The Last Baby

For the last seven months there has been a thought swirling through my head.  I guess it would be better described as a realization than a thought; but in any case, I can’t shake it.  I’ve gone back and forth about whether it was something I’d write about or share but I figure I’ve literally shared just about everything else with you that this shouldn’t be the exception.  From the moment they placed my sweet, chubby Carter Fitzgerald in my arms I have not been able to stop thinking, “this is my last baby.” 

In all honesty I haven’t thought about it very often lately, but as we stood on the beach in North Carolina two weeks ago, visiting Sean’s dad for Easter, Carter’s first beach visit on a windy afternoon, it came rushing to the forefront of my mind; “This is my last baby.” And then suddenly it has been all I can think of.   Everything I am doing with him, everything he does for the first time, it all comes back to the same thing “This is the last first time I will see this.  This is my last baby.” 

Now, I know what you’re thinking because almost every time I’ve uttered that aloud in front of someone I hear the same response: “Oh, you never know! You may decide to have another one some day!“ But here’s the thing, and the is where I have been unsure if I should share: There will be no more babies.  Not that I give birth to.  Not that I will carry for nine months.  Sean and I made a decision about nine or ten months ago that this would be the last pregnancy.  My amazing OB talked with us in great lengths about it all and in the end I decided, for a number of reasons, that I would have my tubes removed.  You may be wondering if I grappled with the finality of it at all and I swear to God the answer is no.  I didn’t need to think about it at all-I knew deep in my bones and from the bottom of my heart that it would be my last pregnancy.  You see, I barely made it through with my sanity.  I felt like I had worked so hard to put myself back together into someone resembling the “old me” but the whole time I was pregnant, the fear built as I wondered what would it look like on the other side for me-would I end up a disaster again?  And so, I knew.  And I delivered my healthy baby without issue, heard his cries and could breathe again, and when the doctor asked one final time if I was sure, I said yes.  And I was.  I am.  But it just means that now when I think, “This is my last baby,” it’s true; I guess I just never anticipated all of the emotion that would come with this.

No baby is perfect, but this boy, he is damn close.  He’s happy, barely cries, he’s quiet, and, up until about two weeks ago, was sleeping through the night like a champ. And the way he looks at his sister, my god, could melt you to a puddle on the floor.  All of this, and so much more, makes you feel like you could have twenty more kids like him-that it would be easy, that you’d want to keep going back for more.  Don’t get me wrong- Kennedy makes my heart beat.   She kept a fire burning in me even when I felt like life was over-but I knew from the minute she started walking at eight months she would challenge me in all of the ways for a very long time to come-I could never handle another Kennedy; the world could not handle another Kennedy.  

The other day in the car I asked Sean if Carter made him feel like he wants another baby.  Now my husband is not a man that oozes with emotion so to ask him “feeling questions” can be perplexing.  He starts talking logistics: cost, where would we put another-we only have three bedrooms, etc., to which I, perhaps too emphatically, reiterated, “FEEL! I asked do you FEEL like you want another baby?” He simply said, “Yes.” I quickly responded with, “Well we can’t,” before I let any kind of regret creep into my mind because the fact is we are just both so in love by this sweet baby, our rainbow, and that’s what that whole exchange was speaking to.  Even if we were to have had any more kids they wouldn’t be like Carter; we all know there are no two kiddos alike.  But truth-be-told I'd be lying if I said I didn't from time to time worry we made a mistake.  It's enough to send me into a full blown panic but then in the next instant everything we went through with Jack and the memories of losing him come rushing forward and I am reassured that it was the right thing for me.  That, if anything over these last few years, I know myself well; I know what is best for me and I know what will keep me together and whole for my husband and babies.  This is my last baby. 

But here we have him, the last baby.  And so I find myself watching his every move so closely, committing everything I can to memory; wanting so badly to make sure I can remember it all clearly down the road, the further away we get from these moments.  I watch him play with Kennedy and think: He is everything she’s waited for. I’m so thankful and relieved we were brave enough to even try for him to begin with.  

