whoopsie doo

Almost each night
The waves start
I go into myself
I talk to my baby
I wonder if I will get to meet her,
I don't let myself believe it will be that night, then
But bit by bit, I start to hope,
I picture, I want, my heart opens,
And each night,
they fade away, farther and farther,
Like a whale song
Swimming far and deep
Far from me
Until it is silent, underwater stillness.
I wake up sad or angry
I know, I'm still early,
But this feels like being left. Alone.
I saw this ad on Facebook tonight
And think the vicious thought,
Maybe that's what I'll be left with.
A doll that pees and poops
Just like a real baby,
And you can change her diaper.
Ages 3 and up.
I'm 33.
And feel like I won't get the real thing.

Goodnight little one

Goodnight little baby, kicking and moving.
Getting ready for the big day.
We love you so much already.
We imagine holding you in our arms and giving you kisses.
I wish you a safe night and good sleep,
Store up lots of energy
And feel comforted
And know we are here with you
Through everything.
Don't be afraid, be excited!
A beautiful life is ahead of you,
The big oak tree outside full of stars,
Smokey November air,
Pumpkin bread and the voices of aunties and uncles
Grandparents and friends,
Gathered around you for this coming.
Enjoy these last days in the warm dark,
And then,
Want to be out of it,
Be ready for the next part,
Out in the open
But surrounded by love.

Oh pizza

So we go to our favorite NY Pizza Pie place, where Ralph speaks with a good Bronx accent, and the pizza is pretty damn close to the real East Coast thing, slightly adapted for Californians. Everyone loves to talk to Ralph about their piece of back East, including me.

Tonight someone asks Ralph, "I wanna order a do-it-yourself pizza" ( meaning he wants to pick the toppings). Ralph says, "oh yah? You know how to make a pizza? You wanna go back there and make it? How bout I make the pizza."

Someone else asks him, "hey, you know Pork Rollers? Like they have in New York?" Ralph says, "Do you put it on a pizza? Then no." It's awesome.

So we're in there and his wife is there too. And I'm big, my belly runs into things. She asks me if I want a beer. I love it. Tells me how she thinks it's fine to drink a little during pregnancy. I say I'll just have a sip of Ryan's, don't want to draw attention in public, we are still in California.

And then comes the usual conversation, all about the baby, and is this our first, I say no. I like leaving it at that because Otto isn't just defined as having died a week into his life. For me he is so present, he is my son, and if they need to know more, I'll tell them more about him. It's always kind of painful and awkward though. So I tell her. When she asks how old my son is.

Later she comes back, and says, "You know, your son is with the Lord." It was so strange, I had no idea what to say, it wasn't a question, it was a statement. How God loves children and takes care of them, and when I die I'll go to heaven and see him as a child.

To sit there with Ryan and try to take it gracefully was a challenge. She asks me "Do you believe this?" And I'm just thinking, why do I need to tell you what I believe? It is so vast and misty, of my heart, not something I go around defining in pizza parlors to people I just met. I know my baby is with me, I know he's in a good place, but to define heaven and God and how it all works?
This is my child, so close to my heart, and words don't need to be spoken here about the BEYOND.

She leaves and Ryan and I are both fighting back tears. Not sure exactly why. Partly because she gave me a hug, partly because we didn't know what to say. And we miss him so much. And making him an angel makes him not real.

Don't worry, we left in good spirits because the pizza is so good. And we went to gelato and got the BEST flavors - I got pumpkin and vanilla, it was the best dessert I've had for a while. Then we got coffee (for Ryan) and then a nice turn around the used book store, and it was FUN! We had a fun night. Indulgent. Strange. Good.

The moon is almost full. My belly is definitely full. And it was so nice to have fun! We're learning this. Tragedy, fun, laughing at yourself, laughing at other people, it's all part of this short/long life. We ended by taking pictures of my belly from angles that make it look huge, and Bo trying to kiss Ryan the whole time because he was on the floor. I laughed and laughed.

Moments of the moment

Just the last couple days
I've had moments of the moment
Excited about a small thing
Like planting sweet peas for the spring
Or laying down for a nap in the golden times of afternoon

Of letting myself feel the freedom
Of not having much to do
Except grow this baby,
Lie down with my hand on her,
We are separated on this side
By a quarter inch of skin and muscle.

She moves a knee against my palm,
And then gets all the love
that my body makes in chemicals
surrounding her,
The love of my heart expanding down to her.

The more I nap the more she moves,
The more I rest the more energy she gets
I rest to not get a cold,
I rest to save up my energy
For a labor rapidly approaching

and with every contraction I smile
Thinking how close I am
To holding you in my arms
And for that first look into each other's eyes.
If I survive that gloriousness
and don't explode into sparks
I will be a changed woman.

Facebook Babies

One thing about Facebook is that I see all the pictures of EVERYONE having babies. It seems like everyone. A lot of people. So many people seem to be due before me! I've waited so long for this moment.

I see them, gazing down at the newborn infant, with a deeply warm smile on their face. And it's usually their 3rd child now, they've gotten this moment before, and each time, things have gone well. The baby comes out, they get to hold it, they go home. In love.

I want that so bad.

I want it more than anything.

And it is so close, just weeks away.

But the question is still in my mind, will that be for me? Will I get to hold her and keep her? Will I get to, after the intense, loving work, hold my baby and love her? That was stolen before.

The most joyful moment is about to come.

We talk to her, sing to her, every night, we love her, we wait. These days, when she is so close, the waiting is long.

The night is a big yawning black to settle into.

We both have our rituals we need to do now before bed. Light the candle, light the sage, rub the rose oil over the heart, look at the stars, breathe, pray, love Otto, love Lima, be brave.

Morning light

After my walk with Bo this morning through sidewalks with distilled, slanting, whiteFall light, and leaves of every color on maples, and the woodiness of the oaks, and water from rain on the grass, I came home and walked into the bedroom and saw the co-sleeper we have set up, and felt peaceful about her coming.

There is her bed. With some of her clothes stacked in it. And she will be in it soon. And she is safe in my belly.

I pray for her safety. I pray to my grandmothers, and to angels, to GOD, to all the mothers who have ever been, to make my baby safe.

Fall, coming and going

A time of such beauty, the leaves on trees fiery and deep, a time of things going to sleep.

So much love and so much heartache.

I look forward to getting the baby dresser back in our home, and as soon as it's here, I want to break down. Our baby is coming so soon, and I welcome her with these preparations. And yet, once the dresser is in our room again, the mama in me who misses her son is so sad. "We picked this out for you, darling," I think. We went to the antique store, and decided it was right, we bargained for it, and then your Dad picked out the color and painted it, we put it in our room, and touched it every time we walked by. This one piece of furniture that showed our baby was coming.

