Never Replaced

Every time my mom would share with us she was pregnant (jeez-what a sentence that is! It was three times that I can recall!) I would send a wish out into the universe that I hoped it was a boy.  Yes, you read that correctly-it didn't matter that my sister and I were outnumbered and up to our ears in testosterone, I always hoped for a boy.  Yes, the relationships I have with the boys is different, and remarkable because of the differences-age, disposition and temperament, but that wasn't it.  I never wanted to feel replaced.  I know that sounds ridiculous when it's said out loud, but there you have it.  I never wanted to see another little girl doing all of the things that I had done before her-watching my parents relive those moments with just a small change of cast.  Which brings us face to face with all of the feels coursing through this mama's heart in month seven.  I am officially in the third trimester, and just mere weeks away from the end point of my pregnancy with Jack, thirty weeks, and I find myself sending messages up to my baby boy that all go something like this:

Sweet boy,

Please know I am not leaving you behind.  You are not being erased.

The brother that is on his way for Kennedy in no way makes up for the void that was left in her little heart when you died.  I know you hear the conversations she and I still have about you and you see the tears she still cries on the nights she is most lonely; still asking, trying to rectify it all in her mind, "But why, mama?  Why couldn't Jackie stay with us?"  And though she is so excited for Carter to come, she always includes you in the count, always gives you big brother credit too.  

And your room?  I know we never got it finished for you and I always feel guilty about that, but sometimes it was a blessing in disguise for me.  The fact that it still had Kennedy's monogram and left over things on the walls made it a little more bearable when I had to go in there after we came home without you.  I don't know if I really would ever have had the strength to cover you up that way.  You probably looked down and saw me struggling on what to do with that room; heard me crying and tell Daddy, "We can't-then he really won't have a place in this house-I can't do that do him."  And so your dad, God love him, declared it: The boys' room.  And, maybe because I was grasping at something to make it not hurt, or because deep down I like to think that you would have begged for a little sibling to call your own, you would maybe have shared that room with Carter one day regardless, and so we went with it.  Who knows, I'm sure Carter will, one day, get sick of feeling like there is not place for him to call  'just his' but for now, it sticks.  We tried to make it just a boy room-no theme-we'll just wait and see where things take us.  I hope you like it though. 

And all of those clothes that our family and friends bought for you?  The ones that hung there for over two years because I couldn't bring myself to touch them or put them away?  What becomes of those?  Strangely, it was something so many people asked about when they learned we were expecting another boy, and it would drive me wild when I'd hear it: "Will you just use all of the clothes you got from Jack?" Or "Good thing you already have all of those boy clothes!"  On one hand I get it, if he were going to be a girl we'd use all of your sister's clothes and not bat an eyelash; her hand-me-downs.  But these aren't your hand-me-downs, not really.  You didn't get the chance to wear them and grow out of them, so it's not the same.  But they were yours first-that fact is not lost on us.  And so I know you've watched as I did nothing with them, keeping your closet closed and certainly never looking through them, knowing full well how hard it would be.  And then one day not so long ago, I did.  With your dad, I poured over them and decided piece by piece which I could bear to dress your brother in and tucking away the ones I can't, like the tiny outfit we'd brought down to Philly with us, in hopes of bringing you home in it. No, not that one-that is only yours.  Going through the closest was just as excruciating as I built it up to be in my mind.  I sobbed as I touched each thing; reminded how excited we were to have you wear them-you'd already built quite an extensive wardrobe, bud.  Daddy and I made it through it though and talked through it and decided on our mindset together.  I'm trying to look at it as we are weaving you into your brother's life the best we can.  I avoid elephant clothes when I can because that's your thing-it's hard to avoid though, they're everywhere it seems.  I hope it's ok; that you don't mind him wearing them.  

So you see, Jack, we are not replacing you, sweet boy.  No, never that.  We are just finding a way to move forward and still bring you with us.  I promise I will always say I have three children.  I will always say I have one girl and two boys.  I will never leave you out of the count and you will always have a place in our home and, more importantly, in our hearts…

I have variations of this conversation often, feeling like I’m pleading for him to believe me only to realize it’s me the needs some convincing or more like reassurance sometimes.  And so, with only two months and change to go, I am filled with mixed emotions, equal parts excited and terrified. 

