog of sadness cloak my entire mind and body. Fortunately, Momma has become a master of compartmentalization over these last seven years which allowed me to function at work and home for the majority of the week. But, I have learned many lessons over years and I recognize the importance of self-care and creating a safe space to uncage my grief. Yesterday afternoon I signed off my work computer and spent hours pouring over pictures and videos of you, my dear Peanut. Tears flowed but, miraculously, the black cloud began to lift. The more I allowed my love and sadness to run free, the more I felt the overpowering love of your Peanut Effect.

Peanut, you continue to be the savior of my heart and spirit.

Thank you for changing the shape of my heart by making me your Momma. And, thank you for never abandoning my heart as I navigated the very confusing, complicated road of grieving your death. While I continue to walk that winding path every day for the rest of my time on earth, I know you are by my side, on my shoulder, and watching over me and our entire family.

I see you in your little brother’s smiles. I hear you in his laughter. While his personality is very much his own, there are many echoes of you, which tells me you - his big brother - have been instrumental in his life. While you weren’t physically here, you have been here surrounding him with love.

Peanut, on this day of remembrance I honor you, embrace you...and I might even snuggle with your special froggy for a bit. As the remarkable Stevie Wonder sings, “You are the sunshine of my life...” Momma loves you so, so much. How much? You know, silly! To the moon - and back.

With all the love in my heart,
Momma

Six Years...Forever In My Heart

Peanut -

Today. January 26. This is not a day to celebrate. It isn't an "anniversary." It is the day my earth stood still and everything that made sense and was right, good, normal got turned on its head. Today is the day you died. Six. Years. Ago.

How can it be?

We have somehow survived in the massive wake left by your death. Cobbled together a new existence that includes your little brother and our scarred, re-shaped hearts that have found joy and hope again. Time does not heal the grief and wounds. Time simply gives us the grace to learn how to compartmentalize, cope, manage the grief.

Even though it's been six years, I can remember every moment of this day in 2011 in vivid, stark, raw detail.  I can't say the same for the subsequent days and weeks - those, quite frankly, are a blurred jumble of snapshots in my head. But this day. This day is tough. From the moment I saw your sobbing Dadda holding your lifeless body while I was in the shower, my hair full of soapy suds, to the paramedics in our bedroom, to the frantic ambulance ride in rush hour traffic when I couldn't stop praying for your to somehow live, to the calm, focused doctors in the ER, to the kind doctor who explained that after an hour there simply was no hope, to the painfully long phone call with the organ donation service, to the horrific interview with the police, to the hospital room filled with our stunned extended family, to the garbled phone call to my boss, to the endless walk out of the hospital to our car with its empty car seat, to the phone calls we made to our closest friends, until we finally drove home to our house. Your home. An empty home. The master bedroom floor still littered with tubes and paper from the paramedics. Your room and crib stripped of bedding and your beloved froggy by the police. And the silence.

Until the calvary arrived.

Friends and family arrived on our doorstop with alcohol, food, flowers and love. Our house was filled with hugs and conversation about you. Your beautiful laughter and spirit.

That night we had to face the empty house again, and had to decide if we were going to try to survive your death. Honestly, I had to decide to survive. I had to commit to Dadda that I would survive. And that was the most I could promise at that moment. It wasn't until many months later that I could make the conscious decision to actually live, love, and thrive again to honor you.

Every day I wake up and commit my day to you and your spirit. You, Peanut, are my North Star.

I love you with every fiber of my being, and that love grows every day, even though you aren't physically on this earth with us. How much love is that, you might ask? To the moon - and back, silly boy!

- Momma

This might be my all-time favorite picture of you.

To honor your memory, this year Momma purchased this froggy paperweight, and a dome paperweight of the universe where I see you every day.

When You Wish Upon a Star

Peanut -

I'm sure you've been hearing your name around the house a lot lately. And, you've probably noticed how your little brother, Pickle, has taken to calling you "his Connor" or "Baby Connor" even though you're his big brother. You are so much a part of our daily conversations and a source of many, many difficult questions that Momma is really struggling to answer.

