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.