Well, I am really getting to that point where it is a chore to write a post. When I started this blog, the words poured out of me because they needed to. Now? I think I have cleared enough space in my head that I have room for the words that I have to deal with in there.
This is not some sort of "stopping blogging" announcement. But it is a "don't expect too many posts" announcement. Like you didn't know that already. :)
I have worked at keeping my real life and my blog life totally separate. So now, when life is less about grief and more about, well, life... I don't have as much I can share here. I could brag/complain about my job, brag/complain about my family, brag/complain about other trivialities... well, this doesn't seem to be the forum for it. I have my daily struggles, but those things just don't seem to belong here.
The main question that remains is the question of future children. For now, I guess it is just still a question. If we make a decision on that point, or if life makes the decision for us, I will let you know.
This is no "goodbye", but I may as well say "thanks". Thanks for coming back to read (or keeping me on your reader), even though I so rarely post. It means a lot.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Time's Irrelevance
I read bon's post and though to myself, "Gee. 4 years. That's a long time."
I guess it is. How did 2005 become 2009?
Painful question.
I guess it is. How did 2005 become 2009?
Painful question.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Hmmmm.....
I feel a little better since the fog of Jan. 14th slid by, but not in the way I had hoped. I googled "symptoms of depression" and don't think you could call it clinical. Maybe it's just January.
Monday, January 19, 2009
C.'s birthday
BB's birthday Thursday, January 15, 2009
And now he's Two.
Complete with tantrums, a big-boy bed, grimy hands, and slobbery kisses. It is so good.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Still a little bit to say
Life sucks you away from you grief.
At first, it is impossible to imagine that you could ever do anything but radiate pain with every heartbeat. You are alive and you child is not. That is a reality. It is not a dream. Try to make yourself understand that fact. Try.
Then you might fight tooth and nail for another chance. We did. And were rewarded with the best of all blessings - a child who lives in our home and fills our hearts, minds, and souls with another kind of reality. And this is a good reality.
But now, instead of waging epic battles with my grief on a day-to-day basis, I have to take it out, dust it off, and choose my moments to spend with it. As much as one can "control" any of it, I do that. It tuck it away in a quiet place, for a time when we can be alone.
I think that is why I have been so surprised by the (at times) massive pain and sorrow that has knocked me down in the last 6 weeks. The first unexpected blow was during the beautiful, Hallmark day that we had a couple of weeks before Christmas. We were setting up the tree, getting out decorations, listening to carols, eating pizza in the living room. Then, out of nowhere, I was bawling - wailing into my husband's chest. It was a perfect moment, spoiled only by the fact that it could never, ever be perfect. Eventually, I stopped crying and went back to my perfect day.
I wish I could say that this last week has been so easy to handle - have a good cry and have done with. It hasn't.
I know what started this. Firstly, it's January. January means "emotional instability" in my world. Secondly, I had a nice little conversation about knitting for charity with Kate over on Ravelry. On Sunday, I started thinking about maybe doing some projects for stillborn babies and donating them to the hospital. Which led to a repeating replay of C's birth, running over and over in my head. All day. I was really fun to be around.
Since Sunday, I have had a slightly anxious feeling, you know, that nervous feeling. I fall asleep after hours of laying in my bed, sleeping fitfully all night. I have that weight in my chest, that heavy feeling, that physical manifestation of depression and grief.
I have to admit something to you. It almost feels good, almost feels right. I am a mother who's son is dead. I should always feel it in the pit of my stomach, shouldn't I? When I feel good, I feel like I shouldn't. Like I don't love and miss my son as much as the rest of you do. Like I am some shallow person who can "put it behind her".
I don't want to put it behind me. But I don't know what's to be gained walking around on the verge of tears with an anxious stomach all day. I want it and I hate it at the same time.
When I was in labour with C., I was offered pain meds. I said no. I needed to feel the pain - for two reasons, really. First, the pain was giving me something real to feel and concentrate on. All I had to survive were the minutes between contractions. No thoughts of a future without C., going home without a baby. Just *pain*, no pain, *pain*, no pain. Second, I think I was punishing myself - my baby was dead before he was born and I was going to suffer for it. I think I still feel this way, that I must always hurt to suffer for the fact that I let him die. Maybe. I don't know.
If you were just an acquaintance of mine, you wouldn't know what was going on behind my eyes. I smile, plan a 2nd birthday party, greet people with "Happy New Year." We have meals on the table, the laundry is mostly done. But for the past few days, I have been in a low place.