My mom comes over and brings the bins of clothes that I had laid out and washed and folded and organized getting ready for Otto. I am so excited to be getting ready for a baby again, for my little girl. I can't believe I get to pull them out again, these things that hurt so much to put away. My mom helped me put them away, that impossible task, and here she is again, as we take them out.

And in order to get them out, I must pass through the hurt again. I have to remember going to the stores where we chose things for our little boy (who we didn't KNOW was a boy yet, but had a good feeling). Our first child, all the hope, all the faith and belief of those months, the decisions of what kind of diaper to get and how many, thinking of what kind of parents we wanted to be through the THINGS that we accumulated, I took it all so seriously. Finding the Moses basket, Ryan's mom making the liner for it, just for him, the gifts given, the blessings people wrote that we tucked inside the liner.

It's still so hard to believe and accept that you won't wear these things. That all our love and care was compounded into one week, one week to see you and hold you. It is hard to touch these sweet little things again, and let you go from them again.

We learn to love you from our hearts, to carry your heart, to let you carry ours. But I miss my son. I miss the boy that won't grow up with me, who I won't have laughter with, or first words or tantrums or all the beautiful and difficult things that we would go through together. The amazing person that I know you were and would become.

And your sister, your beautiful sister, is about to come into the realm of our arms. She is here with us now, sleeping between us, hearing our conversations, sleeping and waking, taking up so much of our conversation.

"How is Lima today?" your daddy asks all the time. We talk about how you're moving, how often, how I'm feeling, any contractions, emotions, we circle around you. You are coming and you are here already. I am so happy to be pregnant, so pregnant with you. I look at my belly every day with wonder at the shape and the grace of the lines of roundness. I am so grateful that we've gotten to create another little being.

And we go through these months, from September to November, a year from when Otto died, in that silent tunnel of space when he didn't exist on this earth, not yet conceived, not yet in my belly, and then a year later, gone, back to the earth, back to the heavens. The year anniversary of the saddest months of our lives, the most quiet, the most insane, the most heartful. I couldn't remember the leaves of last year, I was blind to the Fall. I thought it was a little insulting actually, I couldn't get inspiration from the way things looked or felt, it just wasn't enough, I wasn't part of it, nothing could compare to my little boy.

And somehow, a year has passed. And we see the leaves every day, we point them out and take them in, because this time, they mean that our daughter is coming. The air cools, the earth is fragrant, the birds change, we welcome all of it.

How can we hold so much? How can the Fall be the time of such excitement and such disappointment, hope and devastation, so much love? It is why I'm up at 4:30am, my mind full of strange chatter and dreams, because it is really hard to hold both.

I feel slightly crazy. So any phone calls and emails and cards are so welcome, any coffee dates or short walks, any candles lit and poems read and prayers sent off really do help. We need help. I need people now. I also need a lot of sleep and naps and quiet. And reassurance.

Thank you for reading and for the love sent.

First Rain

First rain is early this year. We had a thunderstorm late Friday night, lightening, thunder, then the rain. And today we walked out the door to run errands and that amazing smell was all around - water in the air, the first drops on warm pavement. It reminds me of the Jersey Shore, the warm rain, it smells like summer. Even though here it means fall is coming.

I like an early first rain. Quell the fires, let softness come home, light some candles, take a nap, may we get enough water for the season, may the crops get their drink, may the earth be calmed.

Living in California my whole life, rain is always a blessing, something I'm grateful for, something we can't control but hope that we get.

Little baby girl is moving well. I keep feeling a little knee or elbow passing on my left side, and it makes me so happy. I'm practicing visualizations fo the birth, how each "birthing wave" as we will call them, will bring me closer to her, I imagine holding her, it swells my heart. And then a few hours later I have a surge of missing my boy so deeply. At this point the two births are walking together, parallel paths, both full of love, such a deeply bonding experience between mama and baby.

It is a very intense time for me, these last weeks before Lima comes, walking a tightrope of trust over a big empty unknown. That is how it feels. Most of me knows she will be in my arms soon, easily, and we will wonder at her.

The early first rain is a good sign, of home, of peace, of the heavens coming down softly to meet us.

My belly is big

I need to find my camera so I can post a picture of it. I tell people I'm due in November and they always seem surprised! I sit like a man now, legs out, to leave room for the belly and baby.

I feel pretty with my big round belly. I wore a blue dress today that Catherine, my step mom, let me borrow for my pregnant time, it's cotton and flowy. I like dresses.

Oh baby Lima, we head into fall and I imagine the soups I will make and the smell of woodsmoke at night, Halloween and being as big as a pumpkin. I imagine you getting bigger and fatter in there. I imagine you deciding to come out, and an easy labor, and hearing you cry your big cry and how your daddy will cry too with a big smile on his face when he holds you for the first time. I can't imagine past that, it's all I got right now. But nothing else is as fun to imagine as that anyway.

Baby Otto, I saw a little boy your age today, my friend's boy, born about 2 weeks after you. I felt his feet and legs and arms, gauged how you would be, how you would feel, felt so much love for my pudgy one year old boy. I miss you so much.

I listened to a song on the way home, remember that song, "I'm a bitch I'm a lover I'm a child I'm a mother," and for a moment I felt like I was just right, a picture of perfection, in my dusty Subaru with a big hole in the lining where Bo chewed it up in a distressed moment, with my big belly and broken heart and new haircut, it was like a pattern of lace carefully woven, all these things in my life are me, a pattern that no one else is, I'm driving home with a latte and cookie for Ryan, on a sunny Sunday, with music playing, a baby in my belly, another baby in my heart, and so much love around.

I am in a daze of perfect blue skies with whispy clouds, warm sun, a breeze, leaves falling in droves from our backyard tree, slow mind, slow legs, sore hips, and love for Otto and Lima, and myself. and Ryan. and maybe even....life.

Heartache heartache. Like after you've swum in the ocean and got water up your nose and can feel it the rest of the day, it feels watery. Probably from crying.

Yesterday I went back to my good ol' prenatal water aerobics class, I went a couple times a week with Otto in my belly. It really helps me feel good, and I made some good friends there last time. Going back, to the same teacher, same routine, all different people, knowing I'd tell them my story at some point, it's hard. I missed my old friends, I missed being normal and I missed Otto.

I told myself, this is Lima's turn now, it's different. These are HER friends, this is her time.

But there is just heartache to go through. I got home to a card from Memorial Hospice, saying that they remembered that Otto died a year ago, and some nice things, but that triggered something and I just longed for him. I looked at his pictures and couldn't believe I would never hold him again. I don't know if this will ultimately sink in ever. And when I tap into that longing it seems endless.

