Magic...

Peanut -

Tonight Momma and The Bean had a special moment, a little dance with you.  The Bean was feeling a bit restless and Momma was missing you terribly.  As I held him, I noticed he was gazing intently over my shoulder, at the collage of pictures over our bed.  Pictures of you.

I started telling him about each picture, each photo shoot and he smiled.  So I decided, "What the heck?  Let's watch the "500 Days" movie."  The instant the music started this little 6-week old brother of yours settled down and rested his head on my shoulder.  I danced around the room, singing your music, and he held my thumb while he stared at your pictures.

Magic.

I felt my boys talking to each other.  A connection.  I am sure I will witness these moments for years to come, but tonight it was powerful.  Wonderful.  Delightful.

I believe.

Peanut, nights like tonight help me understand that you will know my name when I see you in heaven.  I don't belong there yet, but someday...

To the moon and back, Peanut.  That is how much I love you.  Times infinity.

- Momma

Editing My User Accounts. Or, Not.

Peanut -

Earlier this week Momma placed an order with Diapers.com for some little items we've been needing for The Bean.  In the back of my mind, I knew I hadn't ordered with them in over a year, but I really hadn't processed what that meant.  Until, of course, I went to the site and realized waaaaaaaay back in the day I created a user account - and it remembered me.

In its overly cheerful, customer-service friendly way, their home page instantly asked if I wanted to use "My Lists" to re-order items from the past.  You know, items like your Jungle Frog Halloween costume.  And, the bright green froggy bath tub mats we bought after your slip-n-slide incident in the whirlpool tub. Agh...what a dagger in my heart.  This innocent tool, meant to make my shopping experience easier, was just cruel.

To add insult to injury, the site remembered YOU as well.  Apparently, when Momma set-up her user account, she entered your name and age.  Well, Diapers.com was more than happy to give me recommendations for my 29-month old son.  It seems I should be looking to buy you a potty training seat, and all kinds of helpful potty training tools.  Funny, because I always figured we would have done that months ago, around the time you turned two.

Later, as I was completing my purchase, the site asked me if I wanted to update my user account - then it took me to my profile page.  There it was.  A box labeled, "My Family."  And one little boy, Connor, listed as 29 months old.  The box asked if I wanted to add a child.  Of course I do.  So The Bean is now added to our family list.  The box also asked if I wanted to remove or edit any of my children.

No.  I do not.

Maybe it's denial.  Maybe it's a little white lie Momma chooses to tell her heart.  But, I have two sons.  I will always have two sons.  Peanut, maybe I can't buy you any more Jungle Frog costumes.  Maybe you don't need those froggy bath mats any longer.  But, you are still my son, very much alive in my mind and heart.  I will always enjoy thinking about what you should be wearing, reading, playing with at each stage of your life.  You will always be listed as part of My Family on those accounts.

To my oldest son.  My Peanut.  My Connor.  I miss you, and I love you sooooooooo much.  To the moon and back.

- Momma

A, B. A, B. A, B, C, D, E, F....G

Peanut -

Last night Momma got a full dose of missing you.  While looking for items to entertain a young guest at our house, I found myself bringing out a number of your favorite toys.  Not just any toys, but the toys you played with in the last weeks of your life.  Toys I hadn't touched, played with or activated in over a year.  Oh boy.

For Christmas 2010 Momma bought you loads and loads of toys.  Many of them were meant for you to grow into, since I thought we had forever in front of us.  Since you adored books, I purchased a Leap Frog story book that ran through the entire alphabet and was probably a little advanced for your your age.  Each page included buttons for every letter of the alphabet, and it also told a sweet story.  The last page of the book featured a button that sang the entire alphabet song.  That particular button was like Peanut crack.  You found it within hours of receiving the book, and its Siren Song forced you to always turn to the last page the minute we brought the book out.

Peanut, I'm not sure if you ever let that poor button sing you the full song.  I'm pretty sure we never got past the first half of the alphabet, because you would always hit the button over and over and over and over and over.  A.  A, B.  A.  A, B, C.  A.  A, B, C, D, E.  A.  A, B.

Momma had forgotten about that book, and its sweet, warbling song, until last night.  Even when I brought the book our for our guest, I didn't think about the song.  The button.  The memories.  And then I heard it.  It felt like a towering brick wall collapsing around me, allowing the pain and grief to rush in like a tidal wave.  I had no warning.  I was totally unprepared.  The sadness lumbered into the room and sat on my chest like an elephant, and is still there today.

Peanut, someday your brother will play with that book and I know I will feel joy.  Until then, I feel sadness, loss, heaviness.  For now, I can only think, "Peanut should be playing with that...doing new things, discovering the world."

I know you're in heaven singing the alphabet song, playing with your favorite toys, and reading loads of books.  It's just...I want you to be doing all those things here.  On earth.  With me.  <sigh>  Oh, how I miss you.  It's just indescribable.  So, I will simply say I love you, Peanut.  To the moon - and back.

- Momma

Oberweis (aka The "Good" Milk)

Peanut -

First, let me confirm - YES, something looks different.  Momma reverted back to an old template for the blog.  After months of test driving Google Blogger's "Dynamic Views" format, I am responding to reader feedback.  While the Dynamic View was pretty, and allowed readers to see more photos, it really crippled the usability of the blog.  Readers (including Dadda) were no longer able to follow the blog, sign up for e-mail delivery, easily post comments, or view the blog from many mobile devices.  I hope the change in format is more reader-friendly!

