Can You Make Those Flowers Appropriately Mournful?

Peanut -

Last weekend Momma was talking with another Angel Momma about the absolutely insane decisions we've made and unthinkable tasks we've performed this past year.  As we discussed them, we couldn't help but laugh at ourselves, since the only other option was to burst into tears.

You see, Peanut, having a baby is one of the most hopeful, optimistic decisions any parent can make.  From the time Dadda and I started trying to conceive, to when we finally got pregnant, through the whole pregnancy, and all 500 days you were alive, we never once considered a world without you.  Every moment of every day was spent imagining your future, your next step, your next milestone.

We were so optimistic, in fact, that we had a closet full of clothes just waiting for you to grow a little bigger, a little older.  Clothes you never got to wear.  We had toys and books meant for a boy twice your age.  Every action was taken with the future in mind.

So, when you died we were suddenly thrust into a twilight zone of choices, actions, decisions that made no sense.  From the moment Dadda found you unresponsive in your crib, as Momma was holding you skin-to-skin in her bathrobe thinking my warmth would save you, as we performed CPR and the EMTs worked feverishly to save you, through the frantic ambulance ride to the hospital, and the whole time the ER team scrambled to do everything possible to revive and save you, it never once occurred to Momma you might actually die.  That we might have to leave you - forever.  Even as I was sobbing, holding your increasingly heavy, stiff little body in the emergency room, my brain didn't process it would be the LAST time I would ever hold and cuddle you.

Which leads to "the list."  This horrific list of things no parent should ever have to face.  Yet, we did.  In the moments, hours, days, months after your death we had to:

• Decide if you were going to try and be an organ donor (yes)
• Say good-bye to our Peanut and watch the medical examiner's office come retrieve your body to perform the requisite autopsy
• Drive home in a car with an empty carseat, and enter a house that had been the site of your death, the race to save you on our bedroom floor, and a visit from the police...an eerily quiet house
• Sit and write your obituary...decide who to thank, where to have donations sent and select the picture to include
• Plan your memorial service...do we try and speak? Ask others?  Sing?  Have music?  Read your favorite book?
• Decide if we should bury you and pick a casket, or have you cremated
• Choose an urn, when companies simply don't make that many urns for children...because children aren't supposed to die
• Go shopping for a black dress for your service...I don't own a "funeral" dress - for my own son's funeral
• Pick flowers from Momma and Dadda to have at the service...nothing too "cheerful"
• Create some type of thank you card to send to all the amazing, supportive people who sent cards, food, flowers, gestures of sympathy...we had over 500 notes to send out...how do we thank people when we can hardly get out of bed?
• Fight to get your autopsy results...why and how did you die?
• Fight to get your bedding and froggy back from the police...why the hold-up from the MEs office?
• Fight to survive
• Decide how to re-enter the world, re-engage with family and co-workers...nothing is what is used to be, including us
• Start to put your toys and clothes away, including that last load of laundry...dust gathers so quickly
• Start to get grief counseling, to find a way to move forward
• Decide to have another baby, when that had never been on the table
• Smile, when it feels so wrong
• Start listening to music again in the car
• Reach out to other bereaved parents, others who relate, who we can actually talk to
• Learn to cry in front of others, even complete strangers
• Rehearse complicated answers to simple questions like, "How many children do you have?"
• Start looking at your pictures, through tears and laughter
• Celebrate your birthday without you, knowing you will never grow older
• Face all the "firsts" and dread the day there will no longer be any more firsts
• Struggle through once-happy holidays...now just a reminder of the loss and emptiness
• Talk about you to others, with joy and laughter...and realize this journey will last forever...

Peanut, this list will never be complete.  Because, life without our Peanut will never make sense.

I love you, I miss you.  Sweet, beautiful child of mine.  To the moon and back.

- Momma

Running Out of Fresh Memories

Peanut -

Momma is petrified.  Time refuses to slow down.  It refuses to stop short of your rapidly approaching Angel Anniversary.  No matter how tightly I shut my eyes, or refuse to turn the calendar page, the months keep rolling on.  But, I can't face the reality of a year - one whole year - without you.