I look at pictures of babies in the belly and I touch my baby through my skin, I am with her. I tell her I cry for her brother, it's not about her, I just miss our boy. But she must feel it. I fall asleep on the couch, finally, with my hands on my belly, just listening to her movements, enjoying my baby, the baby that is here now, so close to me. Ryan made dinner, took over. I know he has heartache too but he takes care of me.

These last weeks are full. Full belly, full love, full fear, depending on the moment. Part of me would like to go into cloister and not see anyone till she comes. I don't want to act normal because I don't feel normal.

To lose a child is heartache. I miss him. I long for my babies so much that I can't get to pictures of deliveries without a waterfall of longing, hope, sadness. And I'm starting to think about my own, preparing, and wondering how I will do it. I know I am strong and will do it but my heart knows the wonder of meeting a baby, and it is so ready! To wait and trust! at least it's September now! yay for September.

Pre-natal yoga

I write with little legs and arms moving like popcorn popping in my low abdomen. Little girl has a lot to say. I think she might be a dancer. Or a talker. Or a singer. Whatever she is it is wonderful.

I hold her and I hold my baby boy. I hold grief and love, I hold warmth and tears all at once. It makes no sense but it is life.

Today we went to cemeteries to find a place to bury Otto's ashes. It has been harder than I thought, even a year later, this finalizing, another step of reality of death. I don't want my baby to be ashes. I want him to be a baby. But as my dad said when I was telling him about it, it just shows us that we return to Source. Otto didn't just turn to ashes but he came from the earth too, we are always on some part of this journey, it is constantly moving and beautiful if you can see it from the right place. He wasn't born and didn't die in some senses, he always has been.

I went to my pre-natal yoga class tonight. We check in first, say our names and how many weeks we are and how we are doing. The women say things like how big they're getting, how strange it is to see the scale go up, how the crib is coming this week, and I sit there waiting my turn and thinking, "Well today I picked the plot where I will lay my baby to rest. Today I carried his ashes around in my purse. Today my husband signed more papers for a permit to bury our baby."

Part of me thought, how can I tell them about my week? How can I tell them where I am at? How different this pregancy is for me. These are their first babies, and like I was last time, they think about the stuff for the baby and the weight they're gaining. But I ended up with, how can I not tell them? This pregnancy for me, is blasted to a different universe of intense love and life and death that leaves the stuff so far behind, leaves the baby books and the parenting style choice and the concern about how I look many miles away. I have held my baby and sang him to sleep, I have birthed him and helped him die, I know that in the ancient codes of my body, mothering is there and will be blissful and wise as I bring little Lima into the world. As I bring her up. I don't doubt my ability, I know I am a good mama. I know Ryan is a good papa.

I told them that this week is the anniversary of my son's birth and death, how much I miss him, how much I put all the love for him into Lima too, how much I love her. And they didn't look away or feel awkward, they said, we're glad you came tonight and talked about it. I didn't scare them away. It is just my story. It is just my life.

I have no mind for calling people back or keeping up with music promotion or anything extra this week besides doing a couple massages and being with Ryan and Otto and Lima. And Bo.

Sweet Bo has been there every step of the way, licking off tears, offering hugs, and I am so grateful for his presence, a warm body to nap with, someone to tell them I love them who never gets tired of being pet. I think that part of his purpose in being our dog was to be here with us in this time. We rescued him and he is offering his sweet dog heart to us too, in the pain and in the great ball-throwing times. He is sensitive too, and upset when we are, and that is part of his life. But he has a good life, like we do too. Pain is part of the joy sometimes.

the week you were here, a year later

Your birthday, Otto, was sweet and tender, the week leading up to it hard. Nights up at 4am in the rocking chair, a candle by your picture, missing you so deeply, crying, writing.

The day came and it was about your coming, your sweetness.

I sit in the rocker now, so grateful that I got to rock you to sleep, and sing to you, and touch your hair and change your diaper, all those wonderful things I got to do as a mama. When we brought you home, and i got to open the closet full of things we had prepared for you, and get out the thermometer and the soft pink wash cloths, this warm rush came over me, this feeling that all was well, I got to live out the dream, I didn't want to think it was just for a couple nights, it felt like it would be mine. I thought, maybe they're wrong, maybe he'll stay. It must be what heroin feels like, this rush of love and peace and well-ness through my body, enough to make me long for it again.

I remember the night we got to room in with you at the hospital. All the cells in my body wanted this more than anything, and even if I just had one night with you, everything in me wanted it, no thought for the void ahead, I had you now, I had you in my arms. I felt like I'd have everything with those glorious words "rooming in". And it was true, I did. I didn't have to leave you all night long. I could hold you and hold you, and wish the morning would stay far away. It's good to remember that now, now that those nights are gone, how I knew their precious-ness, and planned to savor them the rest of my life.

And this week, with all the pain of your being gone, I can remember that closeness, first thing when I wake up, I can remember just how your feet felt in my hands, your warm body on my chest, the cool little bump of your nose, the unfathomable softness of your skin and hair. I remember in my body, not just pictures or stories, but I know them.

The hospital to us is such a mixture of memories, but it is mostly sacred. People would tell us we needed to get away, get a break, that it was stuffy in there, get some air, but every time we did get out it was like torture, we couldn't wait to get back to you. It was where YOU lived, it was your house, and all of it, the swinging door to your ward, washing our hands, the smell of tape and new plastic, all of it meant you and we loved it because it was you. It glowed because of you. Our baby, our brand new son, how much wonder you held for us. For parents to look on their child for the first times and wonder at how it happened at all; it is such a mystery and miracle, we could look at you constantly, hold your hands, hold your feet, talk to you, be with you. So brave in there, so brave.

your due date

Your due date was a year ago today, baby. It is an amazing thing to sit and be here in the moment a t this time of the year, when the squash plants are fading, the tomatoes ripening but the leaves getting dry, the gladiola stalks brown, the leaves starting to dry and fall from the maple in the back yard, the time when you came last year, or were coming, we were waiting.

To be here now, and remember how clean the house was, your toys out, all of us waiting, calls coming in, emails, is the baby come yet?

you are so close to our hearts, so close now, as your birthday comes, your first birthday. this love that was born when you were born, that came to fruition, will always be strong in us for you.

And as I write this, your little sister gets comfortable in my belly, moves little hands and feet, she lets me know she is there, she always says hello. After I woke up scared the other night I asked her mentally, "are you ok?"...kick. Good, thank you. a few minutes later, I ask again, "still there?"... kick. thank you. Thank you for being a little active one who always says hello.

Almost the 3rd trimester. nesting, growing, loving, dreaming, hips aching, legs stiff, glowing, people asking every question in the grocery store, reading, breathing, practicing for birth.