The other night Pickle and I saw an ad for Walt Disney World, which immediately sparked his interest since we are planning our first trip there this spring. The background music was, "When You Wish Upon a Star" which has always been one of Momma's favorite Disney songs. However, this time around I realized how potentially dangerous the lyrics are to a young child's ears and understanding. The line, "anything your heart desires will come to you" resulted in Pickle turning to look me directly in eyes and declare, "Mom, my heart's desire is for Baby Connor to come back. Can I wish upon a star tonight and make that happen?"

Uh oh.

My quick response was to give him a big hug and share that having you come home was one of my heart's desires too. And that we keep you alive and with us every day by talking about you, sharing stories and looking at your pictures. I went on to share that we will all be together again someday in Heaven.

Fortunately, that answer seemed to satisfy him. This time. However, the concept of Heaven is still somewhat nebulous and confusing to Pickle. Where is it? Can we go visit? Take a plane? In addition, he is now fixated on the concept  of death, how people die, why they die, when they die.

Bottom line: Momma is failing at this whole conversation.

Peanut, you know Momma. I'm a voracious reader and researcher and I've searched high and low for resources that address how to talk to a subsequent child about the sibling he or she never got to meet due to death. Sure, there are beautifully illustrated books that talk about nature and dying leaves and flowing streams, or pets that go on to another place but the fun we had when they were alive is magical. Books and articles that extensively cover the death of a parent, grandparent, classmate, or a sibling who was an active part of the child's life. I thought maybe books that discuss miscarriage could be relevant but the topics are far too different to really be of help.

So, in the meantime, Momma is making this up as I go. Scary.

I keep telling myself that one way or another we will get through this. As we have every day since you died. It won't be perfect, but what is? And maybe, just maybe on the other side I will have gained some mysterious wisdom that I can pass along to other parents struggling with similar situations.

Until then, the goal is to continue to keep you alive through stories, dancing, songs and memories. That joy will far outweigh any stumbling Momma (or Dadda) might do when asked the tough questions. Your magic, your Peanut Effect will continue to transform our family as you walk by our sides, sit on our shoulders, whisper in our ears, and watch us from Heaven.

Peanut, I still miss you so much every single day. But, I also find so much happiness in sharing you with Pickle. I can feel your presence and it is...simply magical.

I love you so very much my Peanut. How much? You know! To the moon - and back.

- Momma

Birthday Dance Party

Happy 6th birthday, my amazing Peanut.

While we can't celebrate with you in person on earth, with a cake and big party with all your friends, we are still celebrating with you. Today Momma, Dadda and The Pickle are going to visit lots of butterfly friends, eat birthday cake and we're going to have a super special dance party just for you. The featured song? You know! King Louie's jam, "I Wanna Be Like You" from The Jungle Book, of course!

Your little brother is so excited to celebrate, but can't wrap his brain around the fact that you can't be here. He asked this morning if you could fly in an airplane from Heaven to visit. (Sigh) I fear I'm not doing a great job of explaining you, your death, and the concept of Heaven to him. And now that he's nearing age 4, he is full of curiosity about his big brother Connor. Of course, in his mind, you are his "baby brother" which is also very confusing.

Earlier this week he informed Dadda that they couldn't be best friends anymore because he wanted to be best friends with you. That moment warmed my heart but also shattered me. Your presence, and associated absence, looms over us every day and there are still moments when it cripples me. But, more often than not these days, I smile when I talk about you, think of you, dream of you.

Today we celebrate you. We celebrate your Peanut Effect, and the fact that you made and continue to make this world a better, more beautiful place. You make me a better, more kind and patient Momma. You make us a stronger, more loving family.

Peanut, I hope you and your friends in Heaven can join us for the dance party. My heart will be looking for you. I love you, Peanut. How much? To the moon - and back! Always.

- Momma

Today....today is one of the days I miss you most...

Peanut -

It's been so long since my last post.  The days have grown increasingly hectic thanks to life in general, and your little brother has turned into a full-fledged pre-schooler which requires a whole new level of attention and engagement.  I find these postings now occur on milestone days like your Angel Day, birthdays and holidays.  Like today - Mother's Day in the US.  Momma was only blessed to spend one of those with you alive on earth, and it was truly wonderful.  A day filled with smiling, posed pictures, food and drink, laughter.  How could we have fathomed that a year later we would still be raw with grief, and also very-early pregnant?