Sigh.
At first, it is impossible to imagine that you could ever do anything but radiate pain with every heartbeat. You are alive and you child is not. That is a reality. It is not a dream. Try to make yourself understand that fact. Try.
Then you might fight tooth and nail for another chance. We did. And were rewarded with the best of all blessings - a child who lives in our home and fills our hearts, minds, and souls with another kind of reality. And this is a good reality.
But now, instead of waging epic battles with my grief on a day-to-day basis, I have to take it out, dust it off, and choose my moments to spend with it. As much as one can "control" any of it, I do that. It tuck it away in a quiet place, for a time when we can be alone.
I think that is why I have been so surprised by the (at times) massive pain and sorrow that has knocked me down in the last 6 weeks. The first unexpected blow was during the beautiful, Hallmark day that we had a couple of weeks before Christmas. We were setting up the tree, getting out decorations, listening to carols, eating pizza in the living room. Then, out of nowhere, I was bawling - wailing into my husband's chest. It was a perfect moment, spoiled only by the fact that it could never, ever be perfect. Eventually, I stopped crying and went back to my perfect day.
I wish I could say that this last week has been so easy to handle - have a good cry and have done with. It hasn't.
I know what started this. Firstly, it's January. January means "emotional instability" in my world. Secondly, I had a nice little conversation about knitting for charity with Kate over on Ravelry. On Sunday, I started thinking about maybe doing some projects for stillborn babies and donating them to the hospital. Which led to a repeating replay of C's birth, running over and over in my head. All day. I was really fun to be around.
Since Sunday, I have had a slightly anxious feeling, you know, that nervous feeling. I fall asleep after hours of laying in my bed, sleeping fitfully all night. I have that weight in my chest, that heavy feeling, that physical manifestation of depression and grief.
I have to admit something to you. It almost feels good, almost feels right. I am a mother who's son is dead. I should always feel it in the pit of my stomach, shouldn't I? When I feel good, I feel like I shouldn't. Like I don't love and miss my son as much as the rest of you do. Like I am some shallow person who can "put it behind her".
I don't want to put it behind me. But I don't know what's to be gained walking around on the verge of tears with an anxious stomach all day. I want it and I hate it at the same time.
When I was in labour with C., I was offered pain meds. I said no. I needed to feel the pain - for two reasons, really. First, the pain was giving me something real to feel and concentrate on. All I had to survive were the minutes between contractions. No thoughts of a future without C., going home without a baby. Just *pain*, no pain, *pain*, no pain. Second, I think I was punishing myself - my baby was dead before he was born and I was going to suffer for it. I think I still feel this way, that I must always hurt to suffer for the fact that I let him die. Maybe. I don't know.
If you were just an acquaintance of mine, you wouldn't know what was going on behind my eyes. I smile, plan a 2nd birthday party, greet people with "Happy New Year." We have meals on the table, the laundry is mostly done. But for the past few days, I have been in a low place.
Sigh.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Bribery
Things have not really improved on the time management front. Because I want you to still like me, though I don't blog hardly at all, please leave me a comment and I will email you a cute picture of my boy for you to admire. Maybe even a cute video, if I can manage it all.
Hope your holiday season has been more peaceful than mine.
P.S. This fourth Christmas without C. has been hard. Really hard.
Hope your holiday season has been more peaceful than mine.
P.S. This fourth Christmas without C. has been hard. Really hard.
Monday, December 01, 2008
A Working Mom's Nightmare
To cope with the unreasonable expectations that have resulted from too many "yes's", I have resorted to lying as to why I cannot attend this or another meeting, etc. and so forth. Now I have the impossible task of managing my lies, remembering who I told what and why, and realizing that I have no end in sight.
Actually, now that I think of it, there is an end in sight. Year end. God help us all.
Actually, now that I think of it, there is an end in sight. Year end. God help us all.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Take your poo and stuff it.
GRIPE OF THE DAY:
DO NOT ask me how old my son is, determine your son is two weeks younger, and ask me if BB is potty-trained. And DO NOT stand there with your eyebrows arched in a slight expression of triumph, mouth battling back a smirk. I am not in some Mom-Olympics competition with you.