All these tings are here with me in this moment, my babies, waiting, hoping, crying, feeling reassured, feeling afraid, knowing there is no way to speed it up. For the first time ever, the changing of a leaf to red in August makes my heart beat faster. Fall means you are coming. usually I avoid those leaves, I pretend they are not there, I want summer to last forever, every year. And this year, I can float on these days, suspended. In love for my son who is so close, in love for this baby girl who is in my belly. I keep reminding myself this is the closest she will ever be, it is a precious time, soak it up, don't wish it past.

The tears get thicker as Otto's birthday comes close. What does this day mean? The day you came to us, it is full of so much love, we can't believe it. It carries so much loss. We don't know what it will be, we just have to wake up and be in it, all four of us, together.

10 year anniversary

So after you've been together a long time you start to look the same. We got our new shirts in today! Designed and picked out by Ryan, I love them, and it shows off Lima's little house that's getting bigger.

I can't believe it's been 10 years, how young we were when we gave our vows, how comfortable we are together now, how much we've been through this year. I'm so grateful for the daddy of Otto and Lima, for such a tender, wise heart, such a good laugher.

We head to Tahoe tomorrow for a couple days away, to be together, to see a beautiful place, to relax. In the midst of planning this tour and having so much to do, I'll have these moments of realizing that this is nothing to get worked up about. My life is safe, right now, we are healthy and we love each other, and that is ALL that matters. It is nice thinking that way. Realizing what we have.

I feel little Lima moving her arms and legs, she lets me know she is there all the time, keeps me from worrying. She likes to move down low, I feel slow swirls and squirms and then a good firm kick. We're 22 weeks tomorrow. Wow. Really getting there.

I walked through a baby store with my mom today and we looked at the girl side of the store this time. I showed her the outfits that I liked and the ones I didn't and we paused at the boy side and tried not to cry, tried not to live in the hurt too much. But I sure miss him when I see that, and on Thursdays when the garbage trucks come by and I think how much he would love that probably. I love you, Otto, you are always with us. I love you, Lima, thank you for your kicks.

19 week sonogram

The day before our sonogram felt like Christmas Eve. I'd been counting down the days for weeks, like a kid before Christmas, that wonderful excitement that I don't feel as much as an adult. We were going to get to meet our little one in a new way. Ryan and I took a walk that Sunday, the day before, and were smiling and saying, " it's tomorrow! It's happening!". And we were both trying to focus on the happiness of it more than on the possibility of bad news. We walked by the little playground that I've been looking at the past 3 years knowing our children would play there. And we've had to wait longer than expected. Without thinking I went and sat on one of the swings and went lightly back and forth.

A group of kids was playing nearby, around 8 years old. A little girl got up suddenly and said she had to go to the bathroom, but saw the swings and changed coarse. There are only 2 swings. And she sat down on the one next to me and smiled and started to swing, just looking at me. It was sweetly awkward, and I admit I was honored. But I had no idea what to say. Examples of possibilities that popped in my head, "What's your name," ...no, that felt a little creepy for a stranger in a park. Then came the idea, "So, do you come here often? " which made me laugh out loud. So I decided just to smile back and say nothing let myself swing with her. Ryan was watching with a big smile on his face.

She got a good arc coing and suddenly jumped off, with great flare, and then got back on and swung some more. "Good jump" I said, glad to have something to reference. She said thanks. "I'm not going to jump off." I said, and she looked at my belly and said " I can see why," which made me really happy that she knew I was pregnant. We swung a while longer and then I stopped and said I was going, and nice swinging with you.

I walked up to Ryan, all happy, and said, "I'm gonna be a mom again," and he said, "I was thinking the same thing." It was a small answer, I could feel it in my body, that those swings would still get to bring that joy to me, and that little girl who sat next to me and wanted to swing with me was a healer in her right, she brought reassurance. I thought, "this little baby must be a girl."

We know it is best to focus on the large percentages that all will be well, that this will go well, that she will come, that we will be incredibly happy.

But going to the doctor for results on a test for our child will not be an easy task for us for a long time. If you have never stood in an elevator, slowly going up, and felt your knees buckle beneath you as the door opens because you will have to walk down a long hallway to a small meeting room filled with 9 doctors with an answer, then it will be hard for you to understand our fear. If you haven't sat in this room with your husband and parents while everyone tried to act normal before they told you the news like they were reading a story, "Otto has severe brain damage, and will not live long, " and felt your precious son float away from you, when you were hoping the answer would be that maybe he would have some learning disabilities or some challenges, but he'd have a life, if you haven't felt the world fade away from you in a single moment, then you won't know what it feels like. If that hasn't been your experience, then it might not make sense how our hearts pound as we wait for a result.

We are learning to let this baby have a life of her own, a pregnancy all her own, a birth all her own. She has her own life to live, and it is not Otto's life, she is a new person. But driving to the hospital, my primal self took over and I found it hard to breathe. I was excited and yet I felt like my lungs were sore, and I hoped they wouldn't take my blood pressure! Long, loud breaths in the car, 10 minute drive. Once we were there, waiting, on time even, I felt much better. And they called my name, and I went in and the tech got right to business. And all of a sudden, there was our baby, looking right up at us.

Our baby is indeed a little girl. Or they're pretty sure she's a girl. Like we thought! The ultrasound was amazing, to see her hands in little fists, moving around, in front of her face, off to the side, to see her legs, stretched out and curled up, my heart was sore from so much love and longing to hold her. The technician said all the measurements look good and we just got confirmation from the head nurse that all is well. Elation. Love.

This is such good news.

The week after the sonogram was heavy - lots of crying, lots of release, of missing our boy, the reality of this new little girl coming, she's really coming. Feeling her move, feeling her not move and having a small panic till I look up "fetal movement 20 weeks" on google and see that everyone has the exact same post, and that it's normal for movement to be inconsistent now since baby is still small and won't always kick where you can feel it. Sigh of relief.

She is well and active and we're halfway there. I imagine holding her for the first time, so sweet, so warm, my baby, in my arms. Keep imagining this image. We don't have a name yet but we have the same conversation all the time, going through the list and liking different names on different days. These beautiful cool July days with roses all over sidewalks and a full moon and green tomatoes and a hummingbird on his favorite branch in our backyard tree. Our family, all four of us.

kisses

The kicks I feel from this little baby feel like kisses. They're getting more defined and I love them so much, I could just sit all day with my hand on my belly and wait for them. They make me so happy. It is nice to feel a joy that starts from the inside out.

I had a good cry tonight, missing my Otto so much and needing to look at his pictures, to really remember, to bond again. Amazing how much love is there. Love that makes the rest of the world seem silly. Like degrees and sales and other things. I am grateful for that perspective of love being really the greatest thing there is.

My little boy is with me, and my little baby is here in my belly. I just want to be a mama. I don't want to think about careers or how things will work out, I want to walk around the house singing to my baby. Sometimes I think of that me, the one that has a 10 month old boy now, I feel her in the house, talking to him, walking down the hall with a dirty diaper in hand, I long for that reality. I think, that's why I'm so disoriented, because that is the life that my heart is in, and nothing else I do right now makes up for that one.