The Pickle has brought so much joy to our world and today Momma has felt immensely blessed to be called a mom.  I have the honor of being a mom to you, The Pickle.  To your little sister, Chickpea, who miscarried.  And to your brothers and sister from Dadda's first marriage.  My cup runneth over in so many ways.

But, still.  Today I can't help but reflect on my kids who can't be in my arms.  My Peanut.  My Chickpea.  How different Pickle's life would be with these Angel Siblings.

Today I was called a cry-baby.  It stung and made me angry until I took the time to absorb and reflect.  And, yes.  Yes, I am a cry-baby, today of all days.  I miss my Peanut, in particular.

I respect, love and honor all moms in the universe, but today I hold Angel Mommas in a very special place in my heart.  We find the beauty, joy and celebration in all we have, yet there will always be a hollow space, a rough, jagged scar where loss has attempted to heal.

Today, I call on all Angel Mommas to be cry-babies along with me.  Because, if you are an Angel Momma, there is some joy behind those tears.

Peanut, you have touched Momma's heart in so many ways, and your Peanut Effect continues to astound me.  In the weeks to come, expect more letters.  It's time to do more healing.

I love you sweet boy.  How much?  To the moon - and back!

- Momma

January Reflections

Peanut -

Tonight marks fours years since I last felt you hug me so very tightly and whisper "Mommaahh" in my ear.  Since you tickled my eyelashes and wove your fingers through mine like knitting a blanket.  Since I believed that, no matter what, children outlive their parents.

January is a complicated month for Momma's heart.  First, we burst with joy when we learned we were pregnant with you over the Martin Luther King holiday weekend in 2009. The warm glow of that memory burns in Momma's heart every January...we so desperately wanted to get pregnant and you were our gift from heaven.  In more ways than we ever realized.

Two years later we woke to find you unresponsive in your bed.  January 26, 2011.  Tomorrow.  My healthy, beautiful, curly haired son with the musical laugh and expressive fingers.  I still see your deep blue eyes and can hear that head-thrown-back laugh you inherited from me.  Tonight I pray in my superstitious head that everyone (Pickle) survives the night.

And then there is the miracle that is your brother.  The Pickle.  Born just a week before your Angel day, he is the glowing beacon who brought light and laugher back to Momma...and maybe to our whole family.  How do I explain tomorrow to him?  At age three he grapples to understand the concept of a brother who exists that he's never met...yet, he knows who you are and can name you in any picture or story.

Four years.  How have we - how have I - survived?  After you died I was confident I would whither way, and life wasn't worth the effort of waking up, showering and getting dressed.  Yet, I went through the motions, wrote thank you notes, went back to work and had dinner with friends.  Eventually we found Henry the Dog, and his furry dog love reminded me what it was to experience a version of Momma-love.  After that we made the decision to get pregnant again...with the help of some wonderful doctors and amazing science/medicine.

Even the miracle of Pickle brought its own heartbreak - his twin sister didn't survive past four months.  But, here he is today.  Smart.strong.  And, in so many ways aware that he is special. Not spoiled special but toughed with an ability to see beyond the retractions of this world.  Often, I hear him having long conversations in his room with stuffed animals and I'm fairly sure this is your way of communicating through him.  It is...delightful.

Tonight I read your brother "Guess How Much I Love You" and gave him a Backyardigans book to read.  Momma reminded him these were to help honor you and he gave me his, "I know, Momma'" look.

Peanut, tomorrow I will celebrate you.  Your life.  I will not focus on those seconds, minutes, hours when we found you at home. administered CPR, rode in the ambulance while praying feverishly, answered police and transplant services questions, held your lifeless body and prayed with our full family, and eventually watched you roll out the door with the County Coroner's office. That was the last time we saw your body - but not your spirit.

Peanut, you are with us - with me - every day.  Sometimes Momma loses sight of what's important and the lessons learned through your death.  But, January always brings those reminders front-and-center.

I love you so much, my sweet Peanut.  And, four years later I miss you as much (if not more) than the day you died.  From the deepest part of my heart, to yours.  And, to the moon - and back.

- Momma

Picture from our 2011 "Happy New Year" card, sent just weeks before Connor passed away.

Peanut Effect Pete

Peanut,

Today is Christmas Eve.  Another holiday season filled with memories of the two Christmas days we were blessed to spend with you, while watching The Pickle discover the mysteries and joy of Santa.  Your absence looms large for Momma during these family celebrations, and I so desperately wish you were here with us. 