I love every moment of him.  But there is something somewhat paralyzing in knowing that a baby is your last, like you don’t want to move forward but rather stay in these moments for as long as you possibly can.  So when I’ve found myself dwelling in this head space these last few weeks, I try to remind myself that though he may be the last baby, and we’re going through so many last Firsts, there is so much life ahead of us; so many firsts to look forward to-for both of my kids-and many more lasts too; and that it’s all ok.  Just as there is so much magic in all of the firsts, there is in the lasts too; maybe even a bit more. 

Where I'm Supposed to Be

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

I’m learning that, in life, everyone will have these moments where they realize that they are exactly where they need to be.  I think it hits us at different times; some really huge moments and then at times where, if you aren't paying close attention, you could miss it altogether.

Two weeks ago was one of those moments for me.  Sean and I, with a lot of help from our wonderful family and friends, saw Jack’s Herd, Inc. host its Second Annual Cocktail Party and Silent Auction.  The build up for this is tremendous, months of planning and phone calls, asking for donation after donation, being shocked and overwhelmed when even more donations than we expected came in; it’s really an amazing process.  But the stress- oh the stress- it builds and I found myself wishing it would just hurry up and get here, not so I could rush it away, but so that I could slow down for a minute and take in everything that has happened since last year for the organization we started to honor the sweet boy that we couldn’t keep.

Putting it all together this year was hard for a lot of reasons.  The main one is a big-eyed, chubby cheeked little man that, though is as un-fussy as they come, makes it hard to do anything else; hard to want to do anything else.   You see, he’s six months already and time is going way too fast and, of this, I am constantly aware.  I already feel like my attention is pulled in so many different directions and I struggle to feel like I am giving enough to any of it, but when it comes to him and his sister, I feel that struggle so much more intensely.  And then I feel guilty, because this is all that Jack gets of us, a party thrown in his name once a year, and so it deserves my full attention.  So what does this all mean for me?  A lot of sleepless nights, a lot of nerve-induced tears, a lot of bickering with Sean and the rest of our board members about what would be best for Jack’s Herd and the event, but it’s this overwhelming sense of love that drove it all forward.  And then it was here. 

So when every single, solitary person you know will be at the same place as you and you’ve planned an adults-only party, what’s a mom to do with her kids?  You ask a friend to drive up from Long Island to help you out!  And what, you may ask, happens when said friend comes down with a big’ole stomach bug?  You beg your baby brother to watch your kids for you.  And what do you do, when said perpetual baby, states, “sure, but I can’t change diapers so…”?  You dress the baby up in his Easter outfit and bring him to a cocktail party. 

After a day of working, and setting up and putting on a pretty awesome rental dress, we were finally on our way, nervously chatting about what we thought the night would bring and be announcing that I scrapped my planned speech and would just wing it.  Needless to say, my stomach hurt and I was regretting the Taco Bell I’d caved and ate out of stress hours earlier.

The venue was beautiful, the auction was amazing and everyone looked great.   And so we stood around and waited.  And once it started it was absolutely incredible.  The turnout was everything I’d hoped for; the smiles on every face made it all worth it.  Sean and I walked to the front of the room to speak and I looked out to tell them what their support this last year did; that they’d helped over sixty grieving families in their worst moments and when I looked up to speak those words, I knew.  I knew I was right where I was supposed to be.  That somehow, these last three years and all of the heartache and healing that went with it had brought me to what I was supposed to do.  And so I opened my heart, wider than I had before in front of everyone, and told them what it all meant for these families, what it meant for mine.  I can’t tell you exactly what I said, though a friend of mine tells me I used the term “shitty consolation prize” which reminds me public speaking is not in my future, but I know my heart felt lighter when it was over.

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

 

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

 photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

photo credit: Jessica Merrill Photography

And, my God, the support and generosity that was shown that night told me these beautiful people got it.  They understood why what we are trying to do is so important. We surpassed our fundraising goal and expectations.  I spoke with families who had been through something similar and heard about us and decided to be part of it.  I was where I was supposed to be. 