All these realities overlapping, sometimes they are louder than others. And this reality here, at the computer typing before bed, is precious too because there is so much love. And confusion. But mostly love.

Goodnight my babies, goodnight my friends, goodnight cricket outside and the moon getting smaller, it's time to go to bed.

I feel afraid. Hearing my baby's heartbeat yesterday was beautiful, we got to hear it for a long time, nice and strong, everything looks good.

But it hit me yesterday that we have no control. We don't know what happened with precious Otto, and that is so hard for me to live with right now. I have faith and love, and also I don't want to feel foolish again about planning for a baby if it doesn't stay. I know it's not really foolish, but it feels really bad.

I need help. I need prayers. I want this baby to live.I want to give baths and and change diapers and sing and hold and sway and love. I want to have a happy Thanksgiving.

I know you are here Otto. How do I work through this? I feel sad, the sadness right after you died where we were just shocked and devastated.

But I feel the little bump on my belly and know that this baby is here now, I can love her now, I can only be grateful for what is now. And try to trust. The odds are in our favor. And we want you so much, it is worth the risk. I'll just focus on that.

In the days after you died

They came around me like kind bees. They wrapped my hard, engorged breasts in cabbages and ace bandages. They brought me sage tea. Drink this, to stop the milk. Bitter.

They came and put food in my mouth. Every two hours they brought vitamins, C and echinacia and other things to keep my immune system going, because they knew that the rest of me would be shutting down, going to sleep, stop trying. These wise, wise women. My sisters, my moms, my midwives.

They chopped fresh potatoes and parsley as a poultice to help the ache of my breasts, their swollen fight, making so much, so ready, so loving, not wanting to take this answer that you were gone. That you wouldn't be eating.

Lay on the bed, wilted parsley and cabbage, I am cooking it, it looks ready for soup.

To dry up, to flatten out, to say no to the life and force so joyfully pouring out, mama for the first time, mama from here on out, to say no to that...

I send love to that me, that me that was round and full, and so happy to be your mom, to that part of me that had to go back to sleep, and pack up your clothes and the diapers I had washed and layed out, all ready for you, and the little bath tub and dresser, and take them away. I send her love because she was glorious and beautiful. And so brave.

I look with longing at your picture. Every day. I feel love, I feel heartache. I don't know or understand what happened.

Depression is a blanket sometimes light and thin and sometimes heavy. But always always there.

Today it's heavy. But it's weird because I can still have moments of happiness, of good, of appreciation.

I don't want to get "work" done. I just want to write. I just want to play. I just want to read. Can I do this? Should I?

I see pictures of myself holding you and try to get that I was a mama, I know you will all say I am a mama, and I know that, i feel that, but I don't ever get to hold my baby. So I see when I was an on-duty mama, when you were MY baby. I miss it so much. I just want to fall apart.

What is life about? Not what I try so hard to achieve I think. I wish I could say that since you died I've become a very wise person, that everything is in perspective, that I know what life is about. That I want to live fully. I'm not there yet. I still want my music to do well, I get depressed about the tour not getting booked the way I want it to, that the album isn't perfect, that I'm not getting somewhere with it, all ego, all an excuse for not being content with life, with myself.

I like to think that if you were here my heart would have more of an anchor of love, that you would be the center, that music would have more love and less frustration. It did for a while, after you died, I could play and feel the center of the notes, every one affected me so, and now I'm a stress case. I feel like there isn't time to just play.

The moment the doctors told us that you had suffered major brain damage and a wash of whiteness came over me, an absence, a swoosh of air, a big, deep breath, I thought, no more Petracovich. There was no room for that. I thought, I knew, the most precious thing was to be lost in a few days, that the strain for accomplishing would die.

And it did for a while, and now I have an album to release to the world and I'm tying myself in knots over it.

I need your advice, your knowing, my baby. What would you tell me about this?

You say:
That you think I'm wonderful, the most wonderful. That you know my heart and it's beautiful. That I'm already there. That I am allowed to have joy.

And I think you are wise, my baby. I want to be a good mama for this little one. I want her to think that life is good, not just sad, not just angry. I'm angry all the time. I want to be a good mama for her. There is love too. There is tenderness. Today I sent blessings to all of her little parts, her heart, lungs, stomach, pancreas, eyes, brain, legs, hands, it is lovely to send love.

Monica

My friend Monica died today. I didn't know how serious her condition was.

She was my childhood friend, we went to church together and junior high and high school. She was always smiling. She taught me how to set the volleyball, and she was really good at it, smooth as can be.

I remember kids in junior high being mean to her. I know their names, they're on facebook. I want to write them now and chew them out. I don't care if you were 12, you were mean, and she never gave it back to you. She was kind, she was happy. She was probably happier than they were. I'm mad at them today. I'm mad that they get to be parents when she doesn't.

I 'm crying that she had to leave her babies. She wrote me last year after Otto that she had lost a little girl, and when I asked her what happened, she said it was because of cancer. And being in the state I was, I didn't look into further, just looked at the picture of she and her husband and little boy and thought she looked so happy. She lost her little girl, and now she had to leave her family.

Already having a day of "what does it all mean?", this pushes it further. Her little boy's name is Kai. I have another friend who's little boy died when he was 10, and his name was Cai also. I know someone who feels the pain of never meeting her mother, who gave her up for adoption, and now in her 40's she feels this so deeply. And she feels my pain, the pain of losing my son, my little one.

I feel like we are just here, breathing, and that's all I know. All I know is to breathe and feel the earth, and I feel something of love in that, something of God, but are we here just to be? Like the grass? Like the trees? And then to die? Am I making it so much more complicated than that? It is so hard to leave love. And I know, love never dies, love always is, but the act of giving love is not the same, the act of receiving, is not as easy.

My friend, I send you love, I send you peace, you are so brave. I send love to your son, to your husband who is being so brave right now. I send him so many angels to hold him up.

And I wish you joy in the moments when you finally get to hold your baby girl, and be with her as spirits together, in pure love. I love you.

Flowers

There is a plant outside that I put in the ground last year, and I waited a little too long to plant it and it kind of shriveled, and didn't do too well through the summer and then REALLy didn't look good with all the frost this winter. It died. It looked thoroughly dead.

It was a clematis, a pretty climbing vine, and I was bummed because it was twenty bucks and I wanted to see it bloom on the trellis.

And this spring, without us even noticing, it was green and climbing up the pole, it had come back, regenerated.

So nice to get a surprise, a good surprise. Its broad pink flowers are all over the place now. Sometimes things grow better when you don't obsess over them.

There are second chances and there is new life. And you never know where it will pop up, and you can't predict it, or expect it really.