Once again, we decorated a special tree in your honor - your Peanut Tree - during a holiday party for family and friends.  It is one of my favorite ways to remember you, and keep you very much alive and present.  And your little brother is now old enough to discuss you, hear stories about your antics and to realize that this tree and its ornaments are  unique to you.  

Dadda also presented Momma - and the entire family - with a fabulous surprise during our Peanut Tree party.  Back in 2010, when you were still with us on earth, Momma and Dadda discovered a delightful character named Pete the Cat while on vacation.  We came very close to purchasing an original painting of him, but second-guessed ourselves and walked away from the art gallery.  Apparently, in the years since your death, Dadda has been in touch with the gallery about commissioning a Pete the Cat painting in your memory.  And this year - close to four years later - the gallery agreed to contact the artist, James Dean, and share our story.  The painting below is the result...and, frankly, I am speechless.  Delighted.  Amazed.

Your Peanut Effect has once again touched someone else's heart, and this painting will grace our home and watch over our family for years to come.  

Merry Christmas in heaven, my sweet Peanut.  Momma is sending you hugs, butterfly kisses and lots of memory-filled tears today and every day.  

I love you, to the moon - and back!

- Momma

  

Sharing Your Favorite Things

Peanut -

Momma feels terribly guilty.  The month of October slipped by without a public blog letter, even though there was a constant question that tugged at my heart the entire month.

As Momma and Dadda attempted to navigate the conflicting Halloween costume wants of your little brother (Fireman? Ghost? Spiderman? Broom riding witch/warlock? We landed on Superman for the second year in a row.)  I couldn't help but realize...I have no idea what costume you would have chosen at the big boy age of five.  What sports would you be playing?  What movie would be your favorite?  Is there a particular book that win favor over all the others on your bookshelf?  These are the choices that would normally dictate the costume dreams of a little boy.

It's hard to acknowledge that your favorite things at 16.5 months of age - your Froggy, The Backyardigans - would no longer even be on your radar screen at this point.  It's only as I watch your little brother grow, mature and move through the infant to baby to toddler to independent boy stages that I've had to face this stark reality.  (That and the fact that Nick Jr. seems to have totally discontinued The Backyardigans?!)

Tonight, as I put your little brother to bed, he chose one of your Backyardigan books.  At the end of the book he asked me to repeat the name each character, with a big grin.  I explained that this was your favorite show, sang a bit of the theme song, and talked about each of the characters: Tyrone, Austin, Pablo and Uniqua.  The Pickle just giggled and said, "I know Momma.  I'm going to see him in a few minutes."

I managed to calmly ask, "You're going to see Connor???"

And he just looked up at me and stated, "Yep!  I do lots!  Nighty night.  Thanks.  I love you."

Well, huh.  I've always believed you are here with us, on my shoulder, in the butterflies that visit us, sitting at the kitchen table as we laugh and share stories.  And now there is this.  You're getting to know your brother within the limitations of this earth through dreams.  Yes, Peanut, I believe.

The week before Halloween your brother ran into a table and gave himself one heck of a black eye.  Just like you did in 2010.  The feeling of history repeating itself is nagging at my brain and heart.  Is this merely a coincidence?  Gosh...I have trouble believing in coincidences at this point.  Maybe it is simply bad timing.  I don't know.  What I do know - Momma's vigilance is on steroids for the next several months.

Peanut, I miss your sweet eyelashes, gentle touch, head-thrown-back laugh, blonde curls and deep blue eyes. I miss hearing you exclaim, "Hiiiiiii, kitteah kaaaahhhh!" and whispering, "Mommmaaaaa."  I. Miss. You.

Momma loves you so very much. To the moon - and back!

- Momma

Peanut Froggy - Halloween 2010 (Can you see the shiner over his left eye?)

Your 5th Birthday

Peanut -

Happy 5th birthday.  I'm sure there should be an exclamation point after that, but Momma just can't muster that level of enthusiasm today.  Just uttering or typing that phrase brings tears to my eyes, thinking about everything we are missing.  And how much I miss you.

Peanut.  My first born son.  The child who opened my heart and eyes to selfless love.  Momma love.  The child who, even (or maybe especially?) in death, has taught me to live with joy, grace and forgiveness even when anger and despair felt like the easier, more justified options.  My child.

