Dear Analin,
Daddy got a new job. It's all the way across the country, of course.
This is why you were cremated. We knew this move, or some other, was likely in our lives. This way, you get to come too. Your ashes, your hand and foot molds, your memory books, a lock of you hair.
What can't come are your other things.
Blankets.
Outfits.
Diaper bag.
I have them all. Not for long.
I found a family for your things.
They lost everything in a fire. Every thing. The people are safe. Including a baby girl and her twin brother.
This is so poetic on so many levels. Poetry can be damn painful.
We lost a girl.
Friends lost one of their twins the same year.
There are all different kind of tears. These tears are small, light, and hot enough to burn.
And we're moving on, all of us.
Poetry in motion.
Things lost in a fire, things given. Comfort found in our families. It's beautiful and I can't stop crying.
I love you so very much, Beautiful.
Mommy.
Monday, April 24, 2017
Friday, December 9, 2016
Daughters
Dear Analin,
This has been the year of the girl. As in, I don't have one.
Ugh. I feel ... not great ... writing that, but it's the truth.
My grandfather tried to say something once. It affected me differently than he'd hoped, yet I've come to understand he was walking a fine line between trying to let me know he understands and not criticizing his faith. He said something along the lines of it being unfair when God doesn't give us the chance of both daughters and sons. It was after you were born, I don't exactly know when.
The words shocked my brain and got buried somewhere until I could deal with them and sort through them. Emotions tend to filter what we say and what we feel, so allowing time to pass was perfect for this. I hope I figured it out right. He was saying it was unfair I didn't get my chance despite the promise of it. I have said as much myself.
The thing is - and I may have written this before because it isn't a new feeling - I am a good mom. I am having an amazing experience raising your brothers. I am devastated I won't get my chance with you.
This year, through a lot of silence and thinking, I've been sorting through quite a bit. I wrote earlier that I was in denial. Yes and no. Denial, a lot of pain, and those things tend to shut me down on the outside. On the inside, it's all still going, all still burning. I miss you. I really do. I feel robbed. But I also feel cheated. Because I was given a daughter along with my sons, and she was taken away.
I prepared. Not only with clothes and toys and blankets, but mentally, psychologically. Dreams were spun, possibilities abounded. Clothes shopping, spa appointments, lessons on being a girl, on becoming a woman, all of that plays through a mother's mind while her daughter grows. And I can't. Not with you.
This year has been about figuring out my pain and the different levels, of separating what I want from what I'm going to miss. I want a daughter, I do. I know she could never be you. But I do not want to be pregnant again. It's too hard, too scary. And there's a chance I simply can't carry girls and if I tried and failed again .... Nope. I cannot do it.
There are other ways of having a daughter. Now that I've sorted through all of that, perhaps your dad and I can think about those other ways. Honestly, I'm not ready for any new baby right now, but that's okay, too. As with my grandfather's words, time can be your best friend with decisions like these. There is a lot to think about, a lot to learn about myself and our family. Still a lot to learn about living without you.
You are forever in my heart.
Mommy.
This has been the year of the girl. As in, I don't have one.
Ugh. I feel ... not great ... writing that, but it's the truth.
My grandfather tried to say something once. It affected me differently than he'd hoped, yet I've come to understand he was walking a fine line between trying to let me know he understands and not criticizing his faith. He said something along the lines of it being unfair when God doesn't give us the chance of both daughters and sons. It was after you were born, I don't exactly know when.
The words shocked my brain and got buried somewhere until I could deal with them and sort through them. Emotions tend to filter what we say and what we feel, so allowing time to pass was perfect for this. I hope I figured it out right. He was saying it was unfair I didn't get my chance despite the promise of it. I have said as much myself.
The thing is - and I may have written this before because it isn't a new feeling - I am a good mom. I am having an amazing experience raising your brothers. I am devastated I won't get my chance with you.
This year, through a lot of silence and thinking, I've been sorting through quite a bit. I wrote earlier that I was in denial. Yes and no. Denial, a lot of pain, and those things tend to shut me down on the outside. On the inside, it's all still going, all still burning. I miss you. I really do. I feel robbed. But I also feel cheated. Because I was given a daughter along with my sons, and she was taken away.
I prepared. Not only with clothes and toys and blankets, but mentally, psychologically. Dreams were spun, possibilities abounded. Clothes shopping, spa appointments, lessons on being a girl, on becoming a woman, all of that plays through a mother's mind while her daughter grows. And I can't. Not with you.
This year has been about figuring out my pain and the different levels, of separating what I want from what I'm going to miss. I want a daughter, I do. I know she could never be you. But I do not want to be pregnant again. It's too hard, too scary. And there's a chance I simply can't carry girls and if I tried and failed again .... Nope. I cannot do it.
There are other ways of having a daughter. Now that I've sorted through all of that, perhaps your dad and I can think about those other ways. Honestly, I'm not ready for any new baby right now, but that's okay, too. As with my grandfather's words, time can be your best friend with decisions like these. There is a lot to think about, a lot to learn about myself and our family. Still a lot to learn about living without you.
You are forever in my heart.
Mommy.
Connections
Dear Analin,
The "A" stocking has brought you to your second brother's attention this year. He's almost 5 and though we always talk about you, he hasn't been able to comprehend you yet. This year, he has. He asked who in our family starts with an A. He asked to see your books. He told me you are the best girl he ever missed. That he misses you so very much.
I'll admit I was worried about teaching you to him and to your little brother and if they could connect. This year, I'm not so worried. You are a part of our lives, every day, and this is where it shows, when a big brother who was too little to remember connects with his little sister through the memories we've kept and the words we share. It's powerful. You're powerful.
Thank you, my beautiful girl.
I love you.
Mommy.
The "A" stocking has brought you to your second brother's attention this year. He's almost 5 and though we always talk about you, he hasn't been able to comprehend you yet. This year, he has. He asked who in our family starts with an A. He asked to see your books. He told me you are the best girl he ever missed. That he misses you so very much.
I'll admit I was worried about teaching you to him and to your little brother and if they could connect. This year, I'm not so worried. You are a part of our lives, every day, and this is where it shows, when a big brother who was too little to remember connects with his little sister through the memories we've kept and the words we share. It's powerful. You're powerful.
Thank you, my beautiful girl.
I love you.
Mommy.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Full Disclosure
Dear Analin,
I haven't written in a long time because I am currently in denial. I fully recognize it won't change anything, but right now, it's what I need. Not having a girl was harder than I thought, though nothing could replace Benjamin. Nothing can replace you. As hard as it is for me to be pregnant, having a girl to wear the clothes in that big box doesn't look promising. Having another girl won't change what's wrong, anyway. It's a hard place to be right now.
I love you each and every day.
Mommy.
I haven't written in a long time because I am currently in denial. I fully recognize it won't change anything, but right now, it's what I need. Not having a girl was harder than I thought, though nothing could replace Benjamin. Nothing can replace you. As hard as it is for me to be pregnant, having a girl to wear the clothes in that big box doesn't look promising. Having another girl won't change what's wrong, anyway. It's a hard place to be right now.
I love you each and every day.
Mommy.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Happy Birthday.
Dear Analin,
happy birthday beautiful girl. I think about you every day and I miss you more than you can know.
If you had been here, I would have gotten you one of those big silly pink electric cars - either as a Jeep or Corvette. I wonder if you would have liked Frozen or Barbie better - maybe Brave - actually I think definitely Brave.
I love you so much. I always will.
Daddy.
happy birthday beautiful girl. I think about you every day and I miss you more than you can know.
If you had been here, I would have gotten you one of those big silly pink electric cars - either as a Jeep or Corvette. I wonder if you would have liked Frozen or Barbie better - maybe Brave - actually I think definitely Brave.
I love you so much. I always will.
Daddy.
Monday, April 11, 2016
When you have a daughter in Heaven...
Dear Analin,
The day after you died, I was talking to a good friend. I told her that I didn't want this. I didn't want to be a parent who had lost a child.
At the time, I didn't know what specifically I was talking about. I didn't know what exactly I meant. I knew that this hurt was too deep to ever go away. But I didn't understand just how profoundly losing you was going to change me.
I didn't realize that I would, two and a half years later, still feel a pang of pain and jealousy when friends would announce pregnancies; that talk of baby girls would still cut deeply into my heart; that I would still look for baby clothes for you, because it could be a bad dream, right?
Your father is a happy person. I care deeply for other people and their happiness. So it hurts so much that I feel sadness when people tell me about their happiness. A year after we lost you, it got to the point where I had to seek professional help. One night, I broke down in front of your mommy. How could I react to happy baby announcements with such sadness, such anger? People who did that were broken, I thought.
