Birthdays and Honeymoons.

So I feel like a terrible mother to you. I didn't have anything to write on your birthday. I haven't had anything to write since then either. It isn't like I don't think of you, or don't care. It's just...I don't even know what to say. Your brother is taking up more and more space in my body, and the farther along we get with him, the more he is moving to the center of our world.

And I feel vaguely like I'm failing you, even though I know that my time mothering you has past already. You feel farther and farther away...I can't think about where I was a year ago right now. That horrible empty ache that was my constant companion.

Your brother has been with me longer than you were. He is big enough now to distort the (increasingly enormous) roundness of my belly. Strong enough now that the impact of his kicks can be painful as well as startling. He kicks in places you never could reach. His presence is constant now.

Daddy and I took our honeymoon last week. I kind of expected to have moments of really missing you--I mean, we were meant to take almost this exact trip exactly one year ago. And yet...though you came up in conversation and certainly were not forgotten, it was like this trip was just for your daddy and brother and me.

I guess that's how life is supposed to go on. You stay the same and we keep walking. But it's hard to grasp. I feel at least as though I should feel more upset by it.

Time can be kind.

Getting It

I had kind of a revelation lately. Perhaps it would better be described as a crystallization of thoughts. I finally feel like I understand why your Daddy didn't want to see you when you were born, and still doesn't want to see the pictures.

He was always up front. He didn't want to see. We made absolutely certain his wishes were clear and respected. When you were born, he was standing next to my head, holding my hand and looking into my eyes with total intensity. There was a drape over my knees to block the view. Your grandmothers went with the nurses that took you away and not long after your Daddy left so that I could hold you and see you. For those few hours (and only for those hours) we were apart, while I held you and kissed you and memorized your tiny, perfect face.

After, I never pushed him to see the pictures we took. I told him that I was sad that he didn't want to see and that I would be pleased if he ever changed his mind, but I did my best to accept it and let him grieve in his way.

But it did hurt. It hurt because in this whole world of people only we were your parents. No one else shared you the way we did. We loved each other so much we had to make you to hold some of it--and it hurt, knowing that he couldn't, wouldn't even look at you. That he didn't ache for you the way I did, that he didn't really feel that he'd lost a son the way I did. I sort of intellectually knew that he couldn't feel as much for you as I did because, to him, you were a few blurry, grainy images, a bulge in my middle that moved a little under his hand, some wishes and half-formed plans, and me being a total bitch to him for three months straight while whining that I was nauseous.

Of course he loved you. Of course he wanted you. Of course he lost when you died. None of that is really in question. But in my heart it was. Name a way to feel about his choice and I felt it, intensely, at least once. Anger that he wouldn't acknowledge you the way I wished he would. Frustration that I can't have a picture of you out in our house. Pride that he knows himself well enough that he can look out for his needs. Gratitude for his calm and steady presence as I clung to him in the middle of my hurricane. Pity that he had never smelled your scent, or seen for himself that your foot was his in perfect miniature, or seen the dark rose color of your lips.

But the one thing I never really felt was understanding. I didn't really get why he didn't, even though I thought I knew. It was talking to a guy friend about his wife's pregnancies. He was talking about the moment he really felt connected to his kids; really felt like a dad, felt that amazing, overpowering tie. It was the first moment they made eye contact. He said he loved them and dreamed about them and was excited for them, but he still didn't really feel like he was a father. Not until he met them. And somehow that supplied a kind of missing piece.

For me, holding you brought tremendous relief. For that little cocoon of time I just marveled at this tiny being I had created. Like any mother. I reveled in those short hours between when I could only see you in my imagination and when you'd exist only in my memory. They were what reward and joy and validation I could gather to try and salve my shattered heart. The only flaw in those moments of peace was that your Daddy wasn't sharing them with me.

But I finally understand that, even had he been right there with us, he wouldn't have shared that with me. For him, it would have been a sudden flood of the magnitude of that loss. Suddenly, instead of being profoundly disappointed he would have become a fully grieving father. There would have been no surcease, only ghastly, indescribable pain. The same pain that holding you eased for me. He withheld himself from meeting you not so that he could deny that he was grieving for a lost child, but so that he would not have lost a child.

And I am glad. Because he certainly did not escape feeling pain and grief. But it wasn't as much for you as it was for me; for my pain, for the loss of the life we thought we were going to have. The awful helplessness of watching me through that hell. But because he wasn't walking beside me he could be my shelter. He could provide for me, everything from making sure the bills were paid to making sure I ate occasionally. He could give himself completely when he held me and listened to the constant variances of why did this happen, instead of being so wrapped in his own grief that he had nothing to give.

He could not be a broken, grieving father to you, as I sometimes in my anguish wished he was. What he could be was a strong, loving and supportive husband. And that's an important part of being a father too. I trust him more deeply because of how much he was there for me. I knew he meant it when he said "for better or worse," because he'd already done both.

