The Sound of Silence

Silence is a stubborn thing.

It speaks much more than words, though I’m usually quite terrible at it.

Usually.

Of course, this blog has been silent, and the noise that the silence makes in my head is near that of the thunder that shook my house two nights ago and knocked little wooden figurines off my mantle.  Or maybe less booming…more like the depth of silence you hear when you press your ear against a conch and hear the air whirring about it your ear canal and the pulse of your blood in your veins.

It has been a block, this blog.  Not a block from all of you, but a block from – well, from everything that used to taste so freshly sour, or bitter or sweet.   New grief has a depth of feeling around it that feels so horrifically awful and surprisingly releasing all the same.  Aged grief often tastes like paper pulp and sits in one’s stomach like an avocado pit.  

And then there is this:  we did an “open adoption” with our two remaining frozen embryos to the most wonderful young couple from across the country.   They traveled to cycle with our doctor and have the transfer done here.  We had dinner with them, laughed with them, cried with them, and wished up all the most delicious scenarios of how the children would get to know each other some day…special ‘sibling cousins’ who would be able to understand more about themselves through the connection of each other.

On the day or my twins’ birthday we got a call from our couple telling us that they were, indeed, pregnant!  My heart lifted in a way I had not felt in so very, very long to know that we helped to make a family come together just as God had planned it.  It seemed fitting to be on Abby and Will’s birthday.  Perfect.

But, her beta numbers were not rising the way they should.  And she did not continue the pregnancy.

And our heart just shattered for them that they tasted this dream, even met our children, only to have it pulled out from under them when everything seemed to point that this is where they were supposed to be standing.

I had forgotten how much I hate infertility.  Despite my own personal struggle, its razor edges had been dulled with the waves of parenthood and loss of Will.   I knew it was a horrible thing, infertility.  But to see it raked over this wonderful couple with such viciousness made me so aware again of its power…and its pain…and its evil games of hope.

And thus the block against this blog.  Because there is nothing I can/could say that makes this right for our dear couple - no delicious profanity that takes away their pain.

I guess I can only do this:  donating our frozen embryos was one of the most satisfying things that Mark and I have ever done as a couple.  To know that we were giving a chance of life for those embryos and a chance of children to our couple felt so amazingly fulfilling.  I sincerely wish that we had more to give them.

If you are thinking about donating your frozen embryos, I encourage you to talk about this with your mate.  The sooner they are used the better chance they have.  We initially went though a site called “SnowFlakes” and filled out their entire information packet (which was really helpful and bringing up all kinds of issues about who you want to donate to, do you want it open, etc);  however, the incredible cost for an adopting couple to go through Snowflakes (around $15K) turned us off.  Instead we went through a site with a minimal fee for adopting couples and free for donating couples called Miracles in Waiting where you basically self-match with other couples.

Sigh.  So there it is.  The post I wanted to write was the fairytale post about this couple becoming pregnant and letting us be the tiniest part of their already wonderful family.  But instead I come to tell you that I hate infertility and loss and miscarriages.

And…

that I’ve been obsessed with extreme couponing (yeah, seriously) precisely because it has not even the slightest bit to do with stillborn babies and fertility charts.   And I can’t promise that this new passion might find its way here despite its banal nature.

But it is what it is.

Abby and Sam are great.  Kmart is running a double coupon special this week.  Awesome.

It’s hot out.

Be back sooner than later.

Sincerely,

EVE

Birthday Post Past Due

The Twins’ birthday was last week.

It is hard to celebrate Abby walking and laughing and grinning and talking and cooing and dancing and living and Will in a tiny little silver box upon our piano.  Still, I didn’t expect it would be so nearly impossible to force myself to plan a birthday for just one child.

Grief’s a bitch.

Frankly, that’s all I can think to say tonight.

Grief’s a bitch, and she kicks you smack in the teeth right when you find yourself smiling despite it all…right when you find yourself talking about healing and about lessons and about the good that God can bring from bad.

FFFFFFFFFFFttttttttt.   There’s her foot in your face, and you’re tasting blood and dirt again just like the day the world stopped when you lost whomever it was that you never really thought you would lose, and you find yourself unable to function to do even the slightest little thing.

It’s a real pisser (dare I say) to have the joy of Abby’s birthday and the sorrow of Will’s on the same day.  A pisser.

Anyway. 

Mark was the one who bought boxed cake mix and canned icing the day before her birthday and made the cupcakes.  It wasn’t that I didn’t want to…but that my ability to do so was encased in cement.  Logically, I knew what had to be done (I had picked out a sweet Little Tykes kitchen for her the week before)…but I could not.  It was also Mark who picked out three balloons:  a smiley face for Sam because he is our brave big brother, a butterfly for Abby because she is our little earthly angel, and a car for Will…because every little boy deserves a car.

We have no family here and we planned no big party.  Just the four of us at home to unwrap presents, go out to Mexican and then to visit Will’s tree and light his lantern.   Sam and I were delighted to find Will’s tree surrounded by patches of wild violets that had yet been mowed.  Sam was the first to pick one, but I think I was the first to put it on the tree.  We covered his tree with little violets.

And then we set Abby next to Will’s tree and told her about her twin brother.  She gleefully plucked off the little violets and shook the tree heartily, grasping tightly around its narrow trunk.

More bitter than sweet this first birthday was for me. 

We  plan to have an ‘official’ birthday party for Abby in the next few weeks with friends and birthday hats and fancy cake and whatnot.

…but I couldn’t fathom all that fanfare on the actual day that Will was born to this earth, even if his spirit already lived in heaven.

…lately I find myself in the place that I’m sure every babylost mother has been before me:  so intensely aware that the world moves on without your lost baby.  That the world forgets.  Good gracious, the world forgets us all eventually unless we do something extraordinarily great or extraordinarily terrible.  I have the energy for neither…just to remember my William and love my Sam and Abby.

And that’s as good as it gets for now.

 

End of an Era

We are done having kids.

This is not a news flash for anyone who knows me in RL.   And this is not the post to mourn this issue (I’m sort of telling YOU and MYSELF that at once, you see).  I’m saying this to explain that fact that I am in a sort of Craigslist Hell right now, because, well…we are not in need of keeping large bins full of tiny little sleepers and baby wash cloths and receiving blankets and bouncy seats and infant carseats et cetera, et cetera-aaaaaaah.

Side note, when we made the ‘done having kids’ thing official via a the big-ole V for Mark, I explained to Sam that “Daddy is having a little surgery so he won’t have babies any longer.”