I do not agree with your perspective on this battle-ground of potty training. Your manifesto - they say that if kids aren't potty trained by the time they are 30 months, they lose interest, especially boys - is essentially flawed, in my opinion. I don't believe that children are little robots that have to programmed before explicit deadlines or they lose power to essential systems. And I don't see very many 16-year-olds walking around in adult diapers because their mothers missed some magic window of time.
And while we're discussing how you are missing the point, let's try looking at the definition of "potty trained." To me, that means a kid who knows he has to use the bathroom, tells me he has to use the bathroom, then goes to use the bathroom. I may or may not help him, he may or may not miss the mark on rare occasions. But mostly, a potty trained kid is a kid who does the deed by himself.
What you described to me does not meet my definition. Putting my child in a cloth diaper so that he will feel wet is not "trained". Sitting him on the pot when I think is needs to do the deed is not "trained". Dealing with daily misses is not "trained." I could perhaps accept the argument that those things could be a part of training, but certainly not meeting the definition of "trained."
Lady, your kid is not toilet trained. And I don't care that you think you are superior to me because I am not going through the futile effort of "training" a kid who isn't ready. It is fully my intention to wait until he is ready for the process - and with this comes the hope that we can reach the end result of "trained" in a very short period of time (let's talk days/weeks, not months). Maybe it will work or maybe it won't. In the long run, I don't see him wearing diapers to kindergarten.
In fact, my babysitter (who has done this for 17 years and has toilet trained literally hundreds of kids) doesn't want to start that battle. BB is happy. He is not interested in toilet training. He is busy playing. She doesn't have time to run him to the pot every 15 minutes and she won't start with him until he can get into the routine quickly. (And p.s. - she thinks you're kidding yourself.)
So, let's be clear. This is not your business. Spouting off about how and when I should be toilet training my kid is not appropriate. Live and let live, I say. I won't tell you that I think you are nuts for trying to train a 22 month old and I expect you to exercise some of the same restraint.
But, since you started it - YOU'RE NUTS. Now back off.
Respectfully yours,
A Mom With Her Own Approach.
P.S. Now I feel better. This griping stuff is good for the soul.
P.P.S. Those who have done it, potting training war stories to share?
DO NOT ask me how old my son is, determine your son is two weeks younger, and ask me if BB is potty-trained. And DO NOT stand there with your eyebrows arched in a slight expression of triumph, mouth battling back a smirk. I am not in some Mom-Olympics competition with you.
I do not agree with your perspective on this battle-ground of potty training. Your manifesto - they say that if kids aren't potty trained by the time they are 30 months, they lose interest, especially boys - is essentially flawed, in my opinion. I don't believe that children are little robots that have to programmed before explicit deadlines or they lose power to essential systems. And I don't see very many 16-year-olds walking around in adult diapers because their mothers missed some magic window of time.
And while we're discussing how you are missing the point, let's try looking at the definition of "potty trained." To me, that means a kid who knows he has to use the bathroom, tells me he has to use the bathroom, then goes to use the bathroom. I may or may not help him, he may or may not miss the mark on rare occasions. But mostly, a potty trained kid is a kid who does the deed by himself.
What you described to me does not meet my definition. Putting my child in a cloth diaper so that he will feel wet is not "trained". Sitting him on the pot when I think is needs to do the deed is not "trained". Dealing with daily misses is not "trained." I could perhaps accept the argument that those things could be a part of training, but certainly not meeting the definition of "trained."
Lady, your kid is not toilet trained. And I don't care that you think you are superior to me because I am not going through the futile effort of "training" a kid who isn't ready. It is fully my intention to wait until he is ready for the process - and with this comes the hope that we can reach the end result of "trained" in a very short period of time (let's talk days/weeks, not months). Maybe it will work or maybe it won't. In the long run, I don't see him wearing diapers to kindergarten.
In fact, my babysitter (who has done this for 17 years and has toilet trained literally hundreds of kids) doesn't want to start that battle. BB is happy. He is not interested in toilet training. He is busy playing. She doesn't have time to run him to the pot every 15 minutes and she won't start with him until he can get into the routine quickly. (And p.s. - she thinks you're kidding yourself.)
So, let's be clear. This is not your business. Spouting off about how and when I should be toilet training my kid is not appropriate. Live and let live, I say. I won't tell you that I think you are nuts for trying to train a 22 month old and I expect you to exercise some of the same restraint.
But, since you started it - YOU'RE NUTS. Now back off.
Respectfully yours,
A Mom With Her Own Approach.
P.S. Now I feel better. This griping stuff is good for the soul.