That night was a turning point for me. Things got better - as things tend to do. I no longer think that I'm broken. Being broken would mean that I could and needed to be fixed. And that's not the case. But I do need to admit to myself that I have changed.
I still hate it when people ask me how many children I have. A seemingly simple question, I stumble every time. If I answer 3, I feel guilty because I have 4. If I answer 4, I feel like I have to qualify the answer with 'but one died'. Why is it so much harder for me to share you with people than it is for me to share your brothers? I hate it and you don't deserve that.
It's not meant to be like this. When I said to my friend that I didn't want this, this is what I meant. Feeling conflicted, feeling guilty for feeling hurt.
But I take comfort from opposites. The pain I feel makes me love more fiercely. My guilt makes me work harder at being a better friend, husband and father.
And in the end, you have play to the cards you've been dealt. It doesn't matter whether I wanted this or not. It happened and we deal with it. We take what lessons and what strength we can find. And we love more, laugh more, cry more and live more.
I love you so much and I miss you every day. At least there I know I'm not conflicted and that's a thought that brings me smiles.
Forever and ever,
Daddy.
The day after you died, I was talking to a good friend. I told her that I didn't want this. I didn't want to be a parent who had lost a child.
At the time, I didn't know what specifically I was talking about. I didn't know what exactly I meant. I knew that this hurt was too deep to ever go away. But I didn't understand just how profoundly losing you was going to change me.
I didn't realize that I would, two and a half years later, still feel a pang of pain and jealousy when friends would announce pregnancies; that talk of baby girls would still cut deeply into my heart; that I would still look for baby clothes for you, because it could be a bad dream, right?
Your father is a happy person. I care deeply for other people and their happiness. So it hurts so much that I feel sadness when people tell me about their happiness. A year after we lost you, it got to the point where I had to seek professional help. One night, I broke down in front of your mommy. How could I react to happy baby announcements with such sadness, such anger? People who did that were broken, I thought.
That night was a turning point for me. Things got better - as things tend to do. I no longer think that I'm broken. Being broken would mean that I could and needed to be fixed. And that's not the case. But I do need to admit to myself that I have changed.
I still hate it when people ask me how many children I have. A seemingly simple question, I stumble every time. If I answer 3, I feel guilty because I have 4. If I answer 4, I feel like I have to qualify the answer with 'but one died'. Why is it so much harder for me to share you with people than it is for me to share your brothers? I hate it and you don't deserve that.
It's not meant to be like this. When I said to my friend that I didn't want this, this is what I meant. Feeling conflicted, feeling guilty for feeling hurt.
But I take comfort from opposites. The pain I feel makes me love more fiercely. My guilt makes me work harder at being a better friend, husband and father.
And in the end, you have play to the cards you've been dealt. It doesn't matter whether I wanted this or not. It happened and we deal with it. We take what lessons and what strength we can find. And we love more, laugh more, cry more and live more.
I love you so much and I miss you every day. At least there I know I'm not conflicted and that's a thought that brings me smiles.
Forever and ever,
Daddy.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Tired
Dear Analin,
I'm sorry I haven't written much. Life right now is more than busy, it's draining. Draining in a good way - we are working hard toward some rewarding goals - but it's taking its toll. I'm so tired and being tired has lead to not thinking about you as much as I'd like. Being tired, I don't have the energy for it. I don't have the energy to think back and grieve, then climb my way out of it to a happier place.
That isn't to say I don't think of you at all. Just last month I had a conversation with one of those wonderful strangers you just bond with about you and your loss. I even told her the hardest parts about the drive home and the morning after. I'd taken care of myself a bit better that day, with a trip to the spa, so the energy had been there. In fact, I even reached that cathartic point of being proud of making it through the grief and sharing the story of my beautiful daughter.
Right now, though, I shy away from thoughts of you. If I didn't, I'm not sure I'd be able to get through it. There's nothing wrong with taking a day to cry and I have done that in the past. The trouble comes from making the pain more than the memory part of my life, and I struggle with that most when I'm tired.
I have suffered from and fought through Depression before and I'm absolutely certain that weighs heavily on my decisions on how to direct my grief. So, I'm employing a lot of avoidance these days. I'm sad about it. I miss you in my thoughts and conversations. The risk, though, is too high when sadness threatens larger than I think I can handle, so high it would affect the rest of our family.
To be clear, it isn't thinking of you I'm afraid of, it's in the sadness crawling out of my soul and settling into my bones. There's a difference to it that is dangerous for me.
I look forward to the day this is all done and I can put my feet up and cry until I smile again. You are worth every tear and every moment. Every day I wish I could be thinking of you in a different way, in the way of my beautiful, drive-me-crazy, two year old toddler. I want to type 'maybe one day,' but, of course, that would be a lie.
I miss you beyond what you could ever know.
Love, Mommy.
I'm sorry I haven't written much. Life right now is more than busy, it's draining. Draining in a good way - we are working hard toward some rewarding goals - but it's taking its toll. I'm so tired and being tired has lead to not thinking about you as much as I'd like. Being tired, I don't have the energy for it. I don't have the energy to think back and grieve, then climb my way out of it to a happier place.
That isn't to say I don't think of you at all. Just last month I had a conversation with one of those wonderful strangers you just bond with about you and your loss. I even told her the hardest parts about the drive home and the morning after. I'd taken care of myself a bit better that day, with a trip to the spa, so the energy had been there. In fact, I even reached that cathartic point of being proud of making it through the grief and sharing the story of my beautiful daughter.
Right now, though, I shy away from thoughts of you. If I didn't, I'm not sure I'd be able to get through it. There's nothing wrong with taking a day to cry and I have done that in the past. The trouble comes from making the pain more than the memory part of my life, and I struggle with that most when I'm tired.
I have suffered from and fought through Depression before and I'm absolutely certain that weighs heavily on my decisions on how to direct my grief. So, I'm employing a lot of avoidance these days. I'm sad about it. I miss you in my thoughts and conversations. The risk, though, is too high when sadness threatens larger than I think I can handle, so high it would affect the rest of our family.
To be clear, it isn't thinking of you I'm afraid of, it's in the sadness crawling out of my soul and settling into my bones. There's a difference to it that is dangerous for me.
I look forward to the day this is all done and I can put my feet up and cry until I smile again. You are worth every tear and every moment. Every day I wish I could be thinking of you in a different way, in the way of my beautiful, drive-me-crazy, two year old toddler. I want to type 'maybe one day,' but, of course, that would be a lie.
I miss you beyond what you could ever know.
Love, Mommy.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Your Box
Dear Analin,
There's been a debate about what to do with your things. I still have them, two years later. I even dug out some of the neutral things and the toys to use for Benjamin, but there are still so many frills and ruffles and owls and pink in a box we keep in the attic, things unique to you.
At first, I hoped we would use it for a little sister. Then I thought we might donate it to someone in need, or a women's shelter. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to make the arrangements. I kept thinking one day I would be able to do it. I'm not sure there's ever a 'ready' for something like that. They aren't just clothes, they are possibilities lost, and I'm not willing to let them go.
Randomly I ask your daddy what he thinks. Neither of us ever had an answer that satisfied us. Until this weekend.
There's no ready. I am not willing to let go of the few things I had for you. That's all there is to it.
We will not be getting rid of your box. It goes against my usual opinion of not holding on to things we don't use or need, but I do need that box. It's a comfort item, something I can control in this out of control situation. Yet, it won't just sit there forever, or so we hope.
We hope, one day, you will have a beautiful niece who will look amazing in frills and ruffles and owls and pink. For your niece, we'll keep these things as I'm not keeping the same things from your brothers. All I have from them is a custom made tux onsie only Joshua ever had the chance to wear for daddy and my wedding. But I have your brothers. There's the difference.
Things shouldn't matter, but these do and instead of try to find a work-around, I'm going to embrace my attachment to them this time. And I'll cry bittersweet tears of happiness when I gift your box to one of your brothers because even though you never got to wear these things, a beautiful girl I love will get to.
Forever yours,
Mommy.
There's been a debate about what to do with your things. I still have them, two years later. I even dug out some of the neutral things and the toys to use for Benjamin, but there are still so many frills and ruffles and owls and pink in a box we keep in the attic, things unique to you.
At first, I hoped we would use it for a little sister. Then I thought we might donate it to someone in need, or a women's shelter. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to make the arrangements. I kept thinking one day I would be able to do it. I'm not sure there's ever a 'ready' for something like that. They aren't just clothes, they are possibilities lost, and I'm not willing to let them go.
Randomly I ask your daddy what he thinks. Neither of us ever had an answer that satisfied us. Until this weekend.