Having my little lady, both of us officially off for the summer, keeps my mind focused and busy and in a good place.  We are excitedly getting ready for a weeklong stay on Martha's Vineyard and the beach life, doing our best to stay cool as the belly grows and the temperature climbs.  

Ice pops and happy thoughts are what carry me through.  

Slowing Things Down

Whenever grown-ups would say things like, “It seems like it was just yesterday…” I would roll my eyes.  I couldn’t grasp the concept.  Well to steal their sentiment, it seems like it was only yesterday that I had this brand new baby girl in my arms, letting a day just fall away while I stared at her in utter amazement.  And suddenly, all in a week’s time, Sean and I found ourselves sitting in the audience of a dance recital and a preschool graduation.  And more than once I have caught myself literally wiping the tears that start streaming down my face; I can’t help but take in the fact that that same baby girl is five and finishing up all of the things that a year ago, made her seem like a real little kid, and now, make her seem too old.  How can it be that we are here already?  Her first year of dance over, two years of preschool coming to a close, and her first foray in organized sports winding down; it’s going too fast.  I feel like I’m losing her.

Now I know, this seems a tad over dramatic but hear me out.  These first, precious, five years, when we have been the center of her little world are behind us and, ahead of her, all of these new little people that over time will come to mean just as much if not more to her.  Their opinions will be the ones she will hear loud and clear, sometimes drowning out our voices in her head telling her all of the good things a mom and dad desperately try to convince their little ones of.  She will go to school in September, and that will be where most of the best things in her day will happen, and I can only hope she’ll want me to know about it all.  And, as pathetic as it sounds, I won’t be her “best friend” anymore.  I can’t be; the introduction of all of these outsiders will force me to take off the “friend” hat for good (or at least for the next thirteen-ish years) and be her mom-the one she will direct all of her frustration at, the one that will ruin a perfectly good time because I worry too much or assume too much.  Don’t get me wrong-it has to be done and so I will step into that role willingly-if for no other reason than to do my part to ensure I am not sending an a**hole out into the world, but it still makes me sad. 

And so, this week I found myself wishing time would slow down so I could do a better job of taking it all in.  Willing myself not to get frustrated at the little things: the tantrums, the willfulness.  I did my best to stop and absorb the things that may stop in the coming years: the way she touches my face or asks me how my day is, unsatisfied if I don’t offer up enough detail.   I watched this little girl who, quite literally, dances like no one is watching or can’t imagine anyone laughing at her for it or sings louder than any of the other children, not even a hint of self-consciousness and I offered up a silent prayer to whoever listens to the pleas of a mama on the edge ‘Please don’t let the world ruin her. Don’t let it take this from her.’

Whether it was heard or not, she danced her little heart out and performed the songs, complete with the sign-language I didn’t know she knew, with an unrestrained joy that made my eyes leak and my heart feel so full.

Sean is away this weekend on his golf annual with the men of my family and so, as Kennedy says every five minutes, it’s a girl’s weekend for us! I hope she’ll always be this happy to spend a weekend home with me.  We have some much needed sunshine and heat coming our way so I already know that the days will bring lots of time outside, with dirty knees and feet, but a whole lot of smiles too. 

I am doing my best to slow this time with her down; this last summer before I have to let her go and allow her to begin to build a little life outside of her family.  I will squeeze out every last drop of it that I can and that this big baby bump will allow for.

That being said it’s my last week of work for the school year and it can’t end soon enough.  So next week; I will slow it all down next week.

The Things We Hold On To

Over these last two years I have learned there are certain times as a grieving mama that will knock the wind out of me and, regardless of the passage of time, take a good while for me to rebound from.  No matter how hard I try there are days my heart just holds on to.  Mother’s Day is one of those days.  No matter how hard I try to get myself into a good place, a prepared place, it is a day that I just come apart.  This year made it extra complicated and, maybe for that reason, it was extra tough to drag myself out of the funk. 

 

Mother’s day weekend brought us to Long Island for my cousin’s little girl’s First Communion.  So, after crying my way through Kennedy’s fifth birthday, simply unable to fathom how we got this far already, we made our way down.  Communion’s are big on Long Island, little mini weddings for some people, and while my cousin didn’t go quite that far, it was a great time-especially if you are a newly five-year-old, thoroughly impressed by the big fancy dresses, and a party with a DJ, magician, candy-bar, and make your own sundae station.  It was a good break, getting to see my family laughing in a way you can only laugh with people that knew you when you were young.  It always gives me a chuckle to see their faces as they watch Kennedy and then turn to me so say- always the same thing- “I could swear I’m looking at you at that age when I see her.”  