To which Sam protested, “But Mommy, I LIKE Abby!  I want to keep her!”

ME…ROTFL!

(psssst…Mom, if you’re reading this…that’s Rolling-On-The-Floor-Laughing)

It wasn’t a choice, really, being done.  We don’t have the money for more treatments.  We really don’t have the money for more college tuitions – let alone more shoes and haircuts and soccer seasons and whatnot.  We DEFINITELY don’t have the money for another entire pregnancy with me out-of-commission again.  But more than money…my body is not only a poor study at getting pregnant, but it isn’t that great at actually being pregnant either.   I count myself extremely fortunate that I have two healthy children with the pre-term labor problems and other issues I had with both pregnancies.

But two doesn’t make up for losing Will.   I often feel our family is unfinished, but I know that having one more or two more or eight more kids would not make up the special place that Will has in my heart.

So we are at the end of an era.   And it feels sad – well – saddish like the sad you feel when you come to the end of summer or leave a good  job or something.   I’m not letting myself feel any sadder than that…or maybe I just now have perspective on true soul-ache.  And this does not feel like soul-ache.  It also feels incredibly freeing to know that I no longer have to pay any sort of attention to my menstrual cycle, or cervical mucus, or slap down large fees for rude, pregnant technicians to tell me that my cycle’s been cancelled because of a cyst…or that I could load myself up with all kinds of legal OR illegal drugs without care for the consequence to an unborn life (not that I would, Mom).

I’m sort of as normal (in a weird sense) as I get these days.

…of course, I caught the husband of our young couple quietly looking at Will’s picture on the piano as I did my best sales job on the Chicco Keyfit carseat and Snap N Go stroller (which I sold to them by the way) and remembered that I’m not so normal.

But then again…

who is?

Riding the Waves

I clearly remember when Sam was nearing about a year old that I had this crisis of sorts.  His whole first year, I had that schizophrenic this-is-hard-but-I’m-not-supposed-to-complain-because-I-had-infertility-and-he’s-such-a-blessing voice murmuring in the backround.  But I also had this sub-backround voice…more like an assumption…that if I could get past the first year, then being a mom would get significantly easier.  Like, POOF, on his first birthday he would get a cake-messy face and I would get a magic wand with all the answers or something.

Smirk…I know…I really am that naively optimistic.

So this time around I realize that this is not the case.  And I am slightly more prepared this time…in general…or at least I am more comfortable with winging it on a regular basis.  I only mention this more to reassure myself that Abby being, gulp 11 months old, really should be a crazy time. 

She is shear joy.  Truly she is.  But this child is into EVERYTHING.  God made her this way so we couldn’t get too angry with her while she tears up our house.  We had family come and stay last weekend, and while I cleaned the basement, Abby followed behind me and took apart all the good that I was accomplishing.   I put the Wii equipment away.  Abby happily discovered where we kept the Wii equipment and pulled it out, tasting every little plastic part.  I gave Abby her toys and created a barrier of pillows and laundry baskets to the Wii drawer.  This was like a presenting her with a Survivor obstacle course challenge to run.

Abby and Sam are keeping me busy enough that I haven’t had a lot of time to ponder how it will feel to have Abby’s birthday and yet a whole year away from our William coming up next month.  I don’t even have much time to run the parallel time of ‘what was I doing last year right now?’.  Maybe that’s a good thing.  I don’t know though…balance seems to be the key with grief.

In general we’re just plodding through from one little island of stability to the next.  I’ve been watching a lot of the earthquake/tsunami coverage in Japan almost in awe of the grand scale of that disaster.  I feel so awfully horrific for those families and it just about kills me each time the next news story up is about Charlie Sheen or the Royal Wedding or something.   Hmm…I guess we all need our distraction.  The news about Japan reminds me about the earthquake in Haiti from January 2010.

I never wrote a post about this, but, Will died the same day as the earthquake in Haiti.

When I watched all the coverage I felt so very, very small in the grand scheme of it all.  Not that Will didn’t matter…not that.  But I was also so keenly aware that there are always bigger things and more pain all about us.

But that pain does not erase our own…just gives us perspective.

So, my perspective is that I’m tired but generally happily so.  I wisely understand that I will be MORE tired as Abby gets closer to two not LESS.   Abby cut her eyebrow open last week, and Mark and I wisely determined that we could use skin-glue (much like superglue) instead of an ER visit as the cut was gaping but very small.

1. Try number one resulted in my finger being glued to her skin.
2. Try number two resulted (as she fussed and flinched) in her eyelid being temporarily glued open.
3. Try number three seemed to do the trick though my nerves were shot.
4. We decided we might be too dumb to use skin glue (it was quite a way from her eye by the way)…though it looks awesome now – not sure got past foreheads into the eye area again.

I try my best to ride the bumpy ocean waves of regular life…and even enjoy them (albeit in retrospect) – knowing that these are not tidal waves.  These are just what to expect.

Another wave today…Sam was quietly building legos at the kitchen table this morning when suddenly he began to cry and panic.  He had, you guessed it, lodged a lego up his nose.  I’m not sure what possesses a child to think to themselves, “Hmm, I’ve got a small lego, I’ve got a small hole in my nose.  Let’s see what happens,” but I guess this is pretty common.

So, we rode the wave.  Put my coffee down calmly (because I’ll be needing that for later), and commanded him to stop picking his nose and shoving the lego further up.  Squirted a little saline and tried to get him to blow it out.  No go.  Off to get the “Remove Lego From Nostril” kit:  flashlight, tweezers, towel to cover Sam’s eyes, alcohol swabs, wet wipes.

Sam’s sniveling and the saline really did help, as the slime helped slide the lego down back into a reachable position.  Luckily, Sam DID stay still when I told him to (so I didn’t stab him in the nose with the tweezers), and I plucked that baby out pretty quickly.  Sam had chosen a round red headlight-type lego for his ‘experiment’, which came out easily once I got a hold of it.  I would say that was pretty smart of him except that sticking the dang-on thing up there in the first place pretty much voids out any intelligence-motivated thoughts on his part.

As I tried to give my gravest lecture about not sticking thing up one’s nose, or ANY holes in one’s body, for that matter, Sam really seemed more interested in getting the lego back to so he could return to building.

Sigh.  A mother LIVES for those kinds of lectures.

Anyway, back to surfing the waves.  I know tsunami’s are out there…but there’s really no accurate warning system in life for those kind of things.  Maybe they’ll invent an app for that.