We passed the 10-month mark this weekend on Saturday, November 26.  Soon it will be December 26...the day after Christmas, and the 11-month mark.  Then it will be January 26, 2012.  One. Whole. Year.  And the next day will be January 27, 2012.  And we will be past the year of firsts.  But, more significantly, we will no longer be able to say, "Do you remember what Peanut did this time last year?"

And then, before we know it, we will pass the milestone of 16.5 months without you.  Suddenly we will face being without you longer than we had you.  How can that be?  How can it be that me, your Momma, will be without you longer than I was physically with you?  How is it that I'm still alive, still here, living a life and planning a future while you're gone?

This reality struck me during a horribly long commute into the office today.  Momma had over an hour to sit in her car, in traffic, to stew over these thoughts before even kicking off the work day.  I've ben unable to shake these fears the rest of the day.

I've stared at one picture of you constantly...my brain is unwilling to let go of you, to believe something as beautiful and perfect as my Peanut is no longer on this earth, in my arms.

I miss you so desperately.  To the moon and back, Peanut.

- Momma

Zen-Master Peanut

Peanut -

Dadda and I were talking today about how different this current pregnancy has been from our pregnancy with you.  While Momma's morning sickness was much longer and stronger with you, the overall pregnancy was quiet.  Calm.  You were an active baby, but not a hard kicker.  Your sleep schedule mirrored mine, as did your periods of activity.  I also had relatively few Braxton-Hicks contractions.  You did arrive two weeks early, but somehow we knew you were going to be an early baby.

The Bean, on the other hand, has made his presence known.  At night, just as Momma is settling in for sleep, he gets active.  His kicks, nudges and flips are enough to take Momma's breath away.  Over the last three weeks the Braxton-Hicks contractions have, at times, been debilitating.  During meetings at work, I often catch co-workers watching my stomach with a mix of delight and horror.  In short, your little brother is a wild man!

I wonder...will this be a key difference between you and your little brother once he arrives?  You were such a thoughtful, old soul.  Very few things rattled you, and you tended to quietly size up situations with your clear, knowing eyes.  Even when you took a surprise tumble or conked your head, it was rare that you would dissolve into tears.  Dadda and I were always careful to not over-react, but on your own you would generally just shake off the shock and get right back up on your feet.  You were also a VERY cautious kiddo.  You always had a keen sense of the spaces around you, distances between furniture, the drop from stair to stair, or just how high the couch was from the floor.  Every move was calculated, which is why I think you were a fairly late walker.  I often saw your little brain's wheels turning...why take the chance, when crawling was faster and safer?  You were able to walk on your own at 12 months, but you chose to wait until month 15 to use it as your primary mode of transportation.  Safety Peanut!

Will The Bean be the opposite, or at least dramatically different?  I think so - maybe.  Momma's brain knows he will be different from you in many ways - but will probably also share a lot of similarities.  Over the Thanksgiving holiday, one of the dinner guests heard The Bean's due date was January 17.  A look of wonder passed over his face, and he exclaimed, "Oh!  That's an 8 in Numerology!  AND you're having a boy?  That is a very powerful combination.  You should expect an old soul."  I've reflected on that...I HAD an old soul.  You.  Peanut, you were truly an old soul...is it possible we will have another?  If so, what does it all mean?

As The Bean's due date, and your Angel Anniversary, approach I find my brain occupied with these questions.  The fear and anxiety of having another baby - of the awful possibility of losing another child - has been replaced by a more universal pondering.  Maybe this is "normal" in situations as abnormal as ours.  Maybe it's part of my brain's healing process.  Maybe it's a message from you, "Slow down, Momma.  Enjoy this second chance.  Love my brother...it doesn't replace your love for me.  Just keep talking about me, too."

No problem there, Peanut.  You will be the center of our stories, laughter, and tears for a lifetime.  And beyond.  To the moon and back, baby boy.  To the mooooooooooon and back...

-Momma

Choosing To Be Thankful

Peanut -

Today is Thanksgiving Day in the United States.  This holiday - one we were lucky enough to celebrate twice with you - is all about giving thanks for our blessings, our family, our friends.  It's not based on religion, politics, gifts.  The day revolves around breaking bread with those you love.