Regardless of the fun we had, I could feel a nervous energy brewing inside of me; unable to sit anywhere too long-just trying to stay busy and keep my mind off of everything.  Wanting so badly to hold my cousin’s baby girl, yet knowing the ache in my heart it would cause.  As I rocked her to sleep and felt her warm little body, there was a different kind of aching though; the kind that reminded me that while I will be there again soon enough with our new little one, there is a still a little baby boy that I would have given my last dying breath to rock to sleep just once-and I will never be able to let go of that.  Just like that, my nerves were unleashed and I felt a tiredness settle on my heart that made itself at home for a few days.

I wanted to get back home.  I wanted to go “see” my boy at his spot.  I wanted to be with my children together.  So after a long ride back home, and unfortunately in the rain, I made my way with Kennedy, and the little boy growing beneath my heart to go visit their brother.  And it struck me as I stood there:  I am a mother in every facet of life you can be one; mother to a little girl, mother to a child that has passed before me, and a mother-to-be.  I was overcome by the emotion that all three of my babies fill me with and by the time I had Kennedy back in the car, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.  I sobbed.  I didn’t want to; I try not to have her see me in that state when I can help it-she’s old enough to remember it all now and I don’t want her to remember me this way.  But as I looked back at her and saw her little, empathetic face, she just said, “I know Mommy, you just want all your babies to be together, right?”  I tried to say yes but nothing came out, so I just nodded my head and made our way home.  

When I got home though, Kennedy wanted to give me the presents she had made for me at school so I tried to collect myself and look as excited as I could.  I’ll tell you though the second she handed me the big envelope that she had written on and decorated, and she pulled out, with pride, each of the things I could feel the tears starting up again.  She gave me the silhouette with its bejeweled frame, and the card she had written in.  But it was the last thing that did me in; “I Love My Mom Because….” I held my breath, praying when I found her name it wouldn’t say something like, “I love my mom because even though she is a mess most of the time she feeds me donuts for breakfast!”  As I read through some of the others I knew my fate was sealed; and then I came to her name.  It said: I love my mom because…she sings me a song when she tucks me into bed.  And the tears came; hard.  I thought with relief, maybe she wouldn’t remember the crying, or at least not only that; I was making it count in other places.  When I sing Bob Dylan’s Forever Young to her every night, that’s what is sticking; that's what she is holding on to.  Growing exasperated with my emotional displays she said, “Why are you crying now?”  And when I told her she said, “Ok Daddy, Mommy is having happy tears because she loves my present.”  This girl, I tell you, she soothes my broken heart in ways she might never understand.

I made it through the day but it was long and I was beat and so when Monday rolled around I was dragging.  The week was filled with visiting my friend and her new baby boy, pediatrician appointments where we were told to lay off the donuts for a bit, softball games, ninety-eight degree weather, where I got a glimpse of what this summer would feel like-which is not pretty and to top it all off an emergency OB check-up after a scare I had at work.  Everything is fine, but I realized that I am so bone tired.  Not the “your-six-months-pregnant-what-do-you-expect” kind of tired, but the kind of bone tired you get from being scared all of the time.  I just want to stop feeling like the bad news is coming; stop feeling like being told Carter is healthy, and I am healthy, and everything looks and sounds good is too-good-to-be-true.  But there you have it.  This is what a “rainbow pregnancy” looks and feels like.

And so after a lot of sleepless nights we were brought to our next family function for Sean’s cousin, graduating with her doctorate in Physical Therapy down in Pennsylvania.  And though there was a lot of uncomfortable car time during this quick down and back trip it was broken up with time with his family, a group of people that love hard and laugh hard.

Kennedy slept twelve straight hours last night and I was envious as I tossed and turned, getting just under half of that.  But when I peeked in on her one of four times I was up to go to the bathroom, and saw her little face- the peacefulness of it- I took a breath and tried to exhale some of the chaos my heart seems to hold onto so tightly, and went to sleep knowing that it is okay for things to be okay.

And if things get particularly rough, there's always fairy gardens.