Just Breathe

Mark is back.

I managed not go completely certifiable while he was away.

I was nearly there toward the last few hours though.  Nearly.  He was supposed to be home around 5-ish…BUT the airlines lost his bag.  Sam danced in rocket ship circles around the living room, randomly launching himself from furniture, the dog…me.  Abby sniveled near my legs wanting to be held only to arch her back and reach for some far-removed object once she was in my arms.

All the while I raced around the house putting laundry away, dusting forgotten picture frames, and attempting to simultaneously finish every spring-cleaning project I started while he was away.  The dog barked and pleaded to be walked, only to stand outside, take long and cleansing breaths of the frigid evening air, lift his leg to every bush in the yard, and then happily root around the grass for small truffles of rabbit poo.

Meanwhile, Abby was pressed up against the sliding glass door crying in desperation as if I had left her forever while Sam continued to rocket ship blast into clean piles of laundry.

It was about now that I think I started to feel my grip of sanity lesson.  The little blood vessels dilated in my eyes to the point where they began to interfere with my vision.  I started seeing little sparkly stars and wavy lines.  My blood pumped in my ears like the obnoxious stereo of my downstairs neighbors in college.  Thump…thump…thump….dunga…dun…DUN!

Mark called to update me on his progress.

“Home now,” is all I remember saying, though maybe there was a tad more coherence?

Mark walked in the door and was tackled by rocketboy, the dog and Abby.  I stayed by the sink rinsing dishes and taking deep breaths as I was still trying to keep myself from, well, completely freaking out and doing whatever that might entail (pretty sure it would’ve entailed a LOT of screaming, breaking things, locking the dog out of the house, and nonsense talk).

Mark gave the kids spin-around rides and tickled them and kissed them and wrestled with Sam and took the dog for a nice, long walk.  He marveled at how much taller Sam seemed in just a week and Abby’s new tooth she ‘grew’.  We showed off Abby’s new tricks:  clapping to music, raising her arms to ‘so big’, and saying ‘mama’ again (she’s said it for a while, but then she stopped).    And, out of nowhere, she decided to say ‘dada’ for the first time.  I know, sounds too cheesy to be true…but it is.  Sadly, Sam is heartbroken that she has not said, ‘Sam-Sam’ as of yet.

As the evening passed, I felt my shoulders begin to relax, my jaw unclench, and my breathing to get deeper and calmer.  The weight of family was placed back between the both of us again.  I am so fortunate to have Mark to help carry the weight of these wonderful and exhausting kids.  I could finally take a deep breath again, after six days and nights.

Funny thing is, I hadn’t realized I wasn’t really breathing all that time.

* * * *

OK…

Haven’t posted a pic of Abby in a while.  Here’s a quickie photo shoot I did yesterday.  And also Sam a week or so ago with some serious bedhead issues.  I feel like I’m getting my mojo back with the camera again.

Now, if I could only find the time and unlimited photography budget…

Dear Tasha…

Comment from my last post…

“Hey, are you all sick still again? I hope it is a busy-good reason, not a busy-sick reason you haven’t been on!”…Tasha

First of all, thanks for asking about me.  That’s awful nice.  Second of all.  Yes, Abby was sick last week with some sort of Roseola-ish ailment, followed by a nice finish this week that looked much like an unfinished ear infection – what the pulling on the ears, poor sleeping, fussiness and all.  So I took Abby to our trusty pediatrician only to be told (within 2 minutes of the visit) that her ears looked crystal clear and the tugging was due to referred ear pain from her teething. 

For this I paid $110, as we have not met our deductible for the year yet (though we our mighty close thanks to the January/February RSV awesomeness).  For $110 dollars, I’m pretty sure I should’ve gotten a free mammogram or something.  Or maybe something a slightly less weird like a free teeth whitening or a haircut.

Sheesh I need a haircut.

In an effort to save money or in one of my odd stand-off things that I randomly do (one year, pre-kids of course, Mark and I saw how long we could go without turning on our heat.  It turned out badly for my toes, but that’s a whole different story)…anyway, I haven’t gotten a haircut since October.  It’s getting pretty wicked, the hair situation.

But that’s not really what I meant to say here.  What I meant to say is that even though Abby’s been sick, the real reason I deserved a freakin’ haircut AND a tooth whitening and massage and a glass of champagne at the doctor’s office for my $110 2-minute ear-check-up is because Mark has been out of town on a business trip for a million years now.

Well maybe not a million.

But close.

And I am on the very edge of sanity.

I was really worried that I would delve into this deep valley of depression with Mark being gone and Abby and Will’s birthday approaching this spring.  But I was sorely mistaken.  I am far, far too exhausted to be delving.  Despite the fact that I am the kiddo’s primary caretaker…the very absence of escape is exhausting.   I find it hard to fall into a real sleep, as if my brain continues to trot on the treadmill even as my body goes through the motions of nighttime.

I’ve watched the coverage of the protests and massacres in Tripoli until it turns my stomach at 3AM.  I’ve watched the insides of my eyelids.  Listened to the kids sleep.  Last night, I practically ordered Alyssa Milano endorsed WEN haircare products until I came to my senses.

So, here’s my take-away from Mark’s recent trip (cue Doogie Howser, M.D. Casio keyboard music)…

1. Single parents have it tough.  I am in awe.
2. Mark does more than I usually give him credit.
3. Mark is definitely the fun one.
4. I lose my sense of humor on business-trip day 3.
5. I stop making the beds on day 2.
6. I HATE walking the dog.  We need a fence.
7. I’m glad we get to be a family together usually.
8. I’m glad Mark usually walks the dog at night.
9. Mark owes me a day at the spa.
10. Or at least a haircut.

You Down with RSV? Yeah, You Know Me!

Where have I been?  You ask.

Well…let’s see.