So Much for Secrets

I wasn't going to tell very many people, but I'm pregnant again.

Of course our little family knows, and a very small handful of friends. That was all we planned to tell until we knew if this little one is going to stay. I hid it pretty well for the first couple weeks.

But this one won't be hidden away. Aside from a couple of people who have actually looked at me and guessed, the morning sickness struck with such violence that hiding this from my coworkers is flat out of the question. I managed to hold off all day on Thursday at work, only to lose it as soon as I got home. Friday I got hit a couple times, and Saturday I lost count. Today was my first day back at work since it hit like this, and I threw up almost hourly.

Like I said, hiding this is difficult. It does not go unnoticed, me dashing from my register to the ladies room.

When I carried you, I only threw up three times the entire time. Oh you made me plenty sick, and there were times I wished I'd just throw up so I could feel better. But now I know that it doesn't make me feel better anyway. I've barely gotten any food down at all. Lucky for me your Daddy went out and got some Ensure for me.

I don't feel anything with this one (other than that whole throwing up constantly thing). With you I felt dazed and happy; with the last one I felt determinedly optimistic. This time? Dull worry that I'll have to go through this kind of morning-sickness hell again after this.

Daddy's a little more excited than me. He doesn't show it much in the day, but a couple times I've woken in the night to find him awake, petting my belly. In his sleep his hand finds that already-a-little-larger bump almost as soon as he starts snoring.

And I'm putting some real effort into not snarling at him constantly. I'm not proud of it, but I was pretty grumpy the other two times. to put it mildly. This time I'm less pissy in general, and I guess I've learned to control that crazy irrational hormonal rush that used to make me flare up. It also helps that he's being so tender and gentle and loving to me since I've been so sick (Is this the silver lining?)

One of the things I don't feel anything about is that this baby is due almost exactly when you were. You were officially due on November 4, and this one is due November 5. I know there's pools of terror and anxiety deep under all this nausea, but for right now, I'm really glad I can't feel it yet.

Facebook Meme & Reiki

Silly little thing. There's a facebook meme going on, where you are supposed to look up your own name on Urbandictionary.com and post the meaning. (By the way, if you have internet access up there, Mommy and Daddy probably would rather you not spend much time on that site; it's kind of messed up.)

I looked up your name and it made me smile:

Isaac: means "One who makes me laugh" or "laughter". The funniest guy who is sweet and charming. Knows how to lighten the mood. Is one who brings peace and others together. A miracle birth. Are you feeling down? What you need is an Isaac.

That's for sure. You've certainly brought others together in our life; I mean, I talk to your Grandpa W and your Uncle C now, and that hasn't really happened in more than ten years (in fact, with Grandpa W, it pretty much has never happened before). You've opened me up to so many precious friendships. You've brought so much to Daddy and I. Definitely a miracle birth.

~*~*~*~

A friend of mine is learning Reiki and she asked if she could practice on me. We've put a lot of focus on calling forth good eggs and healthy babies. I admit that it is a whole different thing for your pragmatic, skeptical, scientific-method-worshiping Mommy. But the experience was really amazing. I completely relaxed and was actually able to meditate--which is pretty hard for me to do (Mommy is also easily distracted by bright colors and shiny things). It was almost like lucid dreaming.

And in that dream-like place inside of me I could see you. Little flashes of the life you aren't really going to live. I saw you as a normal, beautiful little baby. I saw you toddling around in red overalls; serious little round face with a furrowed brow with wispy straw-colored hair, determinedly stomping around. I saw you as a little boy. Playing baseball, oddly enough. Teeth a little to big for your face, like mine were when I was eight. Longish light brown hair sticking out of a yellow baseball cap. I felt like you were there; felt your presence in a way I usually just don't, not since the night Daddy and I got married.

After it was over, as I was lying there relaxing, I could see what almost looked like dark curtains parting. Your Daddy was standing there holding out his hand to me. I took his hand and then all of a sudden I was completely awake (though still extremely relaxed.) It felt like I'd been able to visit with you, but your Daddy was there, ready to call me back home.

I don't know. It's hard to put it into words. Most of the thoughts I have that are...spiritual? I guess? They're in pictures. And a thousand words can't do them justice.

Missing You

Missing you just now. No particular reason, except maybe because I'm watching an episode of Penn & Teller's Bullshit about the death industry. I've only dealt with them once, and that was when my grandmother died. I was lucky I didn't have to do anything for you--the hostpital took care of all the "arrangements."

I have your ashes still. Your daddy and I have finally decided what we're going to do, if not where or when. Daddy wants to built you a rocket. A pretty big one, given the stuff he's shown me online. He wants to put your ashes in as the payload, and shoot the rocket up into the sky out somewhere beautiful. He wants the mountains, and I guess that's fair. You were made by the ocean, where I grew up. Where a place inside of me comes alive that doesn't anywhere else. The mountains are that for your daddy.