There's no ready. I am not willing to let go of the few things I had for you. That's all there is to it.
We will not be getting rid of your box. It goes against my usual opinion of not holding on to things we don't use or need, but I do need that box. It's a comfort item, something I can control in this out of control situation. Yet, it won't just sit there forever, or so we hope.
We hope, one day, you will have a beautiful niece who will look amazing in frills and ruffles and owls and pink. For your niece, we'll keep these things as I'm not keeping the same things from your brothers. All I have from them is a custom made tux onsie only Joshua ever had the chance to wear for daddy and my wedding. But I have your brothers. There's the difference.
Things shouldn't matter, but these do and instead of try to find a work-around, I'm going to embrace my attachment to them this time. And I'll cry bittersweet tears of happiness when I gift your box to one of your brothers because even though you never got to wear these things, a beautiful girl I love will get to.
Forever yours,
Mommy.
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Rainbow baby
Dear Analin,
Rainbow babies are hard.
We thought having a baby after your loss would help us heal. He did.
We knew being pregnant would be hard. It was one of the hardest things we'd ever done.
When he was born, I couldn't think about you. When he was born, it had to be about him, because if you were part of it, I don't think I could have taken care of him as well as I did.
Having your little brother helped us heal in knowing, physically, we are sound. Not one thing went wrong with his pregnancy despite the doctor's almost desperate search. There were tests and ultrasounds and NSTs galore and our doctor admitted the changes he'd been expecting hadn't come.
Your baby brother was induced at 38 weeks and 1 day. He's pretty perfect, though he had some trouble breathing and eating at the same time at first. I didn't want to stop holding him. I barely shared him with your dad or older brothers. He was mine. My rainbow baby.
My distraction.
It is hard, terrifying, and a massive highlight of how unfair stillborn loss is when you have a live baby. He was perfect. So were you. His pregnancy was normal. So was yours.
I am so very, incredibly grateful to have brought him home. I was up and walking around the delivery room with a smile. I had no problems getting him to nurse or letting him sleep. I was showered, dressed, and chatting away like there was no after-birth pain at all. Someone mentioned how good I looked, how happy we were.
Of course we were. We got to take home a baby. Do you understand? We got to TAKE HIM HOME.
That's a very specific contrast to your birth.
He was about 3 weeks old before I consciously thought about you again. I cried for a day. I held him and rocked him and screamed within my mind because I should have had this with you. You should be toddling around demanding my attention, demanding to hold the baby. Actions from a baby who never got to come home.
Rainbow babies are hard. They are a bittersweet coming that simultaneously heals and rips open wounds that may not have been as healed as we thought in the first place.
I wouldn't trade him for the world. I just wish his waking family was a little bigger.
Always missing you,
Mommy.
Rainbow babies are hard.
We thought having a baby after your loss would help us heal. He did.
We knew being pregnant would be hard. It was one of the hardest things we'd ever done.
When he was born, I couldn't think about you. When he was born, it had to be about him, because if you were part of it, I don't think I could have taken care of him as well as I did.
Having your little brother helped us heal in knowing, physically, we are sound. Not one thing went wrong with his pregnancy despite the doctor's almost desperate search. There were tests and ultrasounds and NSTs galore and our doctor admitted the changes he'd been expecting hadn't come.
Your baby brother was induced at 38 weeks and 1 day. He's pretty perfect, though he had some trouble breathing and eating at the same time at first. I didn't want to stop holding him. I barely shared him with your dad or older brothers. He was mine. My rainbow baby.
My distraction.
It is hard, terrifying, and a massive highlight of how unfair stillborn loss is when you have a live baby. He was perfect. So were you. His pregnancy was normal. So was yours.
I am so very, incredibly grateful to have brought him home. I was up and walking around the delivery room with a smile. I had no problems getting him to nurse or letting him sleep. I was showered, dressed, and chatting away like there was no after-birth pain at all. Someone mentioned how good I looked, how happy we were.
Of course we were. We got to take home a baby. Do you understand? We got to TAKE HIM HOME.
That's a very specific contrast to your birth.
He was about 3 weeks old before I consciously thought about you again. I cried for a day. I held him and rocked him and screamed within my mind because I should have had this with you. You should be toddling around demanding my attention, demanding to hold the baby. Actions from a baby who never got to come home.
Rainbow babies are hard. They are a bittersweet coming that simultaneously heals and rips open wounds that may not have been as healed as we thought in the first place.
I wouldn't trade him for the world. I just wish his waking family was a little bigger.
Always missing you,
Mommy.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
From Joshua
Dear Analin,
I love you so much. I really want to hug you and kiss you.
Love, Joshua.
(Age 6)
I love you so much. I really want to hug you and kiss you.
Love, Joshua.
(Age 6)
Friday, September 4, 2015
Flowers
Dear Analin,
Your baby brother was born healthy and handsome on 8/14/15, but I can't talk about that here. Not yet. My emotions between your loss and his birth are too raw right now, too mixed and dizzy. So we'll save that for another day.
Today we'll talk about flowers. I'm allergic to flowers, so they rarely come into my life outside of Nature. Today was an exception because your grandma had surgery this past week and is now home, so your brothers and daddy decided she needed some flowers to help her feel better.
Of the whole family, it was decided I would go into the flower shop myself, after your daddy made sure I would survive it. ;-) So, in I went, breath held and fingers crossed.
On the plus side, there weren't that many flowers in the flower shop today because they will be closed for the holiday weekend. That also meant my selection was quick and relatively painless. The shop itself, on the other hand, was not.
I blinked a lot in that store, not to fight back the dry itchiness of allergies, but against the prick of tears.
Not being a regular visitor of these stores I forget what they are often used for. Sympathy.
There were pillows for tears, stones for memories, blankets and plush animals for comfort. All for loss.
It's not fair to be blindsided like that, in case you didn't know.
I had a few minutes to look around the store. One of the flowers in my arrangement needed to be replaced. I focused on some knitted leg warmers made in the local school colors for almost five minutes. I'm sure they expected me to buy some.
Eventually, the repaired arrangement came out. The florist said something or other about how to shape the flowers if I wanted to. I told him they were beautiful to get him to go away. I'd already paid so I could get out quickly, back out into the late summer and a heated breeze that helped dry my eyes.
I really don't like flowers.
Your grandma loved, them, though, so that's what matters. They were purple in a purple vase, her favorite colors. I bet purple would have been your favorite color, too. I just get the feeling you two would have been really close. She loves you so very much, there's no way you couldn't have been.
I love you, too. So very much it hurts. It hurts too much to tell you about your little brother, yet. But I will, I promise. I know you love him, too.
Forever, my sweet.
Mommy.
Your baby brother was born healthy and handsome on 8/14/15, but I can't talk about that here. Not yet. My emotions between your loss and his birth are too raw right now, too mixed and dizzy. So we'll save that for another day.
Today we'll talk about flowers. I'm allergic to flowers, so they rarely come into my life outside of Nature. Today was an exception because your grandma had surgery this past week and is now home, so your brothers and daddy decided she needed some flowers to help her feel better.
Of the whole family, it was decided I would go into the flower shop myself, after your daddy made sure I would survive it. ;-) So, in I went, breath held and fingers crossed.
On the plus side, there weren't that many flowers in the flower shop today because they will be closed for the holiday weekend. That also meant my selection was quick and relatively painless. The shop itself, on the other hand, was not.
I blinked a lot in that store, not to fight back the dry itchiness of allergies, but against the prick of tears.
Not being a regular visitor of these stores I forget what they are often used for. Sympathy.
There were pillows for tears, stones for memories, blankets and plush animals for comfort. All for loss.
It's not fair to be blindsided like that, in case you didn't know.
I had a few minutes to look around the store. One of the flowers in my arrangement needed to be replaced. I focused on some knitted leg warmers made in the local school colors for almost five minutes. I'm sure they expected me to buy some.
Eventually, the repaired arrangement came out. The florist said something or other about how to shape the flowers if I wanted to. I told him they were beautiful to get him to go away. I'd already paid so I could get out quickly, back out into the late summer and a heated breeze that helped dry my eyes.
I really don't like flowers.
Your grandma loved, them, though, so that's what matters. They were purple in a purple vase, her favorite colors. I bet purple would have been your favorite color, too. I just get the feeling you two would have been really close. She loves you so very much, there's no way you couldn't have been.
I love you, too. So very much it hurts. It hurts too much to tell you about your little brother, yet. But I will, I promise. I know you love him, too.
Forever, my sweet.