1. Abby had RSV last week.
2. Thus the finale in a showcase of illness from our entire family, most likely caused by our friend, RSV.
3. Abby’s RSV led to a nasty ear infection (note the word ‘nasty’, I’ll be using it liberally).
4. Abby’s nasty ear infection required amoxicillin, thus leading to a right-nasty poopy blow-out diaper each morning.
5. Abby’s RSV ear-infection poopy-blow-out-diaper-nastiness spread from her tush to her neck and soaked through her onsie right into her sleeper and quite often into the sheets.
6. Abby’s RSV ear-infection poopy nastiness no-doubt spread onto her hair and extremities while trying to free her from her night-night clothes, despite my best attempts at throwing as many wet-wipes into the mix as humanly possible…
7. …all this while Sam circled us as if he was playing duck-duck-goose while plugging his nose and yelling “Ewwwwwww!  Abby stinks!”.  Though he was of some use as he would unhappily ditch the doubled-bagged and knotted bag of diaper and wipe nasties into the dirty diaper box in the garage and put the other bag of night-clothes poopy nastiness in the laundry-room for me to tackle later…
8. …and the reason he was home was because we were SUPPOSED to have a blizzard.
9. So, of course Abby’s daily poopy morning mess meant that she also received a morning bath…
10. …often before I had a chance to take the dog out….
11. cue dog peeing on the floor….
12. ….and definitely before I had a chance to fix the kids breakfast….
13. cue Sam whining that he was hungry throughout the entire poopy ordeal (apparently, this kid’s appetite is hardy)…
14. ….and often before I also had a chance to go to the bathroom….
15. …cue my own special potty dance whilst my hands are dipping in pleasantly warm bathwater.
16. Of course, Abby got the most demonic diaper rash ever.  So, that was no fun for me to torture her with the zinc creams and certainly less fun for her.
17. And we didn’t even get that blizzard anyway.  We did get some ice, and then a whole lot of sleet…which is like tiny little frozen ice pellets.  A random guy being interviewed on the news said this, “It’s like driving on them dippin dot things”.  I thought that was an accurate descriptions.  We got several inches of dippin dots.  And then some snow.  Not a blizzard.
18. But I was still stuck at home with a sick baby and a bored -out-of-his-gourd 4 year-old.
19. On Saturday, we got a surprise maybe 4 inches of snow they didn’t forecast.  Weather-men (or ‘persons’) are sort of like doctors.  They can tell you what they THINK will happen most of the time, but they don’t really know.  It’s all just a guess. 
20. Laundry, as I’m sure you can imagine, has been a special treat.
21. Abby is feeling much, much better now.  She is back to insisting upon eating dogfood and those dang-on little fake ash things they put in gas-fire places that I try to block – but this kid is stealth I tell you.  Stealth.
22. All in all RSV wasn’t so bad, it was the ear-infection antibiotic that I think really put us in the toilet.
23. Literally.
24. So that it where I’ve been.
25. Where’ve you been?

Random alert.

Here’s a picture of Sam and his snowgirlfriend.    It wasn’t meant to be a snowgirl…but I swear this looks like a prom pic if I’ve ever seen one!

What’s Grosser Than Gross?

…honestly, I think I like cleaning up dog poop better than the elmusified food, caked and wedged into the tight and impossible to reach crevices of said highchair.  Dog vomit even…at least that is usually out in the open – on our nicest carpet, in fact.

Sorry if I grossed you out.

It’s just one of those mornings.  I already spilled an entired large container of vanilla yogurt on the kitchen floor and didn’t catch the dog OR the baby in time before they both were a creamy, sticky mess.  But at least they smelled like a glade air freshener.

Speaking of nastiness.  Sam and I were playing the ‘name sticky things’ game while he helped me clean up the yogurt debacle.  So, imagine how my appetite nose-dived when he shouted to me from the the guest bathroom,

“Mom! I know something else that’s sticky!  The toilet!”

Um, yay for me as a Holly Homemaker.

Not.

Anyway.

So, that’s a tame picture of Abby eating, by that way.  She’s usually MUCH messier.  For months, she refused all finger foods, opting to stick with her little stage 2 jars of purees.  And then some sort of ravenous teenage boy emodied my 9 month old around the first of January.  She skipped all stage 3 foods and went right to whatever we’re eating – nevermind she does not have a single tooth in her mouth.  This child can eat. 

So back to my initial point…I can clean up vomit of any kind:  my own, my children’s, the dog’s…diapers don’t scare me…I scoff at laundry, toilet and tub stains…but I do not love detailing a highchair three times a day.

I love Abby.

NOT her highchair.

*  *  *  *

Got another grosser than gross?

Snow Gifts

 

 It snowed a foot last night.   I watched it gather all night long in such industrious showers with the tiniest speckle of snowflakes, each piling on one the other in such architectural perfection.  A foot is a big deal around here.  Something to celebrate.

When I looked upon our new arctic landscape this morning, first thing I searched for was Will’s tree out our kitchen window, as it stands not much more than the snow measures.  With the lantern Mark had staked on Will’s angelversary as a beacon, the little tree’s top cropped up through the snow and took my breath.   It peeked in the perfect shape of a cross.

Pause.

One of my many awesome commentors, Sophie said:  “It’s amazing how you can actually grow to love a tree,” in response to my post about planting Will’s tree last fall.  And little did I truly know then what she knew.  How much I have grown to love his tree in these past few months – as if it is the container for the deep love that I have to give Will that I cannot give to his body and spirit together.

I love that tree.

And so I freed it from the snow…

…while Abby napped and Sam made snow-angels and ate fistfuls of heavensent snow.

Yes, Sophie, I agree. 

It is amazing how one can grow to love a tree.

Post-Angelversary Post

Ack, things have been a little crazy around here since my last post.  Mostly because Mark and I have both been battling with some sort of evil respiratory bug.   Of course it would happen that this is also coincides with the first year that we have had a deductible on our insurance.  So, I finally cajoled Mark to go to the local clinic this AM for some antibiotics as his manly bod did not seem to be fighting the good fight as well as I was.  And for that we hacked a good amount of smackaroos.  It is really too bad that we could not have paid in actual phlegm globbers, because we’re, like, loaded, with those.

Anyway, thanks so very much for the kind words and prayers and thoughts that you gave to us last week upon Will’s angelversary.  I’ll admit the earlier part of the week was pretty rough.  On the actual day, I tried to keep myself in ‘grief lite’ mode.  I resisted the temptation to replay the entire day before I learned that Will died.  Instead we slept in (well, cuddled in bed as a fam I should say).  We spent the morning in our pajamas and ate homemade waffles and made plans to go to the Magic House (a local children’s museum) for the rest of the day.  As we crossed the Mississippi river to the city, I dared myself to see it as the vision of the frozen river the day of Will’s death is seared in my memory. 

And so I looked.

We were on a different bridge this journey, downriver where its wider, and though there was an island of ice in the middle of the river, the water streamed freely around it.  And my breath seemed to free in that movement of water, as if it had been caught for a year and was now undammed with great force.

