Wednesday, December 30, 2009

A different kind of New Years resolution

I haven't written much lately. I've tried to get caught up in the Christmas spirit, but this year no one really seemed to feel it. Myself included. We all wanted to just get it over with. Everyone was happy to see each other, but we all spoke of our relief that the season was ending.

Part of it is not having you here, at least for your Daddy and me. It's hard, with so many new and about-to-be-here babies in our life, not having you here to share in it. This should have been your first Christmas, and I couldn't seem to care without you. I think your Grandmas felt that too.

I don't really know what to say. It's hard sometimes, when I sit down to write to you, to put the swirling collective cloud of lovejoygratitudesorrowlonlinessfrustrationgriefwonder thoughts into words and sentences. I can't make linear statements about these completely nonliniar thoughts, and I can't make them make sense, because most of them, considered, don't.

I think about you often in whatever place you are. I often think about you playing with other children who have gone before you--particularly with Layla. Less often I think of you with your great-grandparents, and with my own brother who died at about the same age you did. Sometimes I think of you as what age you would be now. Other times I think of you as an older child, even as an adult. And sometimes I imagine you as a being so much wiser and more conscious than myself, now that you aren't limited by these pods of electricity and raw meat.

Sometimes I feel like you are near me; some little spiritual nudge, a drawing of my attention to some small thing--sometimes helpful, sometimes funny, sometimes sad. You make me see the patterns in the frost, the shape of the bare white trees against the dark firs in the woods, the moonlight reflecting off of waves. And I see something small and perfect and beautiful like that, and part of my heart says that's Isaac. Brief and beautiful and perfect. I can carry the moonlight on the crashing waves on Christmas Eve in my heart the same way I carry the indescribable shade of red your tiny lips were.

I find myself confused by my own writing here. Why the serious tone? Why are these letters--this blog--not funny? Why can I be my dark, funny self here? I'm thoughtful and reflective outside of this, of course. But the biggest thing in our life is laughter. Your very name means laughter. And the people closest to us, to you, are the very same people I can make pitch black deadbaby jokes to. Even alone, I make jokes. Constantly. Out loud. (You might have noticed this, actually).

I guess this post (which, originally, was going to be me saying that every time I watch Mythbusters, I have the random intrusive thought that Kari and I were pregnant at the same time and her baby is alive and mine isn't) has winnowed itself down to a New Year's resolution to be more relaxed and funny here.

Perhaps it is a different phase of my grief; the part where I don't just talk about the deep, quiet, solemn parts about your life, or the wistful memories of it. Perhaps now is when I write fewer "letters" and more "blog posts." Perhaps it is time to speak not just to you, but openly to those who are reading this.

Hello, world.

It's a start.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

I want my baby now

Sometimes missing you is almost more than I can stand. Today was one of those days. I had to work, so of course I had my perky groove on. But I wasn't really there. I was distracted and clumsy, and on every break I would sit in my car, unable to cry, rocking back and forth and whimpering to myself.

I want my baby now.

I want my son.

Really, jokes over. I want my son back now.

I can't stand this. I want my baby back!

I wish I had something more eloquent or interesting to say. But I don't.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Just another day

I've been missing you a lot this week. Part of it is the miscarriage. I don't really feel right saying "your brother or sister" about it anymore, because really, I don't feel like I lost another baby. There wasn't a person there. Not like with you. You had so much personality even in that short time we were together. You liked riding in the car--you'd always bounce around, especially if I sang along with the radio. You hated being poked and prodded. You'd always kick indignantly when somebody poked at you. It was a good thing, too--because Daddy and Grandma P got to feel you kick from the outside before you were gone. You would get very quiet if I played music just for you--as soon as the headphones hit my belly, you would stop whatever you were doing.

I wish you were here now. Most of my friends have (or, if all goes well, are about to have) beautiful, healthy babies. And here I sit, smoking in the house and watching a movie. Your room is full of things we don't have a place for. All the little clothes we bought for you are packed away in a box, along with all my maternity clothes.

I just want you here now. I want to know the boy you should have been. I want to show you off at holiday parties. I want to see you smile, to hear you're gurgly little laugh. I want to kiss your belly and dance you around the room. I want to curl in my safe little corner of the couch with you tucked safely in my arms.

I want you in my life. Not in my memory.