That plant is full of good future stories for us.

And so, now, after 12 weeks, I can finally include our little Lima Bean in this blog. It's been hard to not write about her ( I call her her because I need a personal name, not it, and who knows?) so I just haven't written much.

We have a new baby growing, due around Thanksgiving. I feel Otto and I feel her, I take walks with two invisible children. They are always with me. I weep for the loss of Otto, I celebrate little fingers and toes growing, I talk to them both. I walk the fine balance of life.

Hello Baby

Thank you for being so close. 

Thank you for the sweet sounds you made with your mouth when I was holding you for the first time, little suckling sounds.

Thank you for nuzzling into me when I held you.

All of these things stay with me, and I will always have them.

Sometimes my life seems so long when I think of how much time there is left without you.  So long for you to not be here as my son, my baby, a grown man. 

I heard an interview with John Mellencamp today and he said when he was born he had a disease or problem that usually killed the babies who had it, and they operated on him, at the neck, which usually caused paralyzation from the incision down.  But somehow, he was fine, had a normal childhood and life.

And I listened to him singing and wondered what you would have been like in your life, what you would have done with it if you had the chance. Would you be a songwriter? Would you write poetry? This baby almost died, but didn't and grew up to sing for people. I wish I could know what you would have been like.

And I am still here. And my life is still here, and I should cherish it.

Hello my darling boy.  Thank you for being close to me.  With the new life of spring, I find myself missing you so much, even as I feel all the hope of blossoms and little green leaves all around us.  

Last night when I was crying, you reminded me that I can hold you now too. So I closed my eyes and put my hands on my heart and belly, and imagined you there.  Your spirit is here, and I can hold you any time. Thank you for reminding me.

Last night Bo cut his foot and had to get stitches.  It was very hard to go to the vet - where they tell  us what they'll do to our little dog, needles and how much time we need to leave him there, and I always sob when I leave because it puts us right back in the hospital with you.  I look at other people looking distraught in the vet's office and I think, "well, I lost my BABY!" that's different than a dog. 

Still, I was so glad to get him back and we let him sleep in bed with us because he was so disoriented, and because I needed to cuddle with him.  He's warm.

Yesterday you turned 7 months old. You'd be sitting up now and smiling and giving so much love.  It's hard to know that, and it's beautiful too in some way. Happy 7 months birthday my darling boy. I miss you so much.

Mama

Safe Place

One of the safest memories I have is sleeping outside with my Dad and sisters.  We're in heavy black cotton sleeping bags with pictures of deer with antlers on the inside, a red background. We're under the stars, we can hear the night, the trees creaking, animals walking in the woods, frogs, crickets, we can hear the creek.  The sky seems to breathe on me like a mother watching over, and I know my dad is there to protect us. I have no fear of the night.  I feel like I am cradled and warm, laying on GOD.

I don't like the sound of a room. There's a high pitch to it that I remember as a toddler, even before computers were always on and before cell phone signals, something about containing a space in walls? It's a dead sound.

There is a part of me that always misses hearing the outside, that is frightened by such unnatural silence plus refrigerator hum.  Open a window, and I feel much better.

I talked to you, Otto under a big oak tree this morning.  I was hitting the ball for Bo because he was distraught from being left outside as we went to our BNI meeting at 7am! Two hours outside by himself, this was a major deal to get through. So we ran it out. (something people should do as well after stressful situations).  

And this massive oak, with a big roundish trunk and branches swirling in a big globe around it, was listening to me.  And he heard me. (I think this one is male).  And I started to sob to feel that the earth was so tender and loving, my grief for your welled up and I felt it hard. 

To think that the same forces that make that tree wind its roots through the earth and creates the graceful pattern of its branches toward the sky, are the same forces that create our lives, the paths, the openings and closings.  Your branch was short, and it will have no branches off of it that keep going.  Who knows why. But it feels easier to know that there are forces that bind us all together, that have some sense, some beauty, we are all subject to them, every cell in our body. 

I just miss you so much. And I love you so much. I know you are there but it's harder to feel when I have the pain. I'll have to see you in the little dandelions blooming all over the grass.

This morning we got up at 6 which is really 5, and went to a networking meeting. We saw the moonset over the north western hills, big and orange. I've never seen a big moonset like that in the early morning. It was beautiful and eery. Like a sign.  Of beginnings and endings being so close together, the moonset and sunrise within minutes of each other.

happy full moon.

I'm not crying much these last few days. I feel a little strange about that. To let love for you shift from so much pain to a lighter one, a smile, then anger and disappointment, and love for your baby hands and holding you. It all comes around and around, all the cycles. I am glad for sunny days when they come.

I look at pictures of myself holding you so I can see me being a mom. Being your mom. It just seems so good, too good to be true, an ancient universe that once was that is a story now.  I know it wasn't that long ago, but it just is soo good was sooo  hard afterwards for so long, that it's all out of dimension.

But my heart is a mama's heart, even though most people can't see you. And they don't know. It doesn't matter.

I sang your hummingbird song at the show, and cried, and everyone cried with me.  They all heard about you and longed for you. I missed you as I went up to play, remembered that tear I cried as I finished the last note of the last show before I took a break for the 3rd trimester, not knowing when I'd come back. That tear seems so silly now. You are so much better than a stage. But I still love singing, I still love the smell of a bar. Isn't that funny? Stale beer on the floor and the old walls hinting of past cigarettes. It's the smell of my songs. 

Well, Otto, I know you have a sense of humor, that you are with me on sad days and happy days, I miss you so much. 

I love you.

Mom

I am quiet. I haven't had as much to say lately. But you are always with me. Looked at pictures of you all weekend with Julianne. We cried for you and kissed your photos. We wondered why and sent love.

I am right here. Not knowing if I should hope or just not think. I am here, on this March Monday, the night has come, the winds are strong outside and it's cold. Its' rained a lot. You knew only summer and heat while you were here. You didn't know winter.

I know there are joyful times ahead. I accept my sadness. I don't feel like hoping right now. I want to sit and write small thoughts and meditate in front of candles and accept this cold winter wind. There are a few flowers, there are bulbs of gladiolas and dahlias to plant that your dad helped me pick out from the nursery this weekend.

That gives me hope. That we stood in front of the stand of bulbs and pointed to our favorite colors, and took them home for planting.

9 months of loving you while you grew in my belly. Of wonder and wondering and quiet dreaming. Of sitting on the patio and meditating with hands over big round belly where you lived and moved and we talked to each other. Watching the garden and the birds. 26 hours of breathing and mental balancing, of deep muscle pain and no escape, of focus and knowing that it would end in happiness and holding you and rest. Hard hard work, sweat, exhaustion. and then the moment came, you emerged, you made your descent. And we lost you.