I did think of Will when we were at the Magic House.  We talked about him a few times.  When Sam went into the hospital playroom were they had a pretend nursery, we picked out a baby boy and named him William.  Sam bathed him, diapered him, fed him, rocked him, changed him, swaddled him and put him to sleep.  I cursed myself for forgetting my camera.

But all in all we just had fun.  We played with bubbles and static electricity and magnets and water  and  blocks  and musical instruments and shadow walls that remembered your shadow, and danced until we were huffing and puffing (or at least I was – which is not saying much) in front of a camera that projected a colored image of our movement that looked like a dozens of us.  There was so much more there…it was actually dizzying. 

We stopped for Mexican on the way home, practically too exhausted to eat.

And once we were home, we wrapped Abby up in a blanket, put Sam’s hat and gloves back on, and went out to the front yard.  We looked to the sky where Will’s star is, near Gemini, and told him how much we missed him.  And then we trudged through the snow to the backyard, Mark carrying a shepard’s hook and lantern and pitched the lantern right above Will’s tree.  Sam steadied the lantern, and I stayed just long enough to snap a few pictures.

Just a few.

Because it was about five degrees out.

And we were freezing.

 

I fell asleep much easier than I expected I would, though it might have had to do with the Benadryl I took for this evil illness.   Though there was no great levity on Thursday, since Will was still gone and would remain gone, there was just the slightest release in knowing that we had made it past the first ‘big’ anniversary.  I’ve come to know, now, that I don’t expect the special times to get easy as if Will never was.  How could I unremember my own child?  But I am trying my best to embrace this life I have and live it to the fullest.

The day after Will’s angelversary, I brought Abby home still bundled from a car ride to take Sam to pre-school.  She was looking so sweet and delicious, I had to snap a few pictures.

So there you are, my muddlement of a post.   Here’s a good question for you:  what do you do when you’re feeling down?  If you have loss issues, have you dealt with your anniversaries or special days?

Sweet William

Will has taught me much. 

So much. 

And I know that I am better for his teaching. 

He taught me to let go of pride, of vanity, and of the need to control the uncontrollable.  He taught me to cry with abandon in the witness of others.  He taught me to laugh in the midst of great sorrow.  He taught me that life is a quilt of happiness stitched together with threads of sadness – that it is not the fun times that bring us together, but the hard times. 

He taught me to be softer and less judgemental, to remember that everyone has a story.  Not my story…but their own story of love and loss and joy and pain.  He taught me to remember that the clutter of stuff we spend so much time acquiring means nothing – or at least very little.  He taught me to savor small moments and let go of petty annoyances.  He taught me to reach out for help even when my pride shouts at me to stay an island. 

He taught me to lean on God above all others.  He taught me to keep reaching for my husband’s hand even when we cannot look one another in the eye in our grief.  He taught me of God’s goodness in the kindness of others.  He taught me that tiny acts of love mean so very, very much in the wake of devastating loss.  He taught me of perspective.  He taught me of gentleness.  He taught me of selflessness. 

He taught me that darkness makes the day brighter.  He taught me that death is not frightening.  He taught me that life goes on with or without my participation. 

He taught me to be brave. 

He taught me to listen more and talk less.  He taught me to want to make a difference in his memory.

I do believe that I am a better mom, a better wife, and a better person because of Will’s death.  And yet, I would trade all that I have learned to have Will back but even for the shortest time…because I was made to be his momma.  But I’ve come to believe that Will was made to be more than just my son…he was made to teach me and, hopefully, many others about things bigger than our tiny little blanketed worlds.

Today we remember our sweet William and celebrate our son.  We see the depth of who he is in the reflection of our growth this past year.  We are better for having our sweet little boy, but for the briefest time, on earth within me -

and we look forward, with great anticipation, to the day that we reunite with him among the angels.

Missing you with the depths of our souls, sweet boy,

and loving you more each day we’re apart.

Up and Down

We had our first official PPP party this past Friday.  For those of you who did not grow in my family, a PPP party stands for “PJs, pop and popcorn” while watching a movie.  Yes, I said “pop” – I grew up in Indiana.  No, I did not grow up on a farm.  But…yes, there was one across the street from us.   Anyway, the PPP parties of old took place before microwave popcorn, or VCRs, or cable…back when we would anticipate the yearly showing of “The Wizard of Oz” or “The Sound of Music” with much joy.

Anyway, for our new PPP party, we decided to make it “PJs, pizza and popcorn” instead…because we embrace most opportunities to sew pizza into family traditions.  But we also had pop, er…soda for the grown-ups.  So I guess we had a PPPP party.  Sam was excited, zipped up his rocket-ship fuzzy-footed PJs.  Abby squealed and giggled in communication with Sam, snuggled in her own pink furry PJs.  We gobbled down popcorn and pop (soda) and pepperoni pizza (yet another P) on a blanket in front of our kickin’ 27inch telly in the basement.  It was a PPPPP party for the ages, I tell you.

And then we watched our movie.  Well, as much as one can watch a movie despite Abby’s constant wedging into unreachable crevices and Sam’s ad nauseam chatter about every minute detail of the movie.  Mid-movie, we took a break to put Abby to bed and settle our stomachs with a hearty serving of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream…you know, because we are either the worst parents or the best parents that ever were (depending on your perspective).  And when the movie was over, we left the dirty dishes in the sink and fell into bed, our stomachs heavy with P-named junk-f0od.

Mark sunk into a quick snoring-sleep due to his recent cold, and I watched the dark change into different shapes and colors.  And tears trickled down my face straight into my ear canals and neck as I thought about our PPP night and Sam and Abby and Will.

And I thought about our first PPP movie.  I had picked it on purpose, knowing the bittersweet theme of it.  Bittersweet is a theme we know well anyway.  Many days lately, I’ve come to think that the bitterness of losing Will has made the sweet taste that much sweeter by contrast -where I can almost see a mended scar nearly smoothed and melon-colored in the place where Will was cut from us.  And I ride this updraft lie as if there is no dark underside to losing Will, no keloid welt where my skin has joined in opposition to itself.

And then there are down days, dark days, heavy-hearted days, bitter days.

We watched “Up”.

Pixar is always making me cry.  As I walked, shamefully sniveling, out of the Toy Story 3 movie theater, Mark said to me, “It’s not about toys, you know…it’s about loss.”  Mark says that I always make him sound wiser than he really is in my blogs.  I think he just doesn’t know the depth of his wisdom.