Mommy.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Humbled
Dear Analin,
Your big brothers love your little brother so much. They hug my belly, kiss it, talk to the baby through it. Sebastian is convinced he can only be heard through my belly button and directs all his words there. Joshua will pretend he wants a hug or kiss from me, then duck away at the last second to bestow the hug and kiss onto my belly. He presses his mouth against my skin and growls against the baby, his own favorite noise from when he was born.
The other day we were cuddling on the couch, Joshua caressed my belly and whispered, "I love you so much, baby brother."
How I didn't cry, I do not know.
All of this love, unconditional and unharnessed from the boy who hid under a blanket for 2 days after we lost you. These words from the boy who told me he didn't want a baby any more because this one wasn't a girl. The hugs and kisses from the boy who didn't want to go to any more ultrasounds unless there was a chance boy might change to girl.
Now he's picking out silly names for the baby. He's pushing me to do things faster, like set up the crib, put together the mobile, wash his clothes, get his toys ready. And I can't do a single one of those things without him there to help and supervise.
Sebastian helps and loves and supervises as well, but he doesn't remember, not like Joshua.
Here I am, worrying about all the different things. I need to switch my blood thinning shots in case I go into labor early. I won't, but it's a smaller worry. I want a specific type of bouncer because the one I had broke, but it's so expensive new and cheaper used but the ones I find being sold are too far away. I found one at a second-hand shop, one more small worry checked off.
The small worries keep my mind off the bigger one, the one that reminds me even though this baby is being induced somewhat early, he's being induced at 38 weeks and 1 day, three days after you passed in your own time.
How I wish I could be like Joshua, my six year old, first born. Broken hearted from your loss, missing the sister he'd hoped and prayed for, but so in love with this little boy on the way that none of that matters. He humbles me and I envy him because I know there's very little chance I'll be able to copy him. I'm just so happy he hasn't caught on to my own stress to let it affect him. Perhaps these little, distracting worries have helped with that, too, telling him it's these things I'm worried about, and not this new life.
Whatever it is, I'm thankful for it. I'm grateful for his reminder that love is there and can be greater than the fear if we let it be. He helps me breathe a little easier and bond a little deeper with the mover and shaker on his way as he forges his own connection between their hearts and shows Sebastian how to do the same.
My kids are awesome. I'm such a proud Mommy of all of you. You, as well, for teaching us how precious life is and to take each moment we can to learn each other, no matter how close or far we happen to be.
Thank you for being such a great big sister. I love you, beautiful Analin.
Mommy.
Your big brothers love your little brother so much. They hug my belly, kiss it, talk to the baby through it. Sebastian is convinced he can only be heard through my belly button and directs all his words there. Joshua will pretend he wants a hug or kiss from me, then duck away at the last second to bestow the hug and kiss onto my belly. He presses his mouth against my skin and growls against the baby, his own favorite noise from when he was born.
The other day we were cuddling on the couch, Joshua caressed my belly and whispered, "I love you so much, baby brother."
How I didn't cry, I do not know.
All of this love, unconditional and unharnessed from the boy who hid under a blanket for 2 days after we lost you. These words from the boy who told me he didn't want a baby any more because this one wasn't a girl. The hugs and kisses from the boy who didn't want to go to any more ultrasounds unless there was a chance boy might change to girl.
Now he's picking out silly names for the baby. He's pushing me to do things faster, like set up the crib, put together the mobile, wash his clothes, get his toys ready. And I can't do a single one of those things without him there to help and supervise.
Sebastian helps and loves and supervises as well, but he doesn't remember, not like Joshua.
Here I am, worrying about all the different things. I need to switch my blood thinning shots in case I go into labor early. I won't, but it's a smaller worry. I want a specific type of bouncer because the one I had broke, but it's so expensive new and cheaper used but the ones I find being sold are too far away. I found one at a second-hand shop, one more small worry checked off.
The small worries keep my mind off the bigger one, the one that reminds me even though this baby is being induced somewhat early, he's being induced at 38 weeks and 1 day, three days after you passed in your own time.
How I wish I could be like Joshua, my six year old, first born. Broken hearted from your loss, missing the sister he'd hoped and prayed for, but so in love with this little boy on the way that none of that matters. He humbles me and I envy him because I know there's very little chance I'll be able to copy him. I'm just so happy he hasn't caught on to my own stress to let it affect him. Perhaps these little, distracting worries have helped with that, too, telling him it's these things I'm worried about, and not this new life.
Whatever it is, I'm thankful for it. I'm grateful for his reminder that love is there and can be greater than the fear if we let it be. He helps me breathe a little easier and bond a little deeper with the mover and shaker on his way as he forges his own connection between their hearts and shows Sebastian how to do the same.
My kids are awesome. I'm such a proud Mommy of all of you. You, as well, for teaching us how precious life is and to take each moment we can to learn each other, no matter how close or far we happen to be.
Thank you for being such a great big sister. I love you, beautiful Analin.
Mommy.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Getting Ready
Dear Analin,
I don't know exactly when excitement turned into fear and sadness, but I almost cried on the way home today. I've been in bed most of the day since. And all I did was buy some things second hand.
Last night I found a post with two of our big things plus some little things for the cost of one of those big things. Within an hour, I had the meet and greet set up for today, got the cash ready and did a little dance for happy deals.
I just do not know when it happened. Even looking back, I don't know for sure. Your brothers were being challenging this morning so I was focused on keeping them on task and out of each other's hair without losing my own. I had set up the meet at a fireworks shop and thought to grab a few sky lanterns while we were there. The boys behaved. They had heart-shaped and American flag and colored lanterns and Joshua was excited for all of them.
When we walked out with our new lanterns, the other Mom was there, toddler in the car, new belly growing just like mine, ready to unload her old stuff into our car. We chatted a minute about the items, she showed me how a few pieces worked and had even thrown in a few smaller things into the deal since I was getting so much and she just wanted it gone.
Price paid, car loaded, your brothers back in the car. I rolled the windows down for the drive, a novelty for them, and they actually laughed and played for the first time that day.
A dry sob burst out half way home.
The boys stopped to ask me what was wrong. When I didn't answer, they went back to playing.
I didn't like the stuff. It was second hand, dusty, dirty, and I'd just spent a lot of money on it.
Except, I loved the stuff for the price we paid and it was in great condition after only one kiddo's use, just dusty from storage from a Mom who'd had a boy and was clearing that stuff out for her baby-girl-on-the-way.
Maybe that was the moment, when I realized what she was doing and why. Maybe the moment happened during the lanterns, or sometime before or sometime after, when money exchanged for things bought for a baby who hasn't been born yet and who I now know may never get to use those things.
Whenever the moment happened, it was about all of that and more.
I have a box of your stuff in the attic you will never use. Why the hell did I just spend so much money for this baby?
Okay, logic time. Do I expect this baby to make it? Yes. Do I expect this baby to need things? Yes. Will he care if things are new or previously loved? Not a chance. Will this stuff make my life easier? Yes. If the worst does happen, am I stuck with it? Only if I choose to be.
He's moving around now as if to tell me it's just a few more weeks.
I really, really wish that meant something that wasn't shadowed with dread.
I'm not going to stop moving forward. We have this stuff now, a baby shower scheduled a month before his due date, a list of names we may throw out at the last minute or choose from after all once he's born.
I just wish I knew what we were getting ready for. Even a when might help, but the doctors aren't committing to an early delivery. All our tests are still perfect, still showing proper progress.
So were yours.
I'm going crazy with worry and sadness. I'm breathing through it and using logic to work through it but come on. There is no preparing for this. There's just the jump and then the experience of it, survived in any way we can survive it.
31 weeks yesterday. We lost you two days before week 38. These next few months are going to be tortuous. I pray so very, very hard that in two months, none of this even matters and is lost in joy.
I'll be okay. I've always known I'd be okay, even when they told me you'd be gone. But life is something we experience, not something we skim through.
Here's to the experience.
I love you like crazy, Analin. I can't wait to send off one of those heart-shaped lanterns to you. <3
Love,
Mommy.
I don't know exactly when excitement turned into fear and sadness, but I almost cried on the way home today. I've been in bed most of the day since. And all I did was buy some things second hand.
Last night I found a post with two of our big things plus some little things for the cost of one of those big things. Within an hour, I had the meet and greet set up for today, got the cash ready and did a little dance for happy deals.
I just do not know when it happened. Even looking back, I don't know for sure. Your brothers were being challenging this morning so I was focused on keeping them on task and out of each other's hair without losing my own. I had set up the meet at a fireworks shop and thought to grab a few sky lanterns while we were there. The boys behaved. They had heart-shaped and American flag and colored lanterns and Joshua was excited for all of them.