Instead of my baby they gave me this basket full of metal objects to carry around everywhere I go. It is very heavy. I drag it behind me. When I wait in line at the post office, when I go to work, when I go to bed. When I get up. Especially when I get up. Rusty, random loveless things instead of you, instead of my soft, beautiful child.

Love Poem

Love Poem

by Donald Hall


When you fall in love,
you jockey your horse
into the flaming barn.
You hire a cabin
on the shiny Titanic.
You tease the black bear.
Reading the Monitor,
you scan the obituaries
looking for your name.

_____________________________________

It is all a glorious risk. I know it's all worth it. Love love love.
Jess

Valentines

Hello darling.

There are so many things I have wanted to say this week. I go back and forth between hope and joy and fear and despair. Sometimes I want to sell everything and live on a yurt. I keep telling people about this yurt and how good it sounds. It's hard to get my mind straight. It's hard to get it quiet. What am I about? I want to get beyond the news and the fear. Every time I'm with people I love and we laugh I remember the point of being human, which is of coarse, to tell jokes. To laugh at things that happen in life, to find humor. There is usually humor around, even in the most dire of situations. My family seems particularly good at finding this, to the point of sacreligion. Yes, I'll coin that, it has a red line under it as I type saying it's not really a word but who cares. I know you are with me, I know you love us, you are just sooo missed. Going to the Y has gotten hard, so many mommies with little babies, so many of them my friends, old high school friends. I have to decide, will I give it a break for a while to just heal up the old heart or just tell myself to deal with it so I can go swimming, not be so surprised every time.

I love your dad. It's valentine's day and I'm trying to be up but I'm just sad. I love him and I'm sad. I am so grateful for him, for our almost 10 years of marriage, for our friendship, for our sharing of you, the knowing together of this love and heartache, and learning to love and be sad. To be sad and make jokes. To be sad with moments of long and deep laughs. Life, I'm here, I might as well see what you've got.

I love you my child.

And just a note to all those we love, and all interested, I just want to share that it's hard to hear the phrase "try again." It's not because we don't want more children or don't want to talk about them, but because Otto was not a try. He is who he is. He is my firstborn, my oldest child, and though I understand that there aren't really other words to use that easily come to mind when asking this question, I'm sure that there are creative ways to ask it without the word "try". We have a son. He isn't here, but he is real and always. And there will be more. My friend Maria asked me the other day in spanish if we were applying. I asked, for what, insurance? And she laughed, and said, no, a baby! I loved it. "Is that really how you say it in spanish?" I asked? And she laughed and said yes. I love the idea of applying for a baby. You just turn in the application to the angels and see what happens.

Happy day of love to everyone. We have each other today. It's a good celebration.

Bitter Blog

 I have something to say about my eyes being opened. I get why people end up drugged out and on welfare and feeling hopeless in life. Did you think it was because they were lazy and just didn't have any dreams?

 Our insurance paid 10 times less than we would have had to pay if we had no insurance. So the people who can't afford it end up in major major major debt.  Debt that takes everything from you. Doesn't matter that our baby died, we would have been liable for $200,000 if we didn't have insurance at that moment.

I take time off work to heal my body, to heal my heart, but the bills keep coming, the expectations don't shift at all for the soft body and heart that is me. That is everyone at some point or another in life. But if you don't have family to support you, to gather round you and help ward off all the craziness, you can get smashed.

It's easy to see how anyone could end up in a desperate situation and just spiral down. There is so little care and protection for people who need time to grieve, recover, feel, get it together. We like to think that we get ahead by being "good". Good people don't commit crimes, don't do drugs, don't act irresponsibly. And with losing our baby, it's so easy for me to see how you can feel crushed by this huge machine of systems that doesn't care if you're there and needing some time to exist in and get used to the alternate reality that is now your life. Instead you get run over by the big riding lawnmower like a little gopher in the grass.

I'm about to write a letter to the credit bureau explaining why a bill was late being paid that a collection company called us for, one of dozens that came separately for all the different shots, x rays, and services Otto was given, because we were trying to figure out which insurance was paying it, if it was billed correctly, all the while having not enough desire to even eat much less pay attention to all this. In this society, it just feels like you get punished for things not going your way. and it's easy to ignore till it happens to you.

That is the only reason I care, I'm guilty of it, because it did happen to me. I now am aware that the little ways I can help someone when they're struggling don't make me a great person, it makes me part of a community, a village. It's part of my job as a human to be there for my fellow humans when they're feeling crushed. I think that must be part of why everything seems to be falling apart right now with our market, our country. Too long fending for ourselves, not looking around at the results. It's a nicer way to live, helping out. It feels better.

This is a rant, a feeling, just like all the others with a hint of anger and disgust. Money is good, it's constructive. Greed and compassion-lessness is gonna rip us up. I can't wait to be done with insurance and bills and credit bureaus, but it's likely to last a couple years. lame.

Rain

It rains outside. Rain that we need.  The air is clean. One daffodil bloomed, bright deep gold against the dark earth and the gray sky.  I think of you all day.  In some ways you seem more real, and I feel more deeply what I have lost. It seems like I should be able to pick you up and kiss you today, like I should hold you and have you so close.  I miss being a mama with her baby. It really hurts. But I have to accept it too, that you are not here, not in body. You are here in some other way, and I imagine you as pure energy, around me, as an angel, as an invisible baby, and I don't know what you are now.  I'm letting myself believe in the times that we will have more babies, and it will be so normal to smell them and kiss them and clean up for them and cook dinner.  In the gym last night a mom with two kids was leaving the locker room as I was going in, having a casual conversation with a stranger she said, "yah, it's a lot of work but it's worth it."  So casual, like it was nothing, just life to have these beautiful children to put yourself into. And I remember the times when I was afraid of the commitment, of the work, of losing myself in children, and now I think, that is such a gift, that work, that time, that sleeplessness, that love.  There is nothing like it.  As I try to recover from the searing burn of letting go of you that last time, from my arms, there is nothing I can think of that would be just as good. So I'll remember my good dream from last night, two children in strollers, one seemed like you, with warm, fat feet, and I touched them and was filled with joy and family.

What it all means

Of coarse, losing someone I love so much makes me ask the endless question, what does life mean? What is the point of coming here and loving when we will all die? Everything will die? I wonder if I will ever come to terms with this, if I will see the beauty in it like the masters who accept the leaves falling from the tree and going back to the soil as a metaphor for their lives as well.  

So beautiful to have been the dark, warm space for you to grow, one cell at a time, to make a heart that started beating and blood running in beautiful, branching arteries and veins all through you, the bones of your fingers, your toes, your legs, your eyes, all coming to be, all perfect, and then to have it all stop. And die. After all that mysterious creation, you go back to the earth, you become ash.

