A boy

I wonder if C would have loved trucks and trains and cars and diggers this much. I think so. I think there is something in a boy that allows them to make machine noises and causes deep fascination with all things mechanical. Never have I seen such interest in a lawn mower.

We just returned from our holiday. Watching BB play alone nearly ripped my heart out. It took all my energy to concentrate on other things. Maybe I wasn't that fun to be around, sometimes. I wonder if I will always have to feel this way?

Like AF

Well, I should make an appearance at least once a month, shouldn't I? I am transitioning away from much online stuff. That's okay, but I miss it. Mostly, I think about yarn and dirt. Knitting and gardening. And sticky fingers.

He talks to me now. In little half sentences that only someone trained in the art of code-breaking could possibly decipher. He remembers things from a week or a month ago and brings them up, totally out of context. I feel like superwoman when I figure our what the hell he is talking about.

He loves me passionately. He wants to be independent and he wants me to do everything for him. He has figured out how to make his body as stiff as a rod or as limp as a noodle, depending on the variety of tantrum he is aiming for. The tantrums are rare; his temperament is mild. He loves his father and wants to fix things with him.

He loves trucks and playing the harmonica.

When he helps me push the shopping cart, he has started hanging off of it like a monkey bar and whizzing along with his feet a few inches off the ground. His laugh is the most perfect sound in the world.

His hair is as blond as his parents' when they were children. He looks exactly like me and exactly like his father. The eyes are bluer than endless prairie sky. His kisses are wet and many.

He likes to go visit Brother. It is an incentive to get him in the car. "Get in and we'll go visit Brother." On Mother's Day we flew kites, got to watch a train lumber by and saw a crop duster fly by. I imagine that is the reason why.

When his friends come to play, he runs around in a circle and screams with joy, like a dog chasing his tail. He doesn't know what to do with all that love and excitement. He wants his friends to come to his house so he can host them, but then he is almost more content to sit and watch them play. His personality is so like mine and so like his father's.

I have decided that I no longer scream at him in anger. It was as easy as that. I have to resist all natural urges to scream when he isn't listening; that was how I was raised, after all. I just tell myself that I am zen, I am patience personified. Life moves more slowly and more quietly now. It's good. I am done with screaming. Our house has been quiet for two weeks. I have no fears of returning to that habit. I quit while the quitting was easy.

I am so full of my little boy these days that I don't know how C. fits anymore. It all still hurts, but I have to consciously turn my thoughts to him. I worry that I don't mourn him as a person, but more as a loss of my idealism, my youth, my dreams. He flits around the edges like a ghostly idea, never firming up and taking shape. He was a hope unfulfilled. What's a person to do with that? So intangible.

I continue to deeply desire another child. My husband does not. I pray that some satisfactory resolution will present itself to us in a way that respects both of our needs.

And that's June.

Good News

I am very pleased that our province has passed the new vital statistics act, allowing the issuance of Certificates of Stillbirth.  I have no official paper in my possession with C's name on it.  I want it.

I am grateful that I did not have to lobby to make this happen.  I imagined myself lobbying politicians, firing off righteous missives to the media, fighting the good fight;  I didn't have it in me.  I am so damned glad that others did it for me.   Thank you, those who have tread this path before me.

I am not particularly pleased that the act has passed, but they will need at least a year at the paper-pusher end of things to actually be able to produce the documents.  Or so says the rep I spoke to today.  Sigh.  Like this came out of the blue or something.... um, this bill has been before the legislature for 3 years and is dated 2008.  Perhaps you all might have thought to prepare in advance for the eventual adoption as law.

Ah, the speed of government astounds even me.

Nonetheless, I am thankful today.  A small token has been dangled before me and isn't that far away.

My boy would have been five years old by then.

Procreation woes

I have been writing posts. Not just mentally, but in Blogger, too. But they are all I-want-to-have-another-baby posts and this is a contentious issue in our house. For very legitimate reasons, we disagree.

I don't know what to do with all the crazy in my head. I have a lot of crazy in my head again. But blasting it all across the internets without prior approval of the person who means the most in my life would be a silly thing to do. Been there, done that, never again.

Just send me Not Crazy vibes, would you?

A little angst

I have to admit that when I hear of someone who has experienced multiple losses, I just don't know what to do.  When the losses are the babies of my cousin and his wife, I know even less.

In the past two + years, my cousin's wife has miscarried three times that I know of.  I put it that way, because who knows if these things make their way through the family grapevine.  Now she is halfway through another pregnancy and further along than she's ever been.  She is working with a specialist, taking hormones; all those things so many of my blog friends have done.   All seems to be going well.