P.P.S. Those who have done it, potting training war stories to share?
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Gripe of the Day
Mostly, I walk around writing complaint posts in my head. You know, when something bugs me, I imagine writing a post about it and having the Internets respond with a resounding "Right On, Man!" So, I am going to try out a new feature - Gripe of the Day. We'll see if it catches on.
Since this is my first go, I will probably gripe about several things:
- I am so sick of celebrities, I could just go crawl under a rock on an uninhabited island and live there in isolation until eternity passes. I am especially sick of pregnant child celebrities or possibly-pregnant Brangelinas. PLEASE STOP TELLING ME ABOUT THESE PEOPLE AND TRYING TO PASS IT OFF AS LEGITIMATE NEWS!!!!!
- I don't know why the "Original Moritz Icy Squares" aren't as icy as I remember them, and it bugs me. (Doesn't stop me from eating them into oblivion, though).
- Why doesn't my work software run on a Mac platform? I would switch, if I could....
Was that a boring list of gripes? Perhaps this feature won't grow my readership in the way I had hoped.... [Mental note: Become more witty by the next post...]
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Looking on tempests
It is hard to know how to love C.
The thing about love is that we have been trained to analyze it from all angles. We work very hard to place definitions or descriptors on our love. We write songs and poetry and sit in analysts offices dissecting the beast.
It's more of the quality of love that I am talking about here, not the existence of love. I love C. deeply and through every fibre of my being. But it isn't a dynamic love, changing and growing with the fluctuations of time and intimacy. It is a love of memory.
How is it possible to love someone entirely in memory? What definition do we give to that love? It isn't something that I have ever wanted or had even imagined.
When I held BB in my arms that first time, it was like the confirmation of love; I knew I loved him - desperately loved him - from the moment I first knew of him. Seeing his eyes gazing into mine, suckling him at my breast, smelling his soft, baby sweetness - this just confirmed what I already knew. Every one of the past year and ten months has gently nudged that love around - I love him for his sense of humour, his dimples, his laugh, his attachment to his stuffed dinosaur, the way he calls himself "baby". The love I have for him changes every day.
With C., the confirmation has never come. It will never come. So the love I have for him feels like the stuff of dreams. Something sweet that I imagined once for me and for my husband, but something that we don't get to have now. Something that didn't materialize.
The quality of the love that you feel for the people who live in the here and now can never be the same kind of love that you feel for those who are gone. I accept that. What is harder to accept - no, harder to understand how to live with - is the feeling that it just shouldn't have to be this way. That I am somehow loving C. in the wrong way because it is impossible to love him in the way that I love BB. The relationship that I have with each of my boys is so very different that the two experiences could hardly even be compared.
I know there is no right way or wrong way. I don't need reassurance that I am doing this right. It just is what it is.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Eleventh Hour of the Eleventh Day of the Eleventh Month
Today Canadians look to those who have fallen in war with the deepest of gratitude and the utmost pride. Every country honours these men and women in its own way. Today, we celebrate the identity-defining heroic acts of The War to End All Wars and we think of those young men and women who have fallen in the last few years in the deserts and hills of Afghanistan.
Much of our national identity and our national sense of pride is derived from our proud military history. Rightly or wrongly, we Canadians see ourselves as Defenders of the Peace. These conflicts that we engage in have rarely been "our" wars. Instead, our young people have travelled great distances and made the ultimate sacrifice to defend the ideals that our nation holds dear. In recent history, we have not fought to gain territory or resources - to die for an ideal is a remarkable thing.
Today, I encourage you all to learn a little bit more about Canada's participation in various international conflicts by viewing this stunning documentary at www.nfb.ca/frontlines, or following some of the links in this article.
Lest we forget.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Choo-choo
Could anyone care less about my last posts? Honestly, I can hardly care less. When I find a moment to read other blogs, it generally make me feel rather shameful about my own.
My Ravelry invite arrived. I only had time to sign up. I have no idea how to work the thing yet. I will keep you posted (because maybe one person cares, right).
In a knitting related theme, I was thinking about how Joan Sutherland would sit and knit between her scenes during rehearsals. I was contemplating how I could work some of that into my life - what would be my equivalent of knit-one-purl-two-slip-one-knit-two-together, stand up and blast off some high C's, then settle back into the pattern...?