When we walked out with our new lanterns, the other Mom was there, toddler in the car, new belly growing just like mine, ready to unload her old stuff into our car. We chatted a minute about the items, she showed me how a few pieces worked and had even thrown in a few smaller things into the deal since I was getting so much and she just wanted it gone.
Price paid, car loaded, your brothers back in the car. I rolled the windows down for the drive, a novelty for them, and they actually laughed and played for the first time that day.
A dry sob burst out half way home.
The boys stopped to ask me what was wrong. When I didn't answer, they went back to playing.
I didn't like the stuff. It was second hand, dusty, dirty, and I'd just spent a lot of money on it.
Except, I loved the stuff for the price we paid and it was in great condition after only one kiddo's use, just dusty from storage from a Mom who'd had a boy and was clearing that stuff out for her baby-girl-on-the-way.
Maybe that was the moment, when I realized what she was doing and why. Maybe the moment happened during the lanterns, or sometime before or sometime after, when money exchanged for things bought for a baby who hasn't been born yet and who I now know may never get to use those things.
Whenever the moment happened, it was about all of that and more.
I have a box of your stuff in the attic you will never use. Why the hell did I just spend so much money for this baby?
Okay, logic time. Do I expect this baby to make it? Yes. Do I expect this baby to need things? Yes. Will he care if things are new or previously loved? Not a chance. Will this stuff make my life easier? Yes. If the worst does happen, am I stuck with it? Only if I choose to be.
He's moving around now as if to tell me it's just a few more weeks.
I really, really wish that meant something that wasn't shadowed with dread.
I'm not going to stop moving forward. We have this stuff now, a baby shower scheduled a month before his due date, a list of names we may throw out at the last minute or choose from after all once he's born.
I just wish I knew what we were getting ready for. Even a when might help, but the doctors aren't committing to an early delivery. All our tests are still perfect, still showing proper progress.
So were yours.
I'm going crazy with worry and sadness. I'm breathing through it and using logic to work through it but come on. There is no preparing for this. There's just the jump and then the experience of it, survived in any way we can survive it.
31 weeks yesterday. We lost you two days before week 38. These next few months are going to be tortuous. I pray so very, very hard that in two months, none of this even matters and is lost in joy.
I'll be okay. I've always known I'd be okay, even when they told me you'd be gone. But life is something we experience, not something we skim through.
Here's to the experience.
I love you like crazy, Analin. I can't wait to send off one of those heart-shaped lanterns to you. <3
Love,
Mommy.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Your baby ....
Dear Analin,
This post should have come a week and a half ago. Yet, as these things go, there was a hiccough.
On the day we found out you are having a little brother, we also discovered we're of a higher risk for Trisomy 13/18 deficiency. Both are considered non-compatible with life because the chances for a live birth are 50%, then a 5-10% chance the baby would make it through the first year of life.
Today, we found out that not only does DNA confirm this baby is a boy, but all chromosomal markers came back normal for the Trisomy's. We are headed down the path for a healthy, live baby boy.
I haven't made that announcement yet because of the pending test results. A few people know, though, people who have known we were going in to find out and specifically asked. Even fewer people knew about this test.
It has been a rough week waiting for these results. There were thoughts of, should we pick out a name? Should we work on the baby registry? Are we only meant to have two boys? That was just on my part. I know your daddy had a hard time, too, thinking small percentages (0.5% chance) might do us in, yet again.
Today, we found out voluntarily taking that test was very worth it. Bonus, DNA confirmed what the ultrasound basically shouted. We are having our 3rd boy.
It's poetic. I like it. Our fourth baby, but our third boy who will be our third baby to bring home.
Not everyone was thrilled with the news. I wouldn't say they were upset this baby is a boy. It's easy to understand people wishing a girl for us, not only with our two boys but with your loss as well. Someone mentioned they'd hoped we'd have twins - one of each.
I'm happy with a boy. I love boys. I'm scared of girls, to be honest. I'd figure it out, of course. And there were a lot of mother/daughter things I'd been looking forward to and that I miss not being able to have with you. Especially now, knowing this pregnancy could have taken a completely different path so early on, healthy is the name of the game. Boy or girl equals love any way you cut it.
On the other hand, a house full of boys. What's a mama to do? Lol. Someone mentioned if they all get through high school and on to college, I'd be up for Sainthood. Well, I'm up for the challenge of college, at least. :)
I love you my one little girl.
Mommy.
This post should have come a week and a half ago. Yet, as these things go, there was a hiccough.
On the day we found out you are having a little brother, we also discovered we're of a higher risk for Trisomy 13/18 deficiency. Both are considered non-compatible with life because the chances for a live birth are 50%, then a 5-10% chance the baby would make it through the first year of life.
Today, we found out that not only does DNA confirm this baby is a boy, but all chromosomal markers came back normal for the Trisomy's. We are headed down the path for a healthy, live baby boy.
I haven't made that announcement yet because of the pending test results. A few people know, though, people who have known we were going in to find out and specifically asked. Even fewer people knew about this test.
It has been a rough week waiting for these results. There were thoughts of, should we pick out a name? Should we work on the baby registry? Are we only meant to have two boys? That was just on my part. I know your daddy had a hard time, too, thinking small percentages (0.5% chance) might do us in, yet again.
Today, we found out voluntarily taking that test was very worth it. Bonus, DNA confirmed what the ultrasound basically shouted. We are having our 3rd boy.
It's poetic. I like it. Our fourth baby, but our third boy who will be our third baby to bring home.
Not everyone was thrilled with the news. I wouldn't say they were upset this baby is a boy. It's easy to understand people wishing a girl for us, not only with our two boys but with your loss as well. Someone mentioned they'd hoped we'd have twins - one of each.
I'm happy with a boy. I love boys. I'm scared of girls, to be honest. I'd figure it out, of course. And there were a lot of mother/daughter things I'd been looking forward to and that I miss not being able to have with you. Especially now, knowing this pregnancy could have taken a completely different path so early on, healthy is the name of the game. Boy or girl equals love any way you cut it.
On the other hand, a house full of boys. What's a mama to do? Lol. Someone mentioned if they all get through high school and on to college, I'd be up for Sainthood. Well, I'm up for the challenge of college, at least. :)
I love you my one little girl.
Mommy.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Conditional Acceptance
Dear Analin,
It's snowing again. Mimi always says it snows on her birthday, but I hoped we could get that early March warmth and hold onto it.
Not so much. We live in the Midwest. I really should know better by now. Haha.
Last year we still had snow about this time, but lots of it. Your daddy's broken leg was healing. Your brothers got their one day of snow play because the Winter had been far too cold. I kept hoping the cold would stay just a little longer.
Last year I didn't mind the cold. In fact, I loved it. I feel a peaceful type of pleasure when the weather matches my mood.
Outside could stay cold so I could stay cold inside and keep the pain at bay, fed to me in tiny melting rivers as I could handle it.
This year, though, I'm ready for warmth. I'm ready to open the windows, let in the fresh, cleansing air and get to work, make things better and new.
To be clear. I am not over anything. Nothing is erased or forgotten about your loss. It's a little more assimilated, a little more part of every day life. Those little rivers are carving their canyons in my soul every single day. I haven't accepted your loss any more today than I had the day we found out.
I've accepted the pain. I've accepted everyday grief. I've accepted I cannot change a dang thing. Not for one heartfelt minute does that mean I've accepted you're not here. Losing you is still stupid and pointless. I still feel the undercurrent of shock.
My life is so wonderful. I could make hours of lists. A life that wonderful should not feel loss like this. The two should not coexist.
But they do. So acceptance is gradual, complicated and conditional.
Last year, I forced myself through the motions. I pushed myself as far as I could push. I left early, broke down in the middle of parties and strangers, and flat out refused to go when it was too much. I was coddled and nudged, pushed and looked down on when I couldn't quite make it to that one last party of the month. I do not regret a single decision, a single party attended or missed no matter the opinion (or even the support, to be honest) of others. There will be more of both, I'm sure.
I'm ready for the warmth to come. I really want to feel sun again, to have warm skin and a little more melting of that cold place inside me. Pain is not a friend, not something I want to feel every day. It takes engagement with life and our loved ones to help move us beyond, something I'm beginning to crave.
Too much Winter and you forget there is ever Spring, much less Summer. So bring on the season change. Bring on the family gatherings and birthday parties, baseball practice and backyard soccer games, vacations and lazy days. Bring on a healthy, happy pregnancy with a Summer baby come the end.
We'll deal with Autumn when it gets here.
Until next time, beautiful love.
Mommy.
It's snowing again. Mimi always says it snows on her birthday, but I hoped we could get that early March warmth and hold onto it.
Not so much. We live in the Midwest. I really should know better by now. Haha.
