Kids Say the Darndest Things

I'm driving along in the car with my little one ( just turned five) listening to the radio. I have it on a country station and he likes to hear them 'sing stories'. After listening intently to ?? singing about his daughter, he asks me to turn it down so he can talk to me. Then he asks me if I knew that "The man singing on the radio was dad." "No", I answered puzzled. "Well, it was" he continues, "Know how I know?" "How?" I answered, wondering what was whirling around in his little brain. "Because the daddy in the song said that from the first breath she breathed he knew the love of a father ...AND...when that miracle smiled up at him he loved her first." I'm stunned, vision starting to blur. He says, "Don't you get it mom? She was his miracle and she smiled at him when she was borned and he loved her first! That was daddy singing about my sister Isabel!" Amazing.

I sure did forget

When I was making the counter boxes of my babies for this blog, I realized something... I forgot the date I lost my first baby. I remember the day he was conceived. Why couldn't I remember when he died?

At first, I tried to reason that it was because I had gotten pregnant so quickly (I had a great Infertility Specialist) after losing him. I was not convinced! Next, I thought; "I'm sure I'm not the only mom who's ever forgotten." Still, I'm not buying it. I WAS the only mom who's ever forgotten! I knew the year and the month, but for the life of me I couldn't remember the day!

I go through every single piece of paperwork I could find in the baby book. Nothing. In my daughter's baby book. Still, nothing. I have only one option left(the most obvious one, of course), my hospital paperwork. Problem is it's huge! ALL my hospital paperwork starting from the first infertility visit.

My husband comes in and asks what I'm looking for, I can't break my concentration, I might miss it. So, I don't answer. He asks again and again. By this time, I'm hysterical, tears streaming, hair awry, on a mission. He's scared for me now... Ahhh, I found it! Now I can answer. Blurry eyed, I let him know that I AM the worst mom in the world. What kind of mom FORGETS the date of when her own baby dies. Her first pregnancy. After everything I went through to get pregnant. After how long we waited.

I'll never forget again. I still can't believe I forgot. But, I'm over it.

De-Lurking Week

What's de-lurking? Watchers, silent readers, who won't comment. Created by Cheryl at Paper Napkin If you stop by and read please just say hi. Let me know someone actually stops in here once in a while ;)

Every dark cloud...

I'm really not that dejected all the time. I think I can just blog better when I am. More often than not when I think of the baby it's with overwhelming love, not pain. Of course it saddens me that she (they) can't be with me now, but the love they left me with overflows. I see her beauty in the sunset, in children playing, in my son's smile, in the sharp colors of the fall leaves and the soft colors of wildflowers in spring. Everything good and beautiful reminds me...and I smile. I never thought I could live through the loss of my children. Yet now I know if I could handle that, I can handle anything, anyone, anytime, anywhere. I agree with Garth; "I could have missed the pain, but I'd of had to miss the dance."

Maybe it's just me

When my baby died everyone was so understanding and there for me. The first anniversary, again understanding. It's now been six years and it seems as if (almost) everyone has forgotten her. I don't cry as often (and now almost never in public) as when the wound to my heart was fresh, raw and exposed. But it still hurts. Not as often or for as long, but she's always going to be my baby. Why doesn't anyone understand that? I feel as if people who haven't lost one of their own children think; "Why is she still dwelling on that? It was so long ago." Or worse, "Isn't she over that yet?" Over? How do you get over holding your baby in your arms as her breaths get deeper and further apart? As you watch and pray for one more breath to come? As you hold her against your chest and know that that was her last breath? How do you get over knowing that you'll never hear her cry again, or feel her grasp your finger, or see her open her eyes and look up at her mommy, or feel her warm breath. All this only a few short hours after the joy, the unimaginable, unconditional, overwhelming love of having givin birth for the first time. Watching as a tiny perfect human being emerges from my own body. A girl! She cries while still attached to me through our umbilical cord, and though we are still one, we are two. How do you get over it? Maybe it's just me.