Passage

It's quiet in the house right now, the sounds of my husband breathing mixed in with the cat wiping the wall near his litterbox -- strange kitty -- while I lay here churning out these thoughts and any moment now the 19-month old "baby" will signal his need for comfort not really needing the milk but that's an added bonus. For both.

We are headed to visit the girls at some point this morning, my husband's uncle in town for the first time ever to visit his brother my FIL, and my MIL is buried at the same cemetery so he wants to see her grave. Long winded description aside, we haven't been to the girls since a couple of posts ago, and no doubt the grave marker is clouded over with mineral deposits and dirt and I don't have the slightest amount of strength to resume the scrubbing.

It's not because of an overwhelming sense of grief and trepidation. It's pure, unadulterated lazy. I have most certainly shifted my passion for hard scrubbing, constant lamenting, and acute pain to raising LR, working to keep us afloat financially while husband builds the business back up, and figuring out what to make for dinner. And I am tired, getting my not-morning-person-ass out of bed at 5, sometimes 5:30 and out of the house at 6:15/6:30, home by 5 and attempting to make dinner with LR suctioned to my leg or in and out of drawers, with some room to breathe after dinner during his bath by daddy, nurse before bed (there's that comfort thing again), then an hour or so before going to bed at 9/9:30 to jump on the wheel again. Weekends? I love lolling about the house, playing with the baby, running errands, visiting my cousin and new baby, but rarely going to the cemetery.

I think of them often, not every minute as before, but definitely each time I put on this wonderful gift of a necklace with three charms engraved with my childrens' names, a gift from A. And I haven't cried in a long, long time outside of watching Glee or SYTYCD. And it's sad but it's true.

Three years and three months later, I think back. I had twins. And they died. I'm a deadbabymama, but no one would ever know. I've only told two people at work. The rest think I'm your average, stressed out Mom, but I'm not. I'll never be one.

That makes me a better mom. I don't mean eating organic or because I've breastfed this long or because I put him in his carseat. I mean the amount of love that I have for him. Tremendous. Overflowing. Incredible, drowning amounts of love, hugs, endless kisses, as if it were his last few minutes with me. I look at him as he wobbles around, and think, holy shit you're MY kid, you didn't die, you're mine to love and raise and teach. I would not be the same mom had my girls not died. From them, I learned appreciation.

And the passage of time has helped create that in me. I didn't go through that terrible loss without it having an impact. No one does. I think deadbabymamas are better moms for their sub-babies in general (don't get all freaky on me, I'm not comparing them to non-deadbabymamas), they take less for granted and cherish more, I think more than they would have without the experience.

Would I have preferred not being one? Of course.

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And there are a few people still reading this blog, which is surprising given my rare appearances. I hope I can be of any help, or provide any resources (I'm in the SF bay area, east bay), feel free to email or leave a comment. I am by no means an expert, but I've been there and I understand.




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