Before I heard of this pregnancy, I had already bought some lovely merino superwash yarn in celery green and chosen a sweet little cardigan pattern in case they ever had a successful pregnancy.  I don't usually put that kind of energy into knitting something to give away; you have to be special to me to garner anything over and above a quick little hat.  But I felt like this new little life would be one to celebrate, if it ever arrived.

Fast forward 8 months; now she is pregnant and due in October.  At first I was so happy for her.  But then I started to feel weird about the whole thing, as her Facebook status began to focus on this new baby.  It wasn't that I was no longer happy; it was that I was starting to feel....  incredulous, maybe?

I feel a little bit stunned that, on Facebook and in every face-to-face conversation I have had with her, she assumes that the danger is over now that she is past a certain point.  Now, I realize that we all deal with this postdeadbabytrauma in our own way.   She maybe subscribes to the notion that if you believe in things hard enough it will make them come true.  But it makes me feel uncomfortable.

I think there are two reasons for my discomfort.  Firstly, I know how stupendously wrong it can go at any point.  I can't imagine how she would cope if the worst happened.  Secondly, it makes me feel (yet again) like some sort of pariah or freak.  Because everybody knows that once you get past the first trimester, its all sunshine and rainbows and nothing can go wrong.

I get so frustrated with that prevailing notion of our culture.  It makes me feel that I must have done something wrong - either physically, that damaged C. in some way, or in some karmic sense that I deserved to face this heartache.  While my brain tells me all of that is entirely ridiculous, that how my cousin's wife reacts in this subsequent pregnancy is in no way personally related to my loss of C., it is very difficult for me to separate those ideas.

No doubt about it, though.  I still hurt to the very core when I see a pregnant women, even someone that I like/respect/admire.  That sensation was minimal when I had my own little baby in my arms; but now my baby says things like "what's in there?" and "play cars, Mommy?"

I don't know if we will ever have another kid; that is a decision we are struggling with.  So all this may have more to do with me having more grief to deal with, and less to do with Facebook belly pictures.

Well, I don't really feel like doing the cardigan anymore.  Maybe a quick little hat.  I am planning a super-awesome-vest-for-me with the celery superwash.  

Don't you just wish this grieving thing had an end point?

With a humourless laugh

So. I started to feel like I was inured to all that babydom could throw at me.

But today I am forced to say nice things to my colleague who's week old baby is crying in the next room. All I feel is anguish, despair, jealousy, and desire. Those aren't nice things.

The joke's on me.

Like a freight train from nowhere

We went to college together.  He gave me rides to my summer job and I tutored him for his summer session recap.  We both survived college in the same tiny class, not the best of friends, but the closest that good acquaintances could be.

Last weekend, his wife gave birth to two boys, 28 weeks gestation.  Two days later, they said goodbye to their oldest boy.  Their youngest grows stronger daily in his incubator, his mother keeping constant vigil while his father plans a funeral elsewhere.

I felt horrible the moment I learned.  There was nothing I could do.  So this is how this feels.  This is how all of those people felt, 4 years ago.

Today I intended to go to the funeral.  Then I read on their blog about the slideshow he had prepared and I knew I couldn't do it.  I couldn't watch those photos, so full of love, trying to capture a lifetime in a few clicks, scroll past my eyes with beautiful strains of music floating in the air all the while.  I couldn't see two people wracked with the soul numbing grief of saying goodbye.  I could not go to the funeral for the baby of a man I have known for 11 years.

I might have gone - I could have sat there, nearly sick with the grief of it.  I could have cried and hurt, watched that little casket (would it be fuzzy white?) move down the aisle.  I could have endured the outpouring of love for this sweet little boy, all the while ripping in two with the agony of it all.   But....

The tears would have been for another boy.  The grief and hurt would have been for my boy, not the boy who today deserved the love and the tears.  I have survived that tortuous, hellish day.  I can't relive it and I won't.  I need to not think about that day, so that tomorrow I can get out of bed and live my life.

I'm sorry.  But I know that he will understand; if not today, then four years from now.

Not exactly random

For Thomas:

Where did the words go?

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.

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'm just so sad.

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.

A Week in Pictures

My birthday - A new decade.

C.'s birthday


BB's birthday

Whew.

And now he's Two.

Complete with tantrums, a big-boy bed, grimy hands, and slobbery kisses. It is so good.

4 Years

Happy Birthday, little boy.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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...]