‘Up’ is the delicately-woven tale of life after loss.  It so strikingly captures the bittersweet nature of longing for the one who has burrowed into your heart and the trial to continue to live and love.  I very much recommend this movie to everyone, and of course to anyone who has experienced the loss of a loved one.  Just watch it with the knowledge that it will touch your tender wounds.

I thought of Will so often during our PPP party.  Good thoughts mostly, thoughts that we are hiking through as a family despite our missing little boy.  Thoughts that Sam has become an even more tender-hearted soul through this experiences.  Thoughts that Abby has blessed us doubly with her bigger-than-life smiles and determined little personality.  Thoughts that we are trying to make a difference in the wake of Will’s life, and trying to keep ourselves open to more ups and downs that are sure to come.

My heart is aloft this week as we near Will’s angelversary on Wednesday.  It is on a course of ups and downs as it rides the unpredictable jetstream.  It feels light with new opportunities to do good in Will’s memories, and lighter still with healing and joy of Abby and Sam’s triumphs, and then plummets down with the heaviness of Will’s absence, of the memory of last year and the icy day we saw our son’s lifeless little body where it should’ve been twisting and turning alongside Abby.

We are up.  We are down.

And, often, somewhere in-between.

But Sam has already requested another PPP party.  So, we’ve got that to look forward to anyway.

A Few Pics from the Vacay

I have yet to completely unpack from our travels.  It is a trial to reach my kitchen sink save for the clutter of gifts and luggage residing in the kitchen.  It is astonishing the amount of gear that children acquire in such a short time.

It was a long two weeks on the road…but good.  We got to see most of our family and were nicely distracted from the approaching anniversary of Will’s loss next week.  Sam and Abby were entertained thoroughly with lots of hugs, kisses, tickles, presents, and special treats.

They are disappointed, I’m sure, to return to the realm of an inpatient mother and father who do not always marvel at every minor whim and wonder they concoct.

Because I do need to reach my kitchen sink today…I will forgo a detailed post and instead give you a few pictures I took of the kiddos and hubs at the zoo, back family property, and beach.

I sincerely hope that everyone here had some love and levity over the holidays (even if in very small sips).  We continue to machete through the jungle of grief and laughter that this last year brought to us as Will’s angelversary approaches for us next week.

In lighter news, Abby finally succeeded in getting her first fistful and, thus, mouthful of dog food today…because that’s just the kind of mom I am.

first post of 2011

Merely 11 years late. I joined the 21st century and got a smart phone. Not that one could get a smart phone 11 years ago…but that’s not the point.

I happen to be on i-75 somewhere in Georgia right now. Mark and I are hanging onto the thinnest strand of sanity after 2 weeks on the road. Could go on but typing is not so good.

However I am coping by obsessively reviewing and commenting on every app ever made.

Still looking for one to transport us immediately home.

More soon and happy millennium.

Yakkety Yak

I have been mulling over this entry in my head all day.  I’ve come to no good conclusions, so I’ve decided just to go with whatever comes to mind.  Let’s see.

We’re preparing to leave for a three-city tour of fam soon.  I will not tell you exactly when just in case you are reading this blog with the intent to break into our house and steal our stuff while we are gone.  And if that IS the case, I should tell you that we are leaving our very hungry and aggressive pit-bull behind to roam free in our house with specific directions to maul whomever enters our house without the magic password (he is a very smart dog).  And frankly, we don’t have anything good to take anyway.  I mean, you could take our 14 year-old 27 inch television…if you dare.  It’s got picture-in-picture. 

Really, take it.  You would be doing us a favor.

I’m in that paralyzed state right before the packing frenzy that will overtake my body like continuous electric shocks come tomorrow.  I should be wrapping presents.   Finishing laundry.  Washing up dishes.  Doing the pre-packing layout across the bedroom floor. 

I would be in better shape but for the terrible stomach flu that Sam came down with yesterday morning.  Poor kid.  He came into our room around 4:30AM, pottied in our bathroom, plunked a kiss on my cheek, and then yakked all over our carpet. 

It wasn’t long before Sam had gotten sick on the edge of Abby’s carpet, the living room couch and floor, the basement carpet and the basement couch.  All this because Sam refused to stay put in one vomit-safe zone (namely, his bedroom where my hubby had smartly laid a vinyl tablecloth down across the floor), and followed us about the house with moans about his sickness.

And of course we were out of carpet cleaner. 

So my trip to the mall to finish-up Christmas shopping  was cancelled, and trip to Wal-mart to get carpet cleaner (and a smattering of other random supplies) was put in its place.  Mark and I spent a good portion of the day doing laundry, scrubbing carpets, washing out trashcans and sitting with Sam to make sure that he did not wander into any other carpeted areas not protected by dropcloths.

Sam survived to be his effervescent self today…back to his incessant questioning about things.   Here’s to hoping that he did not spread his viral vomit-fest to the rest of the family.  And that we do not in turn spread it to our extended family on our soon-to-be trip.

I think it’s a good thing that we will not be here in our own house this year for the holidays.  Last year, this house was like a cage that held me from winter up through the spring.  Last year, I was literally trapped between here and the hospital.   Trips to Wal-mart meant a wheelchair and hours of contracting afterward.

We cannot leave the house without one project, however.  We are decorating Will’s tree.  On Saturday, Mark and Sam painted peanut-butter onto pine cones and then rolled them in bird seed to encircle the tree.  And we have a container of cranberries ready for stringing as garland.   I have such fondness for Will’s little tree.  As if its roots are every-so-slowly filling the hole in my heart for my son.

And what of Abby?  She is wonderful.  A mama’s girl.  She is crawling up on her knees now instead of dragging her body across our dusty floors in her standard army crawl.   I have yet to do this, but I have nearly fastened multiple swiffer cloths to her belly, elbows, and knees to harness her ability to get into the tightest spaces of our house.   Just yesterday, she discovered that she loves to eat ‘puffs’, the little melt-away baby-cereal, and stuffs them into her mouth like a squirrel hoarding nuts.

And what of Mark?  He said to me the other day, “So, are we counting the new tire and wiper blades as our Christmas gifts to each other this year?”, to which I responded, “I expect a gift under the tree, and I’m not picking it out myself.  A SURPRISE.  You don’t have to spend any money on it.  You can make it or write a letter…but I expect it to be wrapped.”

How’s that for assertiveness?

Anyway, I reconsidered my expectation for a homemade surprise and offered that we could most definitely use a portable carpet-steam cleaner.  Now that’s a romantic Christmas present if I’ve ever heard of one.

And remember blog-stalking burglars…pitbull…27 inch television…and a house covered with vomit.