In fact, the first time I ever saw your daddy was a picture of him in all his mountain climbing gear, standing triumphantly in the Monkey's Mouth. It's a big rock shaped kind of like a monkey face. See?



I can't find the actual picture, but I'll probably put it here later. But what I'm saying is that the mountains are his spiritual place. And if he has feelings about anything having to do with you I almost always follow them. Don't think he doesn't love you just because he doesn't talk to you like I do. He does, just as much as I do.

Today

You should be here today.

I should be inside, keeping the house warmer than it probably needs to be. I should be crying because I still can't get you to latch on right, and carefully sitting on a doughnut pillow, trying not to worry about the couch. Your Daddy should be holding you with more confidence today. He should be looking at you with that adoring gaze that, until now, only I've gotten. He should be laughing at my mother, who would be fretting over exactly how many diapers she should change to be a perfect help without stepping on our toes. Our mothers should be telling stories about when we were babies and we should be making phone calls and facebook updates with pictures of our brand new son. We should be laughing and crying and most of all rejoicing in this little boy we all wanted so badly and loved so very much.

We should be.

But that's not what happened today. Today your Daddy woke me up to help him find a shirt to wear to work. Today he's supposed to call the genetic counselor for an update on all the testing they're doing on the bits of you and me they have. Today I got up and was out of instant coffee and milk, so pulled the bottle of diet pepsi your Daddy bought by accident to caffeinate myself. Today I bundled up in my warm fleece pajamas, in thick slippers and a hat, to sit shivering in the garage with my laptop so I can smoke at the same time I type. Today I will watch movies and do laundry, eat leftover pizza, and work on your baby book. Today I will smoke at least a pack of cigarettes.

There isn't anything wrong with the today I have. But it is so far removed from the today I want that it boggles my mind. Today my belly should be empty, but not my arms. Today I should hurt, but in my body not my heart. Today I should make milk, but it should be to feed you. Today I should cry, but they should be tears of joy.

Planning your memorial is so hard. Your daddy and I just can't seem to pull it all together. There aren't many guests coming, and we know no one is expecting anything of us. But nothing feels quite right. And so many odd little obstacles keep cropping up. Enough money, enough time...and we're both just dragging our feet over everything. Can't get the rocket ordered, don't have time to build it. Can't get the pictures printed, don't have the energy to put your scrapbook together. Can't even really talk it out because it's too hard to manage.

These weeks, what would have been the last few before you were born, are grueling. Both of us have little fits and spurts of energy that's almost manic; both of us are expending crazy amounts of energy at work--Daddy, because he has a new and very busy job, and me because when I step into work I step into this beaming, welcoming, witty, charming shell that takes almost all I have to keep up, and that sometimes takes hours of private weeping to recover from.

At home we tend to look at the house, which so often lately is messy and feels out of control. I think we both feel out of control right now. We're both drinking too much, letting too much stuff (from paperwork to garbage bags) pile up, and everything feels overwhelming.

I think your daddy is feeling it lately too. I don't think it's just that he comes home and finds me with tears in my eyes. I think a lot of it is planning this. When we took out your ashes to figure out how much there was, he noticed the little metal disc that came with them. He took it; put it on his keychain and I've seen him touching it. His eyes are as sad as mine.

We both miss you, and we miss each other too. We're still so very close, and we still take care of each other. But it feels like the parts of us that went with you ache. And so often it just feels like neither of us can cope. So we do our best, day by day, giving each other slack and holding each other up, holding on for whatever is coming next.

We miss you, Isaac. We miss you so much.

Fireworks

We're starting to plan a little memorial for you. Nothing big like at the wedding. Just a few people--maybe just us. Don't know yet. We want to take your ashes to the beach. They look like beach sand. Your daddy wants to set off fireworks. They're special.

This fourth of july, just a week or so away from losing you, we set off fireworks in the driveway. The first loud one made you jump, and then you wouldn't stop! You kicked along with all the bangs, and wiggled and squirmed when the bright flashes came. You felt happy inside me, the way you bounced around. When your daddy took too long before setting off another one, you started kicking like you were fussing for more! I told you not to encourage your father, and he came over and put his hands on you and said "this one's for you, kid." We laughed felt like you were laughing with us. You liked the bright flashing ones best. It was probably the very best day of our whole life with you. We all played together. And that night your daddy petted my belly and talked to you. Kissed you goodnight.

When we talk about it now, his face lights up. When he describes it, he's animated and happy. In that moment I get to see him completely involved in being a daddy. That is priceless to me.

I'm so glad we had that wonderful, fun night. I'm glad that your little life was full of happiness and love.