Earlier this week Dadda and I were out running errands and we passed the Oberweis store.  For those who aren't from the St. Louis area, Oberweis produces some of the most amazing ice cream, milk and lemonade in the WORLD.  Bold statement, I know, but I'll stand by it.  They also have a phenomenal delivery service, and only sell their products in reusable, glass containers.  This quality comes at a price, which means you only invest if you're a serious milk consumer.

When it came time to transition you over to milk, beginning at 1-year, Dadda and I decided to make the Oberweis investment.  While it was more money, more work, more effort, it was beyond worth it for our Peanut.  Not only did you adore their super-rich, creamy whole milk, it also gave us an excuse to buy their chocolate milk!

I know this sounds odd, but I find an overwhelming sense of comfort in the memory of these decisions.  Peanut, you were and are SO LOVED.  There wouldn't be any old, run-of-the-mill milk for my Peanut.  No way.  We're buying the "good"milk.  Silly, right?  Maybe.

These are the kinds of decisions that make me reflect on the insanity of this world.  Dadda and I worked so hard to make sure you wanted for nothing.  That you were showered with love, adoration, education, family, friends.  We would have given our lives one hundred million times over to allow you to live, grow, prosper.  As an older Momma, I recognized every single day just how lucky I was to have you.  Despite all of that, you were still ripped away from us at just 16 1/2 months of age.

Early in our grief I kept asking, "Why us?"  I was so confused, so angry.  With all the people who abuse, neglect, mistreat their children, why were WE targeted?  What kind of universe, what kind of higher power, thinks this is right?

Then, another bereaved parent, one much further down the path, turned the question around on Momma.  He looked at me and said, "Why NOT you?  Would you honestly wish this on anyone else?"

Huh.

The short answer is, "No."  Not long after that conversation, Momma started this blog.  Because, Peanut, I believe we must do something good, positive with your life...and, sadly, your death.  Your life was too special, too precious, too beautiful, too full of sunshine and love for us to do anything different.

Peanut, as I review postings from last spring and summer and compare them to today, I see the change in Momma and her grief.  The progress.  It's hard not to feel guilty.  Not only am I still here, but I'm living with hope and happiness again.  Is that a betrayal of you?  No.  It is a tribute to you.  It is because of you. It is the inner circle of your Peanut Effect - your Momma, getting the chance to be a Momma to your little brother, sharing stories about you, and bridging the two worlds.

When the time comes next winter for us to make the milk decision again, I know Dadda and I won't have any decision to make at all.  We'll go for the "good" milk.

Peanut, sending you a giant forehead bump and a Momma-style neck nuzzle tonight.  (You know what I mean.)  I love you soooooo much.  How much?  To the moon - and back!

- Momma

Ambulance Ride

Peanut -

Over the last year I have intentionally avoided talking about one specific topic.  The ambulance ride the morning you died.  Honestly, Momma breaks into a panicked, cold sweat every time she hears or sees an ambulance. It's even worse if I'm driving, when all I can do is pull over, close my eyes and white-knuckle the steering wheel.

It's interesting, because other people who have experienced a situation similar to ours have the same reaction.  We all have a physical response to the sound, the visual, the lights, the uniforms.  These life-saving crusaders represent death to us.  Hopelessness.  The beginning of the end.

That morning, January 26, the EMTs were the first responders.  They arrived within 4 minutes of us placing the 911 call.  And, they were amazing.  I can't even imagine the scene from their perspective.  The snowy, ice-covered front walk leading up to our house.  They entered the front hallway and ran to our bedroom, led by my screams.  There is Momma, in her bathrobe trying to talk to the 911 operator while Dadda administered CPR.  Peanut, you were on the hardwood floor since it was the best, flat surface for CPR.

The EMTs took over immediately.  They ordered Momma to get dressed - with shoes and an overcoat  - since we were leaving ASAP.  Before I knew it we were running across the snow covered front lawn and entering the ambulance, while Dadda was following behind in one of our cars.  We had no idea which hospital, which ER.  Just getting on the road.  We live so far away from "everything" - the closest hospital is 20 minutes away.  This is one reason we are planning to move to a new house, a new area.  Closer to hospitals.

It was just after 6:10 in the morning.  The rush hour traffic was beginning to build.  But, the ambulance driver took charge, and Dadda followed right on our bumper.  The driver kept Momma informed, minute by minute.  What they were doing to save you.  Where we were turning.  And I prayed.  Cried.  Felt numb.  More than anything, I believed in my heart they could save you even though my brain knew you were gone.

When we got to the hospital, the ambulance driver was deliberate about not letting Momma out of the ambulance.  He wanted to make sure I didn't try to stand until there was someone to catch me when or if I fell or fainted.  But, once we were all inside the ER, once you were pronounced dead, it was a different story.  The EMTs, nurses and doctors who worked on you were all destroyed that day.  This beautiful, loved little boy with his short, blonde hair and deep blue eyes.  And his devastated parents.

I don't ever want to ride in an ambulance again.  Never want to watch the traffic pull aside to let us pass.  I don't want to smell the antiseptic scents, or hear the sirens directly above my head.  Every time I hear that noise my mind's eye sees me in that passenger seat, turning around in desperation, to see if her Peanut is breathing, moving, laughing.  Watching her future slip away.

No matter how many years pass, the sound of an ambulance will probably always make Momma tremble.  It will always catapult me back to that day.  That morning.  That feeling of panic and desperation.

Peanut, I share this tonight because it has been weighing on my mind.  It was time to share.  Time to remember those stark, terrifying minutes.  Time to acknowledge them, name them, and strip them of their power.

What happened that morning is just that.  What happened that morning.  Your life, your love, your light represent so much more. More love, growth, joy than I can ever express in words.  So tonight, I simply sum it up as I do every night....I love you, Peanut.  To the moon and back.

- Momma