Five years ago it was a hot September Saturday.  Summer was enjoying its finally hurrah for the year, and Momma wasn't expecting you to arrive until September 25 so a pedicure and late lunch were on the agenda.  But early morning cramps had me wondering...could these be contractions?  And by early afternoon Momma and Dadda were rushing to the hospital, praying we made it in time as we hit every single red light.  We did, and you were born just a few hours later.  As the delivery nurse so appropriately said, just a tiny little Peanut.

Peanut, I wish I could see the 5 year-old version of you, blowing out five candles on a giant chocolate cake, tossing a football with your friends in the backyard and wrestling with the dog.  While I can picture this image in my mind, my heart and hands long to reach out an touch your long, graceful fingers.  To gaze into those deep blue eyes again, and give you Eskimo kisses.

Happy birthday in Heaven, Peanut.  Here on Earth we will celebrate your birthday, your life, your Peanut Effect, your love and...well...you.  My amazing son.  I love you so very, very much.  How much?  Come on, silly, you know!  To the moon - and back.

- Momma

 

Almost 5

Peanut -

Your birthday is coming up on Friday of this week.  This has proven to be a particularly difficult birthday for Momma for a number of reasons.

First, Momma simply cannot envision what you should be doing at age 5.  The things - activities, words, phrases, opinions - I thought would wait until 5 have emerged at 2.5 with your little brother, so I am clearly way out of my depth.

Second, an extremely close family member seemingly forgot your birthday was this week.  When I was asked "what do you have going on this weekend?" Momma responded, "Peanut's birthday is Friday so we're pausing, remembering, and celebrating."  The response?  "Ohhhhh....yes.....that's this week....<big sigh>"  Should Momma be upset?  Maybe.  But this is the shape of the future.  Momma and Dadda will always remember but can we expect others to do the same?

To that end, last night Momma and Dadda made a pledge.  We will always talk about you.  We will share our story and help others realize that grief isn't so scary when shared with joy.  That I love talking about you, my amazing, adorable first son.

Coincidentally (I think not), the Zac Brown Band is playing in St. Louis on Friday night, September 12.  Your birthday.  The guys responsible for "Chicken Fried" - which you learned and loved at school - are playing on your birthday.  Thanks to Dadda we have tickets!  So, Momma and Dadda will be bopping up and down to your music as we celebrate the life, love, smiles, hugs, grins, and butterfly kisses that are you.

Peanut, I'm sure there will be more posts this week than usual (lately).  The grief is heavy in my heart and this blog helps Momma lift that weight.

Peanut, I love you so very much.  I know you are with us, every moment of every day.  And, I hope you are proud.  I love you sweet, darling boy with the deep, blue eyes and feather-long eyelashes.  Mmmmmmmwwwwwwaaaahhhhh!

- Momma

September...

Peanut -

Here it is again.  September.  Your birth month.  In just a few days (9/12) we should be celebrating your birthday with a cake lit up by 5 candles.  But...no.  Instead Momma is watching your classmates enter school, play sports and grow up.  Meanwhile, you are forever 16.5 months old.  I know in my heart and brain you are an amazing athlete, comedian, scholar, and citizen of this world.  I just wish everyone else had gotten the opportunity to feel your warmth and potential.  Maybe, in some small way, this blog has helped spread the word about your amazingness (made up word by Momma).  To expand your Peanut Effect.

We just retuned from our annual family vacation at Big Cedar and - once again - felt an incredible connection to you.  Momma and Dadda spent several hours sharing photos and videos of you with The Pickle, and explaining who you are and where you've gone.  This might be the most challenging part of being a bereaved parent with subsequent kiddos.  How do you explain death?  Especially when it's sudden, unexpected and without explanation?

Momma took a picture of your brother while on vacation that tells me he might just see you...I'm not sure but I choose to believe.  It is included below.

This fall is going to be full of fun, exciting and bittersweet moments.  As time churns forward, the fact that you are forever frozen in time becomes more starkly apparent.  Momma chooses to love, be joyful, and to find the wonderful happiness you opened in my heart.  But still...I reserve a corner of sadness and grief for you.

I love you soooooooooooooo very much.   How much?  Well, to the moon - and back, silly!