And it hit me. The last time I seriously contemplated this (because it has come up before), I was frantically stitching a gloriously fluffy boucle blanket for a boy who didn't ever come home. I knew I had mere weeks to finish it. Those weeks were actually days and the blanket was never finished. Now it lies tucked into the casket of a tiny boy; an unfinished blanket for a boy who didn't even get to start.
It always takes me off guard how a seemingly simple and uncomplicated train of thought can so easy turn into a train-wreck.
My Ravelry invite arrived. I only had time to sign up. I have no idea how to work the thing yet. I will keep you posted (because maybe one person cares, right).
In a knitting related theme, I was thinking about how Joan Sutherland would sit and knit between her scenes during rehearsals. I was contemplating how I could work some of that into my life - what would be my equivalent of knit-one-purl-two-slip-one-knit-two-together, stand up and blast off some high C's, then settle back into the pattern...?
And it hit me. The last time I seriously contemplated this (because it has come up before), I was frantically stitching a gloriously fluffy boucle blanket for a boy who didn't ever come home. I knew I had mere weeks to finish it. Those weeks were actually days and the blanket was never finished. Now it lies tucked into the casket of a tiny boy; an unfinished blanket for a boy who didn't even get to start.
It always takes me off guard how a seemingly simple and uncomplicated train of thought can so easy turn into a train-wreck.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Stitching Update
Because I am sure you are all on the edge of your seats (and more truthfully because I am so relieved) I am glad to tell you I was able to finish the front panel of the sweater with the yarn that I have. So, hopefully Ravelry will help me track down one more skein of yarn in a close match and I will actually be able to finish this thing. If they would just send my my invitation...
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Dear Kate,
I am joining Ravelry.
Now stop hassling me. :)
delphi
p.s. Thank you a zillion for your detective work!
Now stop hassling me. :)
delphi
p.s. Thank you a zillion for your detective work!
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Major Stitching Problems
I am hoping that one of you can give me some guidance. I have made the classic blunder. I am almost finished the front panel of the sweater I am knitting for BB and I am sure that I won't have enough yarn. I am using Classic Elite Yarn "Two.Two" in colour 1504, which went out of production in fall of 2005. Any suggestions?
If I can finish the body in the yarn I have, a close match would be okay to use on the cuffs. It doesn't have to be an exact match. This yarn looks like the same colour, but who can tell from pictures? But it has a completely different colour number - 1557.
Advice?????
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
The Alternative
If my son was alive, I wouldn't know you.
I would say things like "It's okay - they're young and can have another one" or "Maybe it's all for the best."
I would get all awkward and change the subject if someone mentioned a death or a pregnancy loss.
I would imagine myself to be empathetic and understanding, even though there would be no possible way for me to understand.
I would think I can't possibly imagine, while tucking my two living sons into bed at night and thanking God it happened to them, not me.
I would think that people still talking about miscarriages 10 years later was kind of sad - why aren't you over it yet?
I would still think that taking pictures of people after they're dead is creepy and weird.
I wouldn't know any of the following terms: idiopathic cardiomyopothy, subsequent baby, abruption, ectopic, and worst of all cord accident.
I would have no idea who Jason Collins is.
I wouldn't use the words "try" or "if we're lucky" or "maybe" in regards to having a baby.
I would think that having annual memorial events for people who didn't even live was incredibly self-indulgent.
I would not have a blog.
I wouldn't know any of you.
If my son were alive, I wouldn't know you. In so many ways, I hate that I know you. But every day I am deeply thankful that I do.
I would say things like "It's okay - they're young and can have another one" or "Maybe it's all for the best."
I would get all awkward and change the subject if someone mentioned a death or a pregnancy loss.
I would imagine myself to be empathetic and understanding, even though there would be no possible way for me to understand.
I would think I can't possibly imagine, while tucking my two living sons into bed at night and thanking God it happened to them, not me.
I would think that people still talking about miscarriages 10 years later was kind of sad - why aren't you over it yet?
I would still think that taking pictures of people after they're dead is creepy and weird.
I wouldn't know any of the following terms: idiopathic cardiomyopothy, subsequent baby, abruption, ectopic, and worst of all cord accident.
I would have no idea who Jason Collins is.
I wouldn't use the words "try" or "if we're lucky" or "maybe" in regards to having a baby.
I would think that having annual memorial events for people who didn't even live was incredibly self-indulgent.
I would not have a blog.
I wouldn't know any of you.
If my son were alive, I wouldn't know you. In so many ways, I hate that I know you. But every day I am deeply thankful that I do.
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