Merry Christmas all!

Snow Day

Yesterday was 11 months since we learned Will died.  Fittingly, he sent us snow from heaven.  It started out as tiny sifts of confectioners sugar and turned to downy fat flakes as the day wore on.  Not a lot of snow.  Just enough to thinly blanket the yellowed grass and dust the evergreens.

As I travel a year further away from Will, I feel it should be cold.  Bitterly so.  Snow and ice remind me of him.  They remind me of the harsh winter day Will died.  I remember riding over the Mississippi and marveling at its frozen splendor.  Its stillness.  Large boats of ice barged next to each other in silence.  Like Will rested in me.

Sam could hardly wait to play in the snow yesterday.  I bundled him to the point of near heat-stroke.  I stuffed Abby into her lavender snowsuit, which will see no more wear, as I hardly got her zipped.  And we headed out so Abby could meet her first snow.

Her face was drawn serious with the cold and the wet and the fluffy duvet that covered our lawn.  She sat like a plump turkey amidst the white and stared intently, moving her mummified hand in a big circle as if the snow needed stirring. 

Sam rode his new disc sled with daddy and came in red-cheeked and sweaty-cold, chattering on that he wanted to go back out and play again and again and again and again.

I washed up the lunch dishes at the kitchen sink and stared out the frosty window – out to Will’s brave little tree, standing up against the cold and snow with perseverance.

And I thanked Will for giving us such a fine gift.

*  *  *  *

Please go lend love and support to Brooke, a heartbroken momma who lost her precious daughter, Eliza, at 34 weeks recently.  She needs to know there is a giant community out her to hold her hand.

Nothing Gets Between Me and My Mocha. Nothing.

I am so proud of myself, getting up (not waking up, GETTING up) at 7am to shower before Abby awoke.  I have the kids dressed, fed and generally happy by 8am.  By 8:30, have Sam’s bedhead partially trained and his lunch packed.  9:10 and I’m warming up the car for the kids, thinking…

I am the greatest, most prepared, most on-time, and awesomest mother ALIVE!

A-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

9:20, and I’m herding Sam out the door, attempting to keep the dog inside, hefting Abby in her carrier on my arm, carrying Abby’s diaper bag, Sam’s mittens and a coffee.

Sam is near meltdown because the shoulder-straps have twisted on his backpack, thus causing his arms to transform to gelatin.  He stops mid-doorway.

I pluck the backpack from him and practically trip over the dog, the steps, and Sam as I hurdle towards the car.

Fish for the keys for some time until I realize that they are IN THE CAR as I had started the car to warm it up (as I mentioned earlier).  Open up my car door with one finger and a foot and put my coffee and Sam’s backpack on my seat. 

Plunk Abby into her carseat base.

Make sure Sam is buckled and that his arms have returned to their normal state.  Wing open the door and sit, feeling the bulge of Sam’s backpack behind me.  Realize, with great horror, that I am nearly sitting on my coffee.  Turn in slow motion as the cup is squeezed behind my back, thrusting off the lid and splashing coffee all over my seat.

No!  No!  Noooooooo!

It is now 9:27.

Sop up the coffee with a few random fast-food napkins and one of Abby’s diaper rags.

No time for a towel.

Place a Children’s Place bag on my seat and plop down, wetness spreading through my jeans.

Arrive to school at 9:35AM, five minutes late, and drag in Sam, who’s legs became gelatinized due to his tardiness.

Return to the car and suck down, with great ferver, the remaining coffee in the cup.

Moral of this story:

When one’s hands are too full of kids to bring along the coffee…

LOSE a kid.

*  *  *

I have a new passion that is costing me dearly:  a venti Starbucks White Mocha Peppermint, skim with no whip.  Extra venti.  I wish they made that.  By the way, I really hate the whole ‘pricey-latte-what-are-you-driving-these-days’ set.   But I cannot seem to help myself.  I have become a characature of suburbia.  But my car is pretty junked these days, what with no less than 20 hail dings on the hood and a coffee-covered seat and all.

Any other recommendations?  What’s your fav drink these days?

Why Moms are Necessary

I’m not sure how to remedy it, the frantic running around as we try to get ready for an outing.  I think it may be incurable.  I realize some of it has to do with having a 4-year old and baby.

1. one incapable of clothing herself
2. one incapable to staying focused long enough to keep himself from playing with his cars, while dressed only in underwear, one inside-out sock. and a plastic fireman’s hat.

It might also have to do with the fact that I take it upon myself (when we are going anywhere of merit) to pick out the clothes of said children…and yes, maybe even the husband.  Now, in all fairness, I don’t normally pick out my husband’s clothes in advance, it’s generally in reaction to his choice to don himself with the singularly most-wrinkled shirt that he owns.  The more important the event – the more wrinkled the shirt. 

Call me a control-freak, I dare you.

But take this example as exhibit-A for my need to control the apparel of the fam.

On thanksgiving, we were in our normal rush-around mode of cleaning children, feeding children, alternating showers, etc.  I was in good form, as I had Sam’s clothes laid out on his bed for him.  I hunted around in Abby’s closet with a “Baby’s First Thanksgiving” shirt desperately trying to match it to any skirt or pair of leggings.

In walked a naked Sam, holding a pretend wrench and hammer.  Mark had abandoned post.

Sent Sam back to his room to get dressed with the threat of  ‘no dessert’ after Thanksgiving dinner.

In walked Mark with a sage green shirt that appeared to have been shoved in the back of a lost drawer for at least a year.

Sent Mark back to his closet for another shirt.  Thought otherwise of threatening the no-dessert consequence.

Meanwhile, Abby sat happily in her Thanksgiving shirt for all of three minutes before spitting up all over it…and me.

Bullocks.

In walked Mark with a heavy cable-knit sweater, too short in the arms and waist that might be appropriate for a Thanksgiving in Siberia but not the midwest.

Frantically searched Abby’s closet for a Thanksgiving alternative.  Noted the absence of any other clothing with cartoon turkeys.  Decided upon a little dress and brown leggings and left Mark to dress Abby to go check on the boy.

Sam had succeeded in putting on his underwear, socks and jeans and is sat on his bed shirtless.  He told me he was in trouble from daddy for losing the meat thermometer.  Gave Sam his t-shirt to wear with strict instructions to not put on his sweater until the last possible minute before we leave.

Went to Mark’s closet and picked out a generally non-wrinkled, button-up shirt for him and then changed my own shirt which had Abby spit-up all down the side.