Last year we still had snow about this time, but lots of it. Your daddy's broken leg was healing. Your brothers got their one day of snow play because the Winter had been far too cold. I kept hoping the cold would stay just a little longer.
Last year I didn't mind the cold. In fact, I loved it. I feel a peaceful type of pleasure when the weather matches my mood.
Outside could stay cold so I could stay cold inside and keep the pain at bay, fed to me in tiny melting rivers as I could handle it.
This year, though, I'm ready for warmth. I'm ready to open the windows, let in the fresh, cleansing air and get to work, make things better and new.
To be clear. I am not over anything. Nothing is erased or forgotten about your loss. It's a little more assimilated, a little more part of every day life. Those little rivers are carving their canyons in my soul every single day. I haven't accepted your loss any more today than I had the day we found out.
I've accepted the pain. I've accepted everyday grief. I've accepted I cannot change a dang thing. Not for one heartfelt minute does that mean I've accepted you're not here. Losing you is still stupid and pointless. I still feel the undercurrent of shock.
My life is so wonderful. I could make hours of lists. A life that wonderful should not feel loss like this. The two should not coexist.
But they do. So acceptance is gradual, complicated and conditional.
Last year, I forced myself through the motions. I pushed myself as far as I could push. I left early, broke down in the middle of parties and strangers, and flat out refused to go when it was too much. I was coddled and nudged, pushed and looked down on when I couldn't quite make it to that one last party of the month. I do not regret a single decision, a single party attended or missed no matter the opinion (or even the support, to be honest) of others. There will be more of both, I'm sure.
I'm ready for the warmth to come. I really want to feel sun again, to have warm skin and a little more melting of that cold place inside me. Pain is not a friend, not something I want to feel every day. It takes engagement with life and our loved ones to help move us beyond, something I'm beginning to crave.
Too much Winter and you forget there is ever Spring, much less Summer. So bring on the season change. Bring on the family gatherings and birthday parties, baseball practice and backyard soccer games, vacations and lazy days. Bring on a healthy, happy pregnancy with a Summer baby come the end.
We'll deal with Autumn when it gets here.
Until next time, beautiful love.
Mommy.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Big Sister Analin
Dear Analin,
I have a very, very good reason for such a long silence. I have been sick. Super sick. Going on 16 weeks now, and still not quite through it.
(Right. Bandaid method.)
You're going to be a big sister.
Well, I guess you already are.
(See, not so bad. Okay, then.)
We don't know if it's a little brother or sister yet. We find out in April. There's absolutely no way we wouldn't. I'm terrified. Hence the bandaid method comment.
It's a little funny, a little understandable. An extended result of this fear is that new infants, particularly girls, scare me right now. It's a gut reaction and not something I really have control over, other than to breathe through it.
The reason is - in my opinion - ridiculous. I'm really scared of my reaction to the sex of this baby. I'm afraid I'll be disappointed if it's a boy. I'm afraid I'll be even more terrified it's a girl, since the only girl I've carried before didn't make it.
I may, but I doubt it. I fully expect this to be one of those fears that proves without bite when the time comes. I am thrilled to be pregnant. I hate the symptoms of pregnancy and I always have, but the end result is a miracle worth having.
This miracle will happen about 3 weeks early and with a blood-thinning shot a day that's left my stomach a ring of bruises. I assume we'll be induced around then, anyway. We had a confusing test result we won't be able to discuss with the doctor until April regarding my hormone levels and their effect on the baby's growth rate. As the option for an appointment was ours and not a requirement, we're going on faith it's not a huge deal, particularly with all the other monitoring this baby already requires. The accompanying 12 week scan was perfect and the chromosome portion of the test came back normal. That leaves us firmly and relatively safely in to the second trimester and free to share the news.
We haven't told many people so far. We told the mothers first very early on. My mom because she needed time to adjust. Daddy's mom because she needed so much to hear we were pregnant again. We told a few other inner circle people because of how sick I get in the first trimester and how much help we need. Then after this baby's 12 week ultrasound, we started telling others as we met them.
Now it's officially public. It will be interesting to see how people react.
I don't mean whether or not we're congratulated. I mean how it's handled after. So far, we either receive a ton of questions, or none. Acknowledgement of our pregnancy or ignorance of it. Either reaction is fine. I'm really not expecting one or the other, I'm just truly curious about how each person reacts in an observer kind of way. I'm a little weird like that sometimes.
I don't think this pregnancy is easy for anyone, remembering what happened with you. My 6 year old neighbor summed it up perfectly when she said to my son during a play date, "Your mommy had a baby in her belly before but it died, so hopefully this baby will make it."
Guileless. I loved it, actually. Her words made me smile in their painless honesty. Kids say the darnedest things, right?
So I may be a bit sea sick now, and a lot busy later, but I will always be thinking about you. I'll not be able to stop the comparisons, to try and figure out where you would be in the mix if you'd stayed. Of course there will be more letters. I can't wait to explore you with a younger sibling.
I miss you. More now, to be honest, with another baby growing. I'm scared for a lot of things but trust this is the way things are supposed to be, whether or not I understand it. Deep breaths. Lots of rest. We'll make it to our August due date eventually.
I love you, beautiful girl.
Mommy.
And now to hit publish ...
I have a very, very good reason for such a long silence. I have been sick. Super sick. Going on 16 weeks now, and still not quite through it.
(Right. Bandaid method.)
You're going to be a big sister.
Well, I guess you already are.
(See, not so bad. Okay, then.)
We don't know if it's a little brother or sister yet. We find out in April. There's absolutely no way we wouldn't. I'm terrified. Hence the bandaid method comment.
It's a little funny, a little understandable. An extended result of this fear is that new infants, particularly girls, scare me right now. It's a gut reaction and not something I really have control over, other than to breathe through it.
The reason is - in my opinion - ridiculous. I'm really scared of my reaction to the sex of this baby. I'm afraid I'll be disappointed if it's a boy. I'm afraid I'll be even more terrified it's a girl, since the only girl I've carried before didn't make it.
I may, but I doubt it. I fully expect this to be one of those fears that proves without bite when the time comes. I am thrilled to be pregnant. I hate the symptoms of pregnancy and I always have, but the end result is a miracle worth having.
This miracle will happen about 3 weeks early and with a blood-thinning shot a day that's left my stomach a ring of bruises. I assume we'll be induced around then, anyway. We had a confusing test result we won't be able to discuss with the doctor until April regarding my hormone levels and their effect on the baby's growth rate. As the option for an appointment was ours and not a requirement, we're going on faith it's not a huge deal, particularly with all the other monitoring this baby already requires. The accompanying 12 week scan was perfect and the chromosome portion of the test came back normal. That leaves us firmly and relatively safely in to the second trimester and free to share the news.
We haven't told many people so far. We told the mothers first very early on. My mom because she needed time to adjust. Daddy's mom because she needed so much to hear we were pregnant again. We told a few other inner circle people because of how sick I get in the first trimester and how much help we need. Then after this baby's 12 week ultrasound, we started telling others as we met them.
Now it's officially public. It will be interesting to see how people react.
I don't mean whether or not we're congratulated. I mean how it's handled after. So far, we either receive a ton of questions, or none. Acknowledgement of our pregnancy or ignorance of it. Either reaction is fine. I'm really not expecting one or the other, I'm just truly curious about how each person reacts in an observer kind of way. I'm a little weird like that sometimes.
I don't think this pregnancy is easy for anyone, remembering what happened with you. My 6 year old neighbor summed it up perfectly when she said to my son during a play date, "Your mommy had a baby in her belly before but it died, so hopefully this baby will make it."
Guileless. I loved it, actually. Her words made me smile in their painless honesty. Kids say the darnedest things, right?
So I may be a bit sea sick now, and a lot busy later, but I will always be thinking about you. I'll not be able to stop the comparisons, to try and figure out where you would be in the mix if you'd stayed. Of course there will be more letters. I can't wait to explore you with a younger sibling.
I miss you. More now, to be honest, with another baby growing. I'm scared for a lot of things but trust this is the way things are supposed to be, whether or not I understand it. Deep breaths. Lots of rest. We'll make it to our August due date eventually.
I love you, beautiful girl.
Mommy.
And now to hit publish ...
Thursday, December 25, 2014
Christmas Letter 2014
Dear Analin,
I wonder how many people have been waiting for my letter to you today. To be honest, I just thought to write it. I wish it could be filled with the hope I'd put into Xavier's letter this year, but unfortunately, something happened.
Today the man you would have known as Pawpaw passed away. He has been sick for a while but it was a strange accident that sent him to the hospital where they helped ease him on. He had a big smile and rarely spoke without a joke, even if it wasn't quite the time for it. He will be missed by many.