These words from a Blackfoot Indian Chief, Isapwo Mukisika Crowfoot, eases my heart and my thoughts.  He whispered this as he lay dying, 

What is life?

It is the flash of a firefly in the night,

It is the breath of a buffalo in the winter time,

It is the little shadow that runs across the grass

And loses itself in the sunset.

And so you are my love, and so am I.

the days you were here

The days you were here at home with us are a warm and golden blur.  Yes, I knew what was ahead, but you filled me with joy. With a happiness I hadn't known before. I knew it was only a matter of hours, so I decided to let them be golden, so  could remember them that way.  Everyone said I was doing so well, and that was because I was filled by you, by the existence of you, our son. By the love we had flowing between the three of us, our partnership so strong.  I know now that it won't end, that it is as normal as the blood in my veins.  But also, I mourn.  I grieve and it is work. I feel lonely for you.  I feel like my best friend has died. 

But the time you were here, your sweet 9 pounds, your golden heart, the sounds of your breath, was beautiful. Thank you for being here for that time, for not checking out right after you were born, for the week you stayed.  thank you for letting us feel your warm, softest skin, the silkiness of your hair, the scent of you.  

I always ask for your help. Funny to ask your own little baby for help, but you are in that position now I think.  Help me trust that more babies will come.  That we will be parents for healthy children.  Get them ready for us, take care of them, big brother.  I feel your love for them too.  Guardian. Sweet little boy. Help me be strong enough to keep going. We love you.

I walked

I walked with Tessa yesterday in the woods and hills of Point Reyes.  The dark underneath of the world.  The sour, wet earth, a running creek, trunks with caverns in them, great mothers.  It comforts me, to know there is a great mother who holds the dark places, the wombs, who knows the darkness that I walk, the path of loss, of wanting to go down down. Not that I want to die, no.  But I want to be in the dark. The trees held that for me.  Gnarled and old and crouching by the water, sprawled out toward the places of light, winding to get a piece of the sun. I felt just like them. They are covered in moss, and when their turn comes for the sun to hit them, they glow, all around, the moss radiates the light. Tessa said, "mind, remember this."  A glowing tree. 

Since I grew up in the woods I know about shadow and light.  I know that it is mostly shadow, and that the light wavers.  But you notice it more, it has a shape and a heart, you move toward it, you feel it on you.  It encases things, it loves them.  I need both. I need the mother who understands the dark, who isn't afraid of it, who knows that it is a part of us, a part of the earth, not to shy away from it, be big enough to take it in, to be it.  This is a part of what we have lost in putting women into a smaller place, this big mama holding of the shadow. Women hold this in their hearts. To be the place where your child grows, to talk to your baby, sing to him, eat for him, and know him, to give birth to him, to then let him go, back into the arms of the earth, the arms of GOD, this takes a heart with a dark forest and a little creek and a floor where things die and rot and then become fertile again, fertile for another life. I am proud of this dark place. 

I am grateful for the father sun also, to shine on my skin and make me look up. We walked into the meadow, into the sun, the trees where on a hill, to the west.  Their branches moved up and down, just a little. They said, "that is the mother of Otto. She brought him here." And they knew you.  They knew who you were and that you came. I love you baby. I am glad you came here, to me, to my belly, to my heart. It is hard to keep taking steps but I am getting braver. And I will keep visiting that place with the trees with the caverns in them, with their openings into the black, because they know what this is.

I love this picture of us. I need to look at pictures a lot. To feel your weight and know that you are our baby, we are your parents. We miss you so much. Days are very long. A search for what it is all about. It is hurtful to have you gone. I was really angry today. To unravel these feelings seems impossible. But slowly I unraveled. I hugged my friends. I told your dad I was sorry for exploding so much. People want to hang out and I just don't think they know how much hurt is in me. It can be really lonely.

I hold the blanket you are wrapped in here at night. I hold it close to my chest and belly like it's you. I smell it. You are my precious one and you are gone. And I don't understand. Why the world goes on. Why other people get pregnant with their babies and have their families and their joy and I watch them go on, without me. With their joy.I tell you every day that I miss you. I write it down. I will write it down and say it to you for a long time. And it will always be true. I love you and I miss you, my sweet son. i send you a kiss to heaven.

Hello my baby. Today is warm, strangely warm for January.  In the 80's here. Like a summer day.  The plants are all confused because they were just freezing and now they're dry.  And the full moon has come and gone again.  I like looking at our pictures together, me holding you.  

Our little friend Chester died yesterday afternoon, our sweet little yellow bird we've had for 5 years. It brings up all the pain of losing you, losing another part of our family.  We brought him to the vet to see what was wrong, he was puffy, and we knew he had some organ problems, and they wanted to keep him for tests. I didn't want to leave  him, but I was so upset by being at a medical place again, having to make decisions again, I just left him and went to the car and cried and cried. He died at the vet.  I was so mad at myself, that I didn't have the clarity to just bring him home, to let him be at home to die.  I didn't know he was that sick, but I had a feeling.  

I am so glad, my baby, that we took you home. This makes it all so clear. You were home in the quiet with just the whirr of the fan overhead, no beeps, no loud, laughing conversations of doctors and nurses who seem so clued out to our last hours with our son, no machines to watch, no needles in you, just you. Just a baby, just our little boy, where you were conceived, where you grew, in the same bed, in our arms.  I am so glad that we had you to ourselves, to ease to the other side. We were such a team, I wish there were a more graceful word for it, but we all three worked together, our souls enmeshed, as you let go, bit by bit, as you shut down, bit by bit, we were with you, over you, guiding you. Never alone, covered in love.

I hope Chester had some comfort as he died, I hope he felt our hearts with him.  I think part of his dying there was to show us that we did the right thing with you. So Chester, thank you for your brave gift.  We miss you.  We hope you are flying free with your friend Clarence up there, I hope you fly over our sweet Otto.  

I realize sometimes that I don't feel as valuable a person without my little boy to take care of. To eat for, to sleep for, to watch everything for. It's easy to feel like it's not as important to eat, to eat well, without this little body and spirit who was also partaking. I just read something that reminded me that I am worth feeding, body and soul, as just me.

I don't feel as important, not being a mom. I am waiting for the day I am a mom again to be important again. And, as hard as it is to live it out, this is not true. I am still important, I am still a soul, just like Otto, I am as important as him. This part of my life is real too. This part that is so hard and dark and gets so old, and I see it stretching out in front of me for long miles and it just doesn't seem worth it sometimes. But I have a garden in the back yard and it makes me happy to work out there. To put my hands in the dirt. To care and tend it. The sun came out as I was doing breathing and stretching in the living room and it shines on me as I breathe, and I am alive now. I don't just want to wait till I'm pregnant or have a baby to feel good again. I know Otto wants me to feel good things, I know he loves me. I just can't stop crying.