The Movie of Your Life

Peanut -

Momma has spent the last two evenings going through every single photo and video we have of you.  It has been emotionally draining.  Heart-wrenching.  Cathartic.  Painful.  Joyful.

I have re-lived every moment of every day we spent with you.  The smells, the sounds, the softness of your blonde hair, the tight grip of your little monkey toes...it has all come rushing back with an overwhelming rush.  A reassuring rush.  I've been so afraid that I was beginning to forget the little things, the details.

It seems my brain, on a daily basis, only doles out what it thinks I can handle.  But, when I go into full-immersion mode - like I did this week - the floodgates open.  I welcomed this flood.  I intentionally opened those gates.  And the emotional drain has had a surprising end result...I actually feel re-energized. Refueled by the love and memories.  By how close you still are in my mind, and in every one of my senses.

I know I feel better when I get to talk about you, so it only makes sense that this photo overload has been healing.  So, while I probably look a little crazy with my mascara-tear-streaked face, I actually feel a sense of calm.  Peace.  Love.

Peanut, I send all that love and peace your way tonight, along with a big air kiss - MWAAAHHHH!  I love you...to the moon and back!

- Momma

The Lie (Or, Is It?)

Peanut -

As Momma's tummy stretches and grows - it looks like I swallowed a basketball! - it creates more buzz from complete strangers.  Strangers who mean well, but have no idea.  No idea about our precious Peanut, no idea about the immense loss and grief we've struggled with this year, no idea what a miracle and blessing The Bean is, and just how scared Momma is to open her heart to hope.

Today, Momma told a lie.  Normally, when the questions start, I have a script:

Stranger: Oh!  Is this your first?
Me: No.
Stranger: How many others do you have?  Boys or girls?
Silence while I assess the situation.  Will I run into this person again?  How much do I reveal?
Me: I have a little boy.
Stranger: And, do you know if this is a boy or girl?
Me: A boy.
Stranger: You must be thrilled!  Is his big brother excited?  How old is he???
Further assessment of the situation...

Peanut, at this point, I usually either avoid the questions, redirect the conversation or tell the truth.  It depends on the person, the relationship and potential future interactions.  Today, however, I flat out lied.

I was on the phone, making small talk with a Nordstrom customer service representative while she waited for my order to be corrected.  We got on the topic of the pregnancy, and the script played out as usual.  When we got to the last questions, I hesitated.  And then, I just plunged head first into my lie:

Me: Yes, he is delighted.  He's just over two years old, and is going to be a fantastic big brother.

Oh.  Gosh.  What did I just do?  In my heart and mind, it really isn't a lie.  You are just over two.  You already are the world's best brother.  I believe you look out for the The Bean each and every day.  You aren't just any ordinary brother - you are the most special kind of brother out there.  An Angel Brother.

Peanut, maybe I should feel guilty about this interaction, but...I don't.  Because, in its own way it is 100% true.  I'm sending you my love along with a giant Momma hug.  To the moon and back, 'Nut.

- Momma

Edelweiss

Peanut -

When I was pregnant with you - especially towards the end of the pregnancy - I loved to pick up my guitar and strum a few notes, or a Beatles song or two, just to get a reaction from you.  It was obvious you could not only hear the music, but could FEEL it.  You always responded with a somersault, a kick, a little punch.  I truly believe you were born with music in your soul, partially because I sang and played for you so often.

Since your death, I've commented that the music has left my spirit.  The guitar has gathered 11 months of dust.  My voice has not lifted in song, and I have rarely felt compelled to dance.  A few times recently I've thought about picking up the guitar just to see how The Bean might react.  But, I've always banished the thought, stored it back on a shelf, and moved on.

Until this morning.  I was watching the CBS Sunday Morning Show, due to its light-hearted, uplifting format.  Enough with the bad news that makes up the news.  Momma wanted to kick off the day in a more positive light.  In the middle of their second hour, a segment aired about Christopher Plummer, due to his lead role in "The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo."  But, the interviewer also focused some time on his role in "The Sound of Music" which has a special place in Momma's heart.  My family used to watch it together every year, and I was fortunate to share part of that movie with you, Peanut.

During the CBS interview, they aired a clip from "The Sound of Music"where Captain Von Trapp rediscovers his love of his children, and music, while singing Edelweiss with his oldest daughter.  He is sitting in their parlor, strumming a guitar and singing this lovely, simple little song (fun fact: not actually Christopher Plummer's voice in the movie).  An overwhelming urge struck me in that moment.  I wanted nothing more than to pick up my own guitar, strum and sing along.

I spent the rest of the morning humming the song.  By this afternoon I couldn't help it.  I picked up the guitar for the first time since you died and played a few notes while I held the body of the guitar close to my tummy.  The Bean responded with an overwhelming reaction - kicks, flips, pokes and punches.  What a delight!