Mark called to me,  “What socks should she wear?

“The pink ones with the ruffles!”

“Under the pants or over?”

“Over!” 

I did a warp-speed hair and make-up job and raced out to the living room, as I had not yet packed Abby’s bag.  Sam sat glumly on the chair and told me Daddy put him in an extended time-out for losing Abby’s nasal aspirator.  I didn’t question this recent run of kleptomania, satisfied that he was fully dressed.

Abby sat on the couch, grinning at me with her delicious, gummy smile and dimples.  She had on her little cream dress and brown leggings.  Her lace-frilled, pink fold-over socks pulled up to her knees like tube-socks.

The pink lace stood out around her calves like a pair of matching tutus.

In that moment I pleaded to God, “Please please don’t take me before this child can dress herself.  Please God, have mercy on us all.”

(that is completely true…I swear to you)

I humbly rest my case.

*  *  *  *

Don’t get me wrong.  I LOVE my hubby.  Just, you know, not for his fashion-sense. 

Got any fashion-disaster tales thanks to Dad of your own?  What other ways are moms necessary?

Curkey Tookies

In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, Sam delighted in watching a PBS online video where a boy and dad make turkey cookies for Thanksgiving.  And each day, Sam asked us if we could also make turkey cookies.

And asked.

And asked.

And asked.

And asked.

Turkey cookies?

Yes, Sam.  We’ll make turkey cookies.

Turkey cookies?

Yes.

Turkey cookies?

Sam, what did we say?

Turkey cookies?

Sam.

Turkey cookies?

Sam.

Turkey cookies?

Sam, if you don’t stop asking…

Turkey cookies?

…we will NOT be making turkey cookies.

Turkey cookies.

Turkey cookies.

Curkey tookies.

Er, turkey lookies.

Due to an invasive germ in the family, we did NOT make turkey cookies before spending the day with friends on Thanksgiving.  We did not feel that Sam coughing and finger-licking and sneezing all over cookies would be a wise choice.  Instead we invaded our friend’s house with a fevering Abby because we’re considerate like that.

Simmer down, we asked if we could bring our germs and infect them before we came.

Side note:  We had an amazing Thanksgiving.  Good food, good friends, good turkey (great turkey Daven), good times.  Earlier in the day, gigantic downy snowflakes floated on the air like little snowkisses.  I turned to Sam and told him that was Will’s gift to us on Thanksgiving.  The distraction of friends  proved healing.  No turkey cookies…but somehow, we managed. 

So, today (two days late) was turkey cookie day – because Mark loves Sam.

And because I love cookies.

We made the cookies yesterday.  It started out with the careful cutting of turkey shapes based on the online of our hands and quickly turned into large blobs of dough because, really, turkey cookies and blob cookies taste the same, right?

Today, Mark colored the icing.  I gathered leftover Halloween candy.  Abby banged on her highchair tray with a spatula.  Sam asked when it was his turn to decorate the turkey cookies ad nauseam.

Decorate the turkey cookies?

Decorate the turkey cookies?

Is it time?

Is it time to decorate the turkey cookies?

Mom?

Dad?

When is it time to decorate the cookies?

Turkey cookies?

Turkey cookies?

Until I had to snap out of my wanting-to-be-a-patient-and-kind-mom and yell, “Enough!  We will TELL YOU when it is time to decorate the cookies!”

And then I had to drink a whole lot of coffee and take deep, cleansing breaths.  Side note:  yesterday, I heard Mark whisper to Sam to please be good because Mommy doesn’t have much patience for him today.  Translation:  My dearest son, I love you and support you in all of your moods and ways.  But your wicked, wicked mother is so very fragile.  She cares not for your needs.  You must obey her so I do not have to reap her wrath later.  But always remember when one day you are a rich and successful man, it is your doting father who protected you.

And then it was time to make the most beautimousfully decoratorally turkified cookies that ever wherever existed.

OK, so some of them looked like peacocks.  Don’t be a hater, come on now.  Anyway, I smiled with gleeful satisfaction that Sam would no longer ask us to make turkey cookies the rest of this year.

But…

I was wrong.

Are we going to make turkey cookies next year?  Huh?

Are we, Mom?

Mom?

Turkey cookies?

Turkey cookies?

Turkey cookies?

(pretend you’ve been reading this for 8 hours now)

* * * *

How was your Thanksgiving and post-Thanksgiving this year?

              … a gratuitous pic of Abby just because.

At War

As time drains by, I have grown accustomed to the empty space that Will was to fill in my house.  I know where to look and where not to look.  Abby’s room is no longer the “twin’s room”.  When my gaze rests on Abby, I no longer constantly see the ghost of Will alongside her.  Will’s picture and cremains sit atop our piano.  There are days I run my fingers over his picture and hold the little pewter box, and days I avoid the piano altogether.  It isn’t that I don’t miss Will, but the missing is more like a dull ache all over rather than a sharp piercing in my heart.  I have learned to avoid the mine fields of loss in my house.  Unfortunately, I live not only in my house.

And there are undetected landmines out there.

We visited a church this weekend, and I paid not one bit of attention to the thought that I might be blasted.   Made it through the singing and prayer just fine.  And then they announced that today was a day to dedicate babies being raised in the church.  I watched happily as lovely families lined up on the stage with their fidgety and well-dressed babies.

And then the pastor went to each family and talked to them about their precious little ones.  The side screens showed off pictures of the babies, obnoxious hair-bows on the girls (I know so well) and little baby vests for the boys.

Fffffft was the almost imperceptible sound of the sniper’s shot.

Sharp pain in my chest. 

Tears. 

Will would never be one of those babies. 

Happy. 

Squirmy. 

Fussing. 

Squealing. 

Living.

And the totality of his loss was upon me again – like a tidal wave.

I wiped my face and nose with my sleeves, as my bag was with Abby in the nursery.  Lovely.  I sat red-eyed through the rest of service and tried to avoid eye contact with others, as though meeting someone’s gaze might once again puncture the raw hole in my heart.

And so it goes, I remembered.

Time fits a temporary scab around the wound of losing Will.  But it is always tender and bleeding under the surface.  The mine fields and snipers and hand-grenades hit with great aim, knocking me down.

I’ve written about this before, the doorsmacking of grief when one is casually going about the day.  But I cannot seem to fully comprehend nor predict this part of loss.

And I am unwilling to hide in my fort forever.

And so it goes.

*  *  *  *

For those of you who have IF or a loss, what were the landmines that took you off-guard?  How did you handle them?