- Momma

First Day of School Pictures

Peanut -

I need to acknowledge something.  Momma's posts are fewer and fewer.  This doesn't mean my love, grief and living for you have subsided.  It's more that these emotions have become integrated into Momma's day-to-day activities.  I talk about you all the time, you surround me in my office, and you are a topic of daily conversations with The Pickle.  But, like today, there is still a need for this forum to share the odd moments bereaved parents grapple with in unexpected ways.

Friends, I adore, love and cherish the "first day of school" pictures I see on Facebook.  I can feel your pride and adoration.  And, I can't wait until we hit these milestones.  What's so hard is that we were supposed to hit a very important milestone this year.  Kindergarten.

Peanut, you should be starting Kindergarten along with all of your friends from The Elegant Child as well as all our our friends who had children in 2009.  This year I've had to watch them start playing soccer and baseball.  Softball and hockey.  Guitar lessons.  Camp.  And now...school.

Pictures, pictures everywhere.  They have bombarded Momma this week.  Wherever I turn I see "First Day" pics and realize - this will be a reality every year.  I can choose to embrace it or let it shut me down.  So, embrace it is the choice.

The loss of you feels so new and fresh thanks to these milestones.  Yet we are now over three years since your death...so few people remember and understand.  Momma is reminded that this is a forever journey.  

Peanut, you know what forever means?  I love you, to the moon - and back.  For eternity.

- Momma

The Shockingly Awful Bereaved

Peanut -

How can it be?  A month has passed without a letter.  My heart feels terrible but also hopeful.  Because, this blog has been the outlet for Momma's intense grief.  A place where I had to force my brain to balance the pain of missing you with some measure of joy.  But, over the last few months, joy has been more accessible and present.  More constant.

While there is guilt associated with that, there is more a sense of settledness.  A sense that this is what it feels like to allow grief and joy and love and pain to become the norm.  There is a strange new ability to ride the yellow sunshine highs of wonderful moments while also embracing the need to indulge fits of chest-heaving sobs...all in the same day.  I acknowledge this is not normal.  At least, not for normal people.  But, we are not normal.  We are the Shockingly Awful Bereaved.

Yes.  That is a new Momma phrase.  As we travel this path of loss, and time plays a more predominant role, it seems humans feel more comfortable uttering words and phrases they danced around during the early days.  The times of, "I can't imagine...I am so sorry." have passed.  We've entered into the zone of, "OH MY GOD.  That is the worst thing I have ever heard.  How are you still alive?"  Yes, this is a Momma over-generalized dramatization.  But, not all that far off.

Today I had a woman inform me that, outside of her husband cheating on her and the pain of their divorce and loss of her house and country club membership, she can't imagine anything worse than the death of a child.  <Deep breath in and out.>  My response, "I am so sorry for everything you are unexpectedly dealing with - it must be awful."

Thanks to you I have become more patient and kind.  I believe in the inherent good of people and humanity.  When I hear people (above) say things that seem idiotic I give the benefit of the doubt.  I give grace.

Your Peanut Effect.  Stronger than ever.

I write tonight to honor you and to keep this blog active and alive.  For you.

Peanut, I miss you.  Every day.  I love you sooooo much.  How much?  To the moon - and back!

- Momma

Peanut's Butterfly Stone, flanked by beautiful flowers.

Summoning Butterflies

Peanut -

This afternoon Momma was enjoying a warm summer day, browsing Facebook on the porch during a brief thunderstorm, when life without you hit me over the head.  Several friends posted pictures of their kids who are the same age you would be - children playing baseball this summer, participating on swim teams and riding bicycles.  All things you would - should - be doing.

The reality that your classmates will be starting kindergarten in the fall also sunk in today.  A major milestone you will never realize.  A reality that will only loom larger as the new school year creeps up on us.

And in the midst of these terrifying moments, a lovely white butterfly emerged.  It flitted across our yard, over trees and winding around bird feeders.  Every time I thought of you, it landed on the bird feeder next to my chair.

I hear you.  I see you.  I know...we will get through these milestones, these ongoing heartaches.

How?  Because you are still with us, watching over us.

Earlier this week Momma was asked to share the one question I ask myself every day.  That would have been a tough question a few years ago.  But not now.

What is the question?

How do I live a life that honors you every moment of every day?

