Tag Archives: babyloss

Sky full of stars

Hearts break every day, but there’s something about the loss of a child that does something different… not better, not worse, just a deeper impact on the heart. There is this new connection I feel to other mothers and especially to other mothers who have lost a child. And every time I hear about babyloss, my heart feels that deeper-than-a-break stab, my throat tightens, I hurt from missing Hudson.

A few months ago, an acquaintance of mine lost her toddler in a freak accident. She has an older son who now sees his baby brother in the stars.

And of course there’s this Coldplay song.

Catchy hook, easy to remember lyrics, the perfect song to belt in my car with the windows down in the summer sun. And I can’t hear that damn thing without thinking of my friend’s baby boy, his big brother looking out the window at the nightsky and exclaiming that he can see his baby brother.

And I belt it anyway.

And I send a little love across the universe to my friend, and her family.

You know when you’re singing and you start to cry?

When I belt out “I think I see you-ooooooooooo” I think of Hudson’s beautiful little face too. I think of her as a star in the nightsky: maybe a little wistful that she didn’t get to spend this life with us, but surrounded by such beauty, contributing to the awesome sky-scape with her own unique light, eager for the day Anson looks out the window and shouts to Mommy and Daddy that he can see his big sister in the stars.

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Mother’s Day

Today is only a crappy day if I let it be.

You see, I am a mother. I’m Hudson’s mommy, now and always. She lived beautifully and brilliantly, and I mothered her beautifully and brilliantly. It all ended far too soon, but it makes me no less of a mother.

And I can focus on these beautiful, brilliant things today. I COULD focus on my loss. I COULD cry in my room, avoid people, and mourn intensely the LACK I feel today.

And don’t get me wrong. I feel an intense absence today that will NEVER be filled, because it is Hudson’s and Hudson’s alone. She should be in our home, in her mother’s arms, where she belongs. This could be the worst day ever if I let it be, because there are SO MANY things today that can be daggers to a childless mother’s soul:

Mother’s Day cards with baby feet and sloppy artwork for decoration.
Two hour waits for brunch, surrounded by families with children of all ages.
Facebook posts celebrating the life-changing relationship that is the mother-child dynamic.

But it is all about perspective, and I chose to focus on the beautiful, brilliant things:

I will never get a Mother’s Day card with Hudson’s footprints or her sloppy artwork for decoration, but I can wear her feet over my heart, I can hold the molds of her feet, and I can cherish the artwork my niece N made that celebrates Hudson. Plus, handmade cards by Momma Sue and several other cards from friends and family have meant an awful lot to me today.
I didn’t have to wait quite two hours for Mother’s Day brunch with Grandma and Grandpa Dub – which was delicious. The place we ate at wasn’t swarming with small children, and I love being surrounded by my family in any environment.
I’ve received Facebook posts and text messages throughout the day that have been extremely encouraging, honoring and recognizing the life-changing relationship that I have with my daughter.

The trick – and it is extremely difficult at times – is to not make everything about Me.

Yes, I AM a mother, and yes, today could be pretty crappy because I am without my baby, forever, this awful inescapable unchangeable world-smasher. But I also have a pretty amazing mother, myself. My husband’s mom is the best mother-in-law a girl could ask for, and she raised this incredible man for me to marry. I have lovely friends and siblings who are mothers. Why not focus on celebrating them?

Today isn’t about me. I mean, it is, a little. But I don’t want Mother’s Day to be sad, so I will choose to celebrate my beautiful, brilliant experience as a mother, and to celebrate the other beautiful, brilliant mothers in my life, and to celebrate the beautiful, brilliant daughter I was blessed to meet 10 months ago, and who I cannot wait to meet again.


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At least I’m not…(fill in the blanks)

I have, at times in my life, struggled with my weight.

I’m not talking obesity here, but a general chunkiness, the kind that sneaks up on you during the winter, or during periods of extreme “Cook-for-your-hubby-because-he-loves-cheese” happiness. The winter that Mr. Whiskers proposed to me was one of those winters, when my general chunk was disheartening. I remember going to Walmart with my sister to purchase the new Britney Spears album and Rock Band, and thinking to myself,

At least I’m not that fat guy in sweatpants.

I’m not proud of this, but it is true and I am sharing it because when our lives aren’t doing what they are supposed to, we compare to make ourselves feel better, to remind ourselves that it could be worse.

At least I’m not working at McDonalds.
At least I’m not single in this town (and I found this amazing man to marry).
At least I’m not living in a trailer.
At least I’m not blah blahbedeblah.**

**I apologize if you, the reader, are a single person living in a trailer and working at McDonalds. This life may be just fine for you, and I am not here to judge.

With the loss of our daughter, there has been one go-to “At least I’m not…” that makes me feel better.

At least I’m not a Jew in the Holocaust.

How did people living in those times not think it was “End Times” (the Apocalypse)?

I hope this isn’t coming off as insensitive. When you lose a child, you take the comforts you can find. Some days, I can only find comfort in the fact that my religion isn’t being mass persecuted and my family isn’t at risk of being shipped off to a concentration camp.

We get so caught up in ourselves, our personal plight. We forget that so many would trade places with us, if given the opportunity. We forget that our struggle is not the only struggle in the world, and what’s more, our struggle isn’t even probably the worst struggle in the world.

But we feel like it is.

And so we can wallow and moan and feel sorry for ourselves, and sometimes I give myself full permission to do so. I sit in our daughter’s nursery and take in all the outfits she’ll never wear, the Baby Bjorn she’ll never ride in, the glider I’ll never nurse her in, and I let myself just feel the injustice of this world in a deep, personal way, and I cry that yucky, animal-noises cry and blubber and moan things like, “It’s not fair,” and “I miss my baby.” However unproductive this might be, I do it, and I feel cleansed when I let this out all at once, liberated when I let the anger and life-disappointment to the surface for just a few minutes.

Doing this from time to time frees up my logical brain to focus on the ways that I have it so good, instead of on the ways that this world is so wrong. And I realize that I have so much more to do, to give, to offer, to be.

Because of Hudson, I will make a difference. Because of Hudson, I will live in the moment. Because of Hudson, I will take the opportunity, write the check, run the half-marathon, start the foundation, write the grant proposal, touch a life, give a bigger hug, leave a bigger tip.

And when I can get to this place, I get a whole new list of “At leasts…”

At least I’m not going to let this ruin my life.
At least I’m not going to let Hudson be forgotten.
At least I’m not going to take my husband or my family for granted.

At least I got those three wouldn’t-trade-’em-for-anything days with Hudson.

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