His death has brought me back around to this time last year when we were struggling through the season. It brought me back to a great uncle's death just this past month. And others again, over the past year or so.
I wish I could be little again, young when death did not exist outside of fairy tales and could be healed with true love's kiss. I do not look forward to a time when bodies age and people who have known me longer than I've known them find their time to move on. Even when death does happen, it's distant to us and easily absorbed.
It is so sad when someone dies on Christmas. Everyone celebrates and your heart breaks into the glitter.
Death is natural. Some people claim to be okay with it. But I don't want to forget myself and those I love. I don't want to be forgotten by those who go before and after.* Whether it's an entrance to Heaven or a reincarnation that causes the loss of memory, I love what I have now. I love life and feel blessed to have such love around me. I suppose I won't care past the forgetting. I care now. A lot.
So, death as natural as it may be, sucks. To put it plainly. Even when it's time.
I love you to pieces, Analin. You and your brothers and our family. If there is a way to remember, I swear I will do it when it's my turn.
This is not the letter I wanted to write today. I'd rather tell you how proud I am of your brothers and their love for family in the spirit of giving. In the way they played together this morning rather than rush down to find what Santa left. Yet, here we are.
I will love you forever, my sweet.
Mommy.
*This thought follows something that has really bothered me today. The Pope recently announced all of God's creatures are welcome into Heaven and we will find our beloved pets there. In response, one poster quoted verses from the Bible stating that when we pass into Heaven, we forget ourselves and all whom we've known. I can't stand the thought, if you can't tell. It breaks my heart to think about and I pray this is one of those interpretations someone along the way got wrong. <3
I wonder how many people have been waiting for my letter to you today. To be honest, I just thought to write it. I wish it could be filled with the hope I'd put into Xavier's letter this year, but unfortunately, something happened.
Today the man you would have known as Pawpaw passed away. He has been sick for a while but it was a strange accident that sent him to the hospital where they helped ease him on. He had a big smile and rarely spoke without a joke, even if it wasn't quite the time for it. He will be missed by many.
His death has brought me back around to this time last year when we were struggling through the season. It brought me back to a great uncle's death just this past month. And others again, over the past year or so.
I wish I could be little again, young when death did not exist outside of fairy tales and could be healed with true love's kiss. I do not look forward to a time when bodies age and people who have known me longer than I've known them find their time to move on. Even when death does happen, it's distant to us and easily absorbed.
It is so sad when someone dies on Christmas. Everyone celebrates and your heart breaks into the glitter.
Death is natural. Some people claim to be okay with it. But I don't want to forget myself and those I love. I don't want to be forgotten by those who go before and after.* Whether it's an entrance to Heaven or a reincarnation that causes the loss of memory, I love what I have now. I love life and feel blessed to have such love around me. I suppose I won't care past the forgetting. I care now. A lot.
So, death as natural as it may be, sucks. To put it plainly. Even when it's time.
I love you to pieces, Analin. You and your brothers and our family. If there is a way to remember, I swear I will do it when it's my turn.
This is not the letter I wanted to write today. I'd rather tell you how proud I am of your brothers and their love for family in the spirit of giving. In the way they played together this morning rather than rush down to find what Santa left. Yet, here we are.
I will love you forever, my sweet.
Mommy.
*This thought follows something that has really bothered me today. The Pope recently announced all of God's creatures are welcome into Heaven and we will find our beloved pets there. In response, one poster quoted verses from the Bible stating that when we pass into Heaven, we forget ourselves and all whom we've known. I can't stand the thought, if you can't tell. It breaks my heart to think about and I pray this is one of those interpretations someone along the way got wrong. <3
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Thanksgiving Wishes
Dear Analin,
I thought I had learned a long time ago to keep my wishes simple and attainable. Now, to me, attainable is still pretty high. For example, it was always okay to wish to marry a prince as they exist in the world, but wishing for a telepathic unicorn was probably beyond a wish's scope.
Yet, there I was last night, the clasp of your necklace hanging in front. As I moved it to the back, I wished for you.
11:11 on the clock. I wish for you.
Twinkle, twinkle little star.
I always alter my wish to the more sensible side. I wish you are happy where you are and your brothers are happy here. That they grow healthy and live long and that I get to see it.
It always starts with you.
Now here we are at Thanksgiving, the day to be thankful for those wishes that have come true, and for the possibility that more will. I am, and I do, but I miss you so much. Today a bit of that hurt is leaking out.
The funny part is, just yesterday I marveled at how well we were doing. We have our moments, but we are still living life and enjoying each stage. Joshua is doing amazing in school. Sebastian is basically potty training himself. You would be toddling around, but you aren't and that has to be okay. Sometimes it is. Sometimes, a bit of the hurt leaks out.
Just a little bit. The pain is bigger than a lifetime, after all. But we need that release, that gradual leak when it gets too big to handle. Like on birthdays and holidays and random, slap in the face, I-wish-you-were-here days.
I was slapped in the face today. I'm not sure why I'm surprised. Holidays are pinpointed moments, time where family comes together. Of course it's more obvious on these days who is missing. Yet, I was surprised. Because yesterday, I was a super woman and happy and excited for the holiday and thrilled our house is already decorated and sparkling with lights and glitter.
Today I'm just a girl with a broken heart.
One day. One day, my sweet, I'll sit down and write to you about excitement and what we would have done with your future in a bittersweet glow. Maybe. I hope so.
Today I am thankful I got to know you. I am thankful your big brothers talk about and love you. I am thankful your daddy knows when to sit beside me and when to let me sit by myself in the quiet. I am thankful for the joy of the holidays and the excitement I'm sure will return.
And I will wish. It doesn't matter that this wish is impossible. Sometimes, wishes should be out of reach so we learn to reach higher. I am thankful for that, as well.
I love you, beautiful girl.
Mommy.
I thought I had learned a long time ago to keep my wishes simple and attainable. Now, to me, attainable is still pretty high. For example, it was always okay to wish to marry a prince as they exist in the world, but wishing for a telepathic unicorn was probably beyond a wish's scope.
Yet, there I was last night, the clasp of your necklace hanging in front. As I moved it to the back, I wished for you.
11:11 on the clock. I wish for you.
Twinkle, twinkle little star.
I always alter my wish to the more sensible side. I wish you are happy where you are and your brothers are happy here. That they grow healthy and live long and that I get to see it.
It always starts with you.
Now here we are at Thanksgiving, the day to be thankful for those wishes that have come true, and for the possibility that more will. I am, and I do, but I miss you so much. Today a bit of that hurt is leaking out.
The funny part is, just yesterday I marveled at how well we were doing. We have our moments, but we are still living life and enjoying each stage. Joshua is doing amazing in school. Sebastian is basically potty training himself. You would be toddling around, but you aren't and that has to be okay. Sometimes it is. Sometimes, a bit of the hurt leaks out.
Just a little bit. The pain is bigger than a lifetime, after all. But we need that release, that gradual leak when it gets too big to handle. Like on birthdays and holidays and random, slap in the face, I-wish-you-were-here days.
I was slapped in the face today. I'm not sure why I'm surprised. Holidays are pinpointed moments, time where family comes together. Of course it's more obvious on these days who is missing. Yet, I was surprised. Because yesterday, I was a super woman and happy and excited for the holiday and thrilled our house is already decorated and sparkling with lights and glitter.
Today I'm just a girl with a broken heart.
One day. One day, my sweet, I'll sit down and write to you about excitement and what we would have done with your future in a bittersweet glow. Maybe. I hope so.
Today I am thankful I got to know you. I am thankful your big brothers talk about and love you. I am thankful your daddy knows when to sit beside me and when to let me sit by myself in the quiet. I am thankful for the joy of the holidays and the excitement I'm sure will return.
And I will wish. It doesn't matter that this wish is impossible. Sometimes, wishes should be out of reach so we learn to reach higher. I am thankful for that, as well.
I love you, beautiful girl.
Mommy.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Post-Loss Infertility
Dear Analin,
Your biggest brother wants another baby he can take care of. Sebastian is almost 3 and is getting self-sufficient and it's causing a bit of a power struggle between the two of them.
To be honest, Daddy and I have been ready to try for another baby for a few months. We are healthier than we've ever been in our lives - a gift from you. Since we lost you we've been eating better and exercising more, if not regularly.
After losing you I started reading a lot of books on female health in particular. I've learned a lot - enough that I'm upset and frustrated I didn't know this information before now. Because, as it turns out, losing you has resulted in a side effect that is relatively common to women after they lost a pregnancy.