Peanut, thank you for sending butterflies to greet Momma today.  I love and miss you so very much.  To the moon - and back!

- Momma

Would You Know My Name?

Peanut -

It's been several weeks - too many - since Momma's written a letter.  There has been so much going on...but there is no excuse <sigh>.  Just lots of emotion that Momma hasn't known how to channel because so much of what is happening has been misdirected towards your death due to a situation with one family member.  A family member who is taking your death and making it the root of many personal issues.  

And I'm just not "OK" with someone else (or many someone else's) trying to take ownership of this grief journey.  Of assuming that Momma can continue to be the strong shoulders.  Of bastardizing the amazing impact of your Peanut Effect.  And the decision Dadda and Momma made to honor you though joy, love, light, laughter and beauty.

I am angry.

There.  I said it.  

It's been close to 3.5 years since you died.  I am now being forced to relive the raw emotion of the first months after your death due to this situation.  But...so much has changed.  We have the ever growing Pickle, and he is amazing, hilarious and challenging.  We've opened a restaurant.  We have moved once and are now about to move into our "dream home."  A home you never set foot in, but I know you will inhabit in spirit.  

With all these changes, I worry sometimes.  Would you know me today?  

Momma listened to Eric Clapton's "Tears In Heaven" this evening and came to this conclusion:

I think - no, I know - you are by my side, on my should and in every fiber of my being every step, every moment, every day.  You are my heart and my inner-voice.  You are why I have the strong shoulders.

Peanut, you are my touchstone.  I love you, sweet boy with the ocean deep blue eyes...to the moon - and back!

- Momma

Boiling the Ocean, One Cup At A Time.

Peanut -

Momma ran into a co-worker today she hasn't seen since she was pregnant with The Pickle.  A wonderful, kind young man who was simply devastated after your passing, since he has a son just a few months older than you.  We actually became friends after sharing exhausted-parent infant/toddler stories as we were both navigating first-time parenthood.  After you died, our milestone-sharing bond was severed.  His joy upon learning 2 years ago that we were pregnant again was cautious, tempered.

And then there was today.  It has been so long since we've seen each other, and he is a new dad again.  A beaming smile greeted me - one without the fear of "what do I say?"  We talked freely about our kids, until it came to his son...the one who is just a few months older than you.  The one who just turned five.  It hit me like a sledgehammer between the eyes.  Five.  Holy cow, it's April...you turned 4 1/2 in March so we would be in the "almost five" zone.

Something about that fact is horribly difficult, sad, and paralyzing.

I share this because I've realized that trying to manage and anticipate what grief has on the menu for the day is like thinking you can boil the ocean.

First, why would you want to?  Boiling the ocean means you would miss out on the mystery of its dangers.  You would kill and devastate all the beauty those dangers have to offer before you have the change to realize what seems dangerous at first is actually beneficial.  Healing and restorative.  Just like grief.

Second, it just isn't practical.  The ocean is turbulent, vast and dictated by forces larger than this earth.  You could try to boil it one cup, gallon, or any other measurement but, at the end of the day, you will be lucky if you get a nice warm bathtub.  But, sometimes isn't that enough?  Or even more than enough?  Why try for more?

Third, the ocean has its own rhythm.  At times she is calm, peaceful.  But a storm can rage from seemingly nowhere and calm just as quickly.  Momma relates to this in so many ways.  A good day can turn dark in a flash - the mere mention of a boy who just turned five can apparently send me into a tailspin.

More than anything, the notion of thinking humans can boil the ocean is our way of trying to be in control.  That's human nature, right?  But there are some forces more powerful and wise than we can ever imagine.  Forces that understand what the earth, heart, brain need to experience to heal, restore, thrive.  At times that process is painful and wounds get re-opened.  But the scar tissue that re-forms is tougher and more resilient.

Anyway, at the end of Momma's interaction with her co-worker there was a genuine request - I asked to see pictures of the kids.  And, that request brought a smile.  A glowing, appreciative smile.

Peanut, days like to today remind me just how much you have changed this Momma's heart and soul. I am a better person throughout because of you.

<sigh>  I miss you, your strong neck hugs, and sense of connection.  Those long blue-eyed gazes and butterfly kisses.  I love you so very much.  How much?  To the moon - and back!

- Momma

Peanut's 6-month photos from March 2010.  Our little Irishman.