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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, August 17, 2009
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.
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.
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