The rest of the days have been filled with thank you letters, and material orders, and attempting to get ourselves organized in our day-to-day life again.  It has been filled with family, and birthday parties for little people we love, and trying solids, and a special night out with my little girl; it has been filled with St. Patty’s Day celebrations-that look much different than they used to, and bridal showers and paint and sips.  It has been busy, and exhausting, and beautiful and it all brought me to where I found myself this morning.

I had the gym waiting for me, and a mound of dishes in the sink, and a pile of thank you notes to handwrite.  But I also had a little girl that came out into the living room after waking up asking to cuddle me, and a husband that was craving pancakes for breakfast, and a baby boy that lets me hold him close and touches my face and kisses his big sister full on the mouth that needed some loving.  And so, again, I stopped for a minute and realized that the rest of it could wait; that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Riding the Waves

I remember the weeks following Jack’s death coming across something I’d found on Pinterest about grief that, at the time, spoke to me and made a lot of sense.   It said, “Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves, ebbing and flowing.  Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it’s overwhelming.  All we can do is learn to swim.” 

It’s been a good long while since my last post.  Just about a month.  I wrote on Jack’s birthday, like I have the two previous years before, because I feel like I owe that to him but after that I just didn’t have any steam in my tank to keep it going.  The truth is I’ve just felt sad.  I let myself get bogged down in some of the sadness and rather than stopping to acknowledge it, I’ve been plowing ahead and it caught up to me.  Don’t get me wrong, there has been a lot of really amazing stuff peppered in there but I haven’t been all in on the experience part.  I’ve been distracted by my heavy heart. 

My girl is so full of life that it radiates off of her but it can be exhausting trying to mirror the excitement she’s looking for after coming home from work.  A career I used to love has shifted into job-something that pays the bills-but also uses most of my patience and so I find myself digging at the bottom of the barrel to muster some for a girl that deserves so much more than that.  God love her though, she’ll call me out and let me know when I could be doing better and forgive me when it’s the best I’ve got.  As tired as this heart has been, she jump-starts it when she asks me to climb in bed with her and sing her her song before she falls to sleep. 

And then there’s the boy.  This sweet, sweet baby boy.  My God, he makes life sweeter, with his big, gorgeous, blue eyes that dance when he gets excited and his chubby cheeks that he lets me smother with kisses.  But with every morsel of goodness comes a pang of sadness as I realize over and over again what we really lost that day his big brother died.  But I breathe him in as deeply as I can, knowing how lucky I am to have been given this little love to pour my heart into. 

Through the fog of sadness there were still some really bright spots. A Valentine’s Dance for Kennedy and Daddy, lots of snuggles, snow days, our annual visit from cousins filled with fun and firsts. 

One of those firsts was Carter’s first sickness.  A high fever meant sleepless nights for me, where a heightened sense of fear had me standing over his crib to make sure he was breathing. And as I stood watching his chest rise and fall I found myself begging God to make me stop being so afraid; to stop being afraid that this baby boy could be taken from me too.  It ended up being an ear infection that put my happy little guy out of sorts and stopped us from making our visit we’d planned to Boston to see my best friend.  He’s slowing getting back to himself and my fears are dulling around the edges.

It’s planning mode now.  Trying to get everything in order and stay upbeat preparing for Jack’s Herd’s Second Annual Cocktail Party and Silent Auction.  I try to remind myself not to be sad while doing this; that this is how we help celebrate our first boy’s legacy.  I know when the stress passes I will find my footing again, and hopefully that’s in time to enjoy a wonderful night.

You see that quote I mentioned before about waves and grief has a ring of truth to it.  Over these last three years though I’ve learned something that takes the whole ocean smile a little further.  Grief is more like a rip tide.  It can come on strong and quick and sometimes out of nowhere.  As a little kid, spending loads of time at the beach, my dad used to warn us if we ever got caught in a rip tide, not to fight against it, that it could exhaust you causing you to drown.  Instead swim parallel to the shore until you are free.  So my grief, I’ve stopped fighting against it, I swim with it and change my direction to get free of it.  It took me a few years to figure out that if I fight against this sadness it will overtake me.  I have to respect my hearts need to feel what it feels and to give it the time to call out to the little boy that took part of it with him.