I have post-loss infertility. There is a surprising lack of information on this type of infertility when you look at how often different support groups talk about it. Then again, it's probably not all that surprising for many reasons, such as it's women's health, it's a 'secret' affliction, there's no pill to fix it, so there's no reason to pay attention to it. In fact, the information I've been able to gather about it has been more from personal anecdotes than any medical sources.
What I found suggests post-loss infertility appears differently in different women for reasons no one really knows, though I'm sure emotional health has something to do with it. For me, my luteal phase is not long enough or strong enough. That is to say, I may release an egg, it may be fertilized, but I'm not making enough of the hormone to allow said egg to implant for long, if at all. So right now there can be no baby, no matter how hard we try or wish for one.
Before, with you and your brothers, getting pregnant was so easy. Yet another change we were not prepared for. One that fills each month with a roller coaster we never thought we would be on.
I'm working on fixing it through my diet and herbs and other supplements. We aren't to the point of seeking infertility help yet. One of the things I've learned in the last year is how to chart my cycles, and the charts tell me my luteal phase is improving. There's no way to tell how long that will take. There's no reason to go to the doctor if my body is fixing itself in it's own way.
There will be fear and worry, more than we probably expect. But boy, your daddy and I are ready to give you a little sibling, to teach them about you as they grow, to fill our family with more love than loss. To hopefully find a physical healing apart from the emotional one, another step on our grief journey.
No one will ever replace you. You are our first daughter, our third baby, the fantastic girl we barely got to meet. Maybe, one day, more letters will fill this blog - letters from big brothers and little siblings yet to come.
One can hope.
I love you so much, sweetheart.
Mommy.
Your biggest brother wants another baby he can take care of. Sebastian is almost 3 and is getting self-sufficient and it's causing a bit of a power struggle between the two of them.
To be honest, Daddy and I have been ready to try for another baby for a few months. We are healthier than we've ever been in our lives - a gift from you. Since we lost you we've been eating better and exercising more, if not regularly.
After losing you I started reading a lot of books on female health in particular. I've learned a lot - enough that I'm upset and frustrated I didn't know this information before now. Because, as it turns out, losing you has resulted in a side effect that is relatively common to women after they lost a pregnancy.
I have post-loss infertility. There is a surprising lack of information on this type of infertility when you look at how often different support groups talk about it. Then again, it's probably not all that surprising for many reasons, such as it's women's health, it's a 'secret' affliction, there's no pill to fix it, so there's no reason to pay attention to it. In fact, the information I've been able to gather about it has been more from personal anecdotes than any medical sources.
What I found suggests post-loss infertility appears differently in different women for reasons no one really knows, though I'm sure emotional health has something to do with it. For me, my luteal phase is not long enough or strong enough. That is to say, I may release an egg, it may be fertilized, but I'm not making enough of the hormone to allow said egg to implant for long, if at all. So right now there can be no baby, no matter how hard we try or wish for one.
Before, with you and your brothers, getting pregnant was so easy. Yet another change we were not prepared for. One that fills each month with a roller coaster we never thought we would be on.
I'm working on fixing it through my diet and herbs and other supplements. We aren't to the point of seeking infertility help yet. One of the things I've learned in the last year is how to chart my cycles, and the charts tell me my luteal phase is improving. There's no way to tell how long that will take. There's no reason to go to the doctor if my body is fixing itself in it's own way.
There will be fear and worry, more than we probably expect. But boy, your daddy and I are ready to give you a little sibling, to teach them about you as they grow, to fill our family with more love than loss. To hopefully find a physical healing apart from the emotional one, another step on our grief journey.
No one will ever replace you. You are our first daughter, our third baby, the fantastic girl we barely got to meet. Maybe, one day, more letters will fill this blog - letters from big brothers and little siblings yet to come.
One can hope.
I love you so much, sweetheart.
Mommy.
Friday, October 10, 2014
The Wrong Conversation
Dear Analin,
I'm being told how to feel a lot lately. Or maybe, to be more accurate, how not to feel.
Don't be mad, it's not worth it. Whomever you're mad at doesn't understand anyway. Don't waste your energy. They'll never change. It won't change, so don't be so upset about it. Don't tell anyone, you don't want to hurt their feelings, too.
And I get mad all over again.
Because you know what? My feelings are valid. Emotions are personal and sharing them with someone shows how much I trust them. It's not to be told I shouldn't feel the way I feel.
We all feel. Until we're told not to. Repress that crap. Then get emotionally and mentally crippled because of it. And then, oh my goodness, why didn't you just tell me you felt that way?
I hate it. I can't even explain how much I hate it and I want to scream - literally - at the person telling me I cannot feel that way because it isn't good for me or for someone else. Well, guess what. That's how I feel. Deal with it. And maybe I just won't share with you anymore if you can't support me in it.
Feeling is feeling. Be empathetic when you can, sympathetic when you can't. But I wish people would just let people feel.
The conversation shouldn't be about not feeling. The conversation should be about not acting on those feelings. Honestly, that's the conversation parents need to have with their children. That's how we teach your brothers. Okay, be mad, be sad, but don't hit or throw a temper tantrum or scream at me. Feel your feelings but control your actions.
I feel like I could be a heck of a lot more eloquent about this, but the fact of the matter is, I'm mad. I'm in a lot of pain and I get mad because of it. I get sad because of it. I feel helpless and out of control. Telling me not to feel how I feel, not to get upset about something out of my control, these are things I know. I know how I feel isn't necessarily logical or productive. Guess what? Knowing that doesn't stop one ounce of the feeling.
And this is why that conversation on control is so important. These letters to you help me maintain my outer control. Talking to your daddy does the same. I wish I could say the same for other people, but that's just not the case. And, if I'm to be fair, they get to feel the way they feel, too. That just means we keep that part of ourselves away from each other, or ourselves completely, depending on how bad it is.
Mine isn't bad. It just breaks my heart a little bit. I need to share how I feel now to be able to feel better later. I just wish it was understood I mean to vent, not to model my life on those feelings.
So, yeah. The beginning of year 2 without you isn't all that great. </3 I miss you so much. Your loss has changed me a lot. I was never this vocal before with my emotions. I guess I never had to be.
I love you like crazy, beautiful girl.
Mommy.
P.S. I originally wrote this with some grown up words and then edited them out. If I missed one or two, I'm sorry. <3
I'm being told how to feel a lot lately. Or maybe, to be more accurate, how not to feel.
Don't be mad, it's not worth it. Whomever you're mad at doesn't understand anyway. Don't waste your energy. They'll never change. It won't change, so don't be so upset about it. Don't tell anyone, you don't want to hurt their feelings, too.
And I get mad all over again.
Because you know what? My feelings are valid. Emotions are personal and sharing them with someone shows how much I trust them. It's not to be told I shouldn't feel the way I feel.
We all feel. Until we're told not to. Repress that crap. Then get emotionally and mentally crippled because of it. And then, oh my goodness, why didn't you just tell me you felt that way?
I hate it. I can't even explain how much I hate it and I want to scream - literally - at the person telling me I cannot feel that way because it isn't good for me or for someone else. Well, guess what. That's how I feel. Deal with it. And maybe I just won't share with you anymore if you can't support me in it.
Feeling is feeling. Be empathetic when you can, sympathetic when you can't. But I wish people would just let people feel.
The conversation shouldn't be about not feeling. The conversation should be about not acting on those feelings. Honestly, that's the conversation parents need to have with their children. That's how we teach your brothers. Okay, be mad, be sad, but don't hit or throw a temper tantrum or scream at me. Feel your feelings but control your actions.
I feel like I could be a heck of a lot more eloquent about this, but the fact of the matter is, I'm mad. I'm in a lot of pain and I get mad because of it. I get sad because of it. I feel helpless and out of control. Telling me not to feel how I feel, not to get upset about something out of my control, these are things I know. I know how I feel isn't necessarily logical or productive. Guess what? Knowing that doesn't stop one ounce of the feeling.
And this is why that conversation on control is so important. These letters to you help me maintain my outer control. Talking to your daddy does the same. I wish I could say the same for other people, but that's just not the case. And, if I'm to be fair, they get to feel the way they feel, too. That just means we keep that part of ourselves away from each other, or ourselves completely, depending on how bad it is.
Mine isn't bad. It just breaks my heart a little bit. I need to share how I feel now to be able to feel better later. I just wish it was understood I mean to vent, not to model my life on those feelings.
So, yeah. The beginning of year 2 without you isn't all that great. </3 I miss you so much. Your loss has changed me a lot. I was never this vocal before with my emotions. I guess I never had to be.
I love you like crazy, beautiful girl.
Mommy.
P.S. I originally wrote this with some grown up words and then edited them out. If I missed one or two, I'm sorry. <3
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