The moment was truly shared with both my little boys.  While I was the only one physically sitting on the bed with the guitar, you were both there with me - in the music, in the song, in my heart.  Little by little, the music is returning to Momma's soul.

Peanut, I feel you everywhere.  More and more every day.  I am sending my love to you, across the world, across the universe, across time and space.  And, in the music.  To the moon and back!

- Momma

5 pounds, 1 ounce

Peanut -

Momma had what will probably be our final Bean ultrasound today.  At 35 weeks, we actually didn't expect to have one this late in the pregnancy, but the doctor thought it was a good idea to check in.  Between early contractions and Momma's low pregnancy weight gain, we just needed to be sure everything was on track.

And, although we never say it out loud, all the doctors and nurses have been so vigilant, so full of care, so aware of what happened in January.  Losing you broke all our hearts.  So, The Bean is a little beacon of hope for all of us.  We can't - won't - risk anything going wrong.

The primary purpose of today's ultrasound was to check The Bean's current weight.  Momma lost a lot of weight early in the pregnancy thanks to morning sickness layered over grief, and has been working to gain that weight back the last 6 months.  With little progress.  No surprise, given the emotions, the stress, the sorrow, the roller-coaster Momma has been navigating during this pregnancy.  While we know The Bean is strong and active, Momma's pre-term labor issues have prompted us to make sure everything would be safe if he decides to arrive early.

As expected, The Bean looks perfect and healthy and strong.  Of course, he wouldn't be still for more than a few seconds, kicking, punching Momma's bladder, grabbing his little toes with his tiny hands.  We had our favorite technician, who took the requisite pictures, but also showed Momma and Dadda all sorts of neat things - The Bean has a lot of hair!  And we could see him swallowing, followed by his infant tummy filling up with fluid.

The end result of the ultrasound was the final report of The Bean's weight.  As of today he is officially 5 pounds, 1 ounce.  Exactly your weight at birth on September 12, 2009.  It's unreal to me to think that he's still (probably) a few weeks away from birth, but is currently your birth size.  With every passing day he will gain more weight, and will be a bigger boy than you.  He will not be an itty-bitty Peanut.  He will be his own strong, feisty self.  A kicking, punching, jumping Bean.

But, in this moment, in this day, you and your little brother have so much in common.  Such a connection.  With your identical weights, full heads of hair, and active personalities.  And 5 pounds and 1 little ounce.

Peanut, I truly feel like this was you speaking to us today.  Another sign that you are watching out for us and The Bean.  Another sign that you love us and bless this step forward.  And, while it is bittersweet, it is more sweet than bitter.  I am sending you love and hugs and oodles of wonderful Peanut memories.  Thank you for being so close, so present today.  I love you baby boy - to the moon and back.

- Momma

 

Motion Sickness

Peanut -

The last several days have been painfully difficult for Momma.  The combination of intensely missing you, facing the holidays without my darling little boy, powering through the final weeks of our pregnancy, and navigating intense pressure and stress at work - it has all resulted in a level of grief and sorrow I haven't felt in months.  There will be good moments, and even good days, but when the lows hit they are a powerful, debilitating kick to my stomach.  And heart.

I was warned this could happen.  As the span of time between the lowest lows and the moderately normal moments begins to widen, it's almost as if the body and mind want to forget.  They want to no longer be considered pros at handling grief.  At protecting the person from themselves.  They need a break.  The almost inpenetrable force field comes down.

The end result for Momma has been a sensation somewhat akin to motion sickness.  The normal moments are jarring, out of place, and uncomfortable.  They give me a sense of vertigo.  And when the darkness sweeps in, it simply flattens me.  My body aches, my heart feels as if it's being squeezed by pliers, and curling up in bed seems to be the best option.

The world is ready for me to be "normal" again.  To others it probably seems like a really, really long time since you died.  That I should be through the forest of grief.  But, it's almost worse now because I've lost the insulated protection my body and brain once afforded me.  The grief is sneaky, and leaves me raw, exposed.  My focus is gone, and I'm irritable.  My temper is quick to flare up, and my level of patience is low.

Peanut, I want to make you proud.  I want to be the best Momma I can be.  But, as I run out of pictures of you, as I realize there are very few images left that are under a year old, I am devastated.  I want to see you running after Henry The Dog in the yard.  I want to hear you talking and laughing, getting excited for Christmas.  I want to look down and see your little outstretched arms begging me, "Uuuph Momma!" as I pick you up, swing you around and give you a giant kiss while you hug me tightly.

And, right now, I just want the world to let me cry and cry and cry.  I cry because I love you soooooooo much.  How much?  Well, you know, Peanut.  To the moon and back.

- Momma

(picture from last December)