It would be easy for Momma to ignore this day.  First, how can I have a meal with the people I love most, knowing you are missing from the equation?  Second, what about this year do I have to be thankful for as the pain and permanence of your absence becomes more and more real?

But then, yesterday, I received a note from a dear college friend.  In the note she acknowledged how hard this holiday season must feel for Momma and our family.  She also expressed her own deep appreciation for my willingness to share my grief, stories about you, glimmers of hope over The Bean, via this blog.  She shared how it has elevated her own love and appreciation for her family.  How it has changed her view of motherhood. As I read her note through my tears, I discovered just how much I have to be thankful for this year despite of - or maybe, partially because of - the enormity of our loss.

Some of the greatest blessings I count and give thanks for this year:

• The love and support of the hundreds of family and friends who have surrounded, supported and lifted us over these last 10 months;
• The understanding and grace shown by my co-workers, bosses, and others who have allowed me to ease back into work, into a safe routine, and have never judged as I reveal my tears and sorrow;
• The 500 delightful, amazing days I got to spend with you, Peanut...you changed me, my life, my personality forever;
• The life lessons I've learned in grappling with your loss;
• The new depth of love I've discovered for Dadda as we grieve, build hope, navigate a new future;
• The miracle of The Bean, feeling him grow and kick every day, reminding me that you have a little brother who will be here in January...just days before your 1-year anniversary;
• The power of the human heart to heal, the protection of the human brain to only hand us what we can process, the grace of the human soul to continue to love;
• The tenacity and sharpness of memories to allow Momma to remember so clearly how it felt to touch your skin, smell your scent, comb your messy curls, brush your little teeth, bump your forehead, hold your tight grip, and receive those powerful Peanut hugs.

Peanut, on this day of Thanksgiving, the weight of your absence feels heavier than usual on Momma's shoulders and heart.  Yet, I choose to give thanks because of you.  I know you will be sitting at the table with us, laughing and enjoying the presence of family and love.  Sending you SOOOOOOO much Momma love today...to the moon and back!

- Momma

Brush-a Brush-a Brush-a!

Peanut -

Dadda and I have been marveling tonight over what a happy kiddo you always were.  Even when you seemed to want to cry or be unhappy, it just didn't stick.  Even the ONE time to you tried to force out a single, solitary, giant crocodile tear, you couldn't stop your musical laugh from escaping.  My funny little 'Nut.

This got Momma thinking about a daily event that other parents seem to find intolerable.  For us, it was never an issue...it was actually a lot of fun.  The morning tooth brushing routine.  Peanut, let's face it.  You had a LOT of teeth very early, so brushing had to become part of our schedule.  We had some false starts with Momma choosing a toothbrush that was too big, or the wrong toothpaste.  But, once I found the perfect little Winnie the Pooh toothbrush, and the Tom's of Maine Silly Strawberry Infant toothpaste, we were rockin' and rolling.

I placed your tiny, yellow toothbrush in my old-fashioned, Momma-style toothbrush holder.  And your toothpaste was part of Momma's arsenal of personal care products.  Often, I would brush my own teeth in front of you, just to help you get the hang of it.  Apparently, Momma's toothbrushing faces are hi-lar-i-ous.  So, it should have been no surprise to me that you would mimic my funny faces when we started brushing your teeth.

Peanut, you were always so eager for me to start on your teeth.  I would sit you on the bathroom counter, and I'd give you a giant, toothy smile.  You would always reciprocate - in spades - and we'd be off to the toothbrushing races!  Whatever I needed you to do, I just had to do first.  If I needed you to open your mouth, I just opened mine.  Ta-da!  Laughter, hand-claps, and clean teeth were always the end result.  Joy!

The smiles, the laughter, produced during those simple morning routines...that's a big part of what I miss the most.  Peanut, you provided laughter in even the most basic, everyday moments.  Your zest for life is what I hold close to my heart.  It's why we are trying to celebrate the upcoming holidays, and to not give in to depression and grief.  To make you proud.  To make you smile.  To produce that giant, Peanut toothbrush smile.  Cheese!

I love you, sweet boy.  Please know you are with us in every moment of every day.  To the moon - and back!

- Momma