December Blues

Faking it.

Gotta be honest...while Christmas and all the happy cheer IS a lot easier to manage with two living kids, I'm still definitely faking my interest to participate in all the festivities. I'm ready for a turn of the calendar.

I don't want a tree with sparkling lights. Luckily our kids haven't taken much interest either, but it does sit in our foyer, basically dead and ready for tossing. We have a few more days before that's deemed acceptable, but I presume it will be gone before the weekend is over. We're literally the only house on our block that doesn't have a single Christmas decoration adorning our house. We usually have wreaths and garland, but with the kids breaking things left and right (do we have anything left?) and December always hitting me like bricks, we sit here on the 22nd having not quite gotten our acts together.

December still totally grates me. I think of myself in complete and utter despair 5 years ago and how other families are out there mourning losses right now. I open the inbox for Faces of Loss to see a mom who lost her daughter at full term just December 3rd of this year. That was like three weeks ago. And I remember when that was me. And it's still me, just 5 years later. It will be an honor to post her story, but still completely heartbreaking.

I know it's not about the presents and sweets and lights and decorated houses and it's really about family and the birth of baby Jesus, who five years ago, I was even jealous of. How can someone be jealous of the Virgin Mary and the Christ? Well I was. 

I sat wrapping presents last night after my kids were just horrible kids all day long. Made me really want to give them nothing and just put the rest on the curb. I wrapped in a fury, slapped on some cheap and metallic bows from a jumbo pack and called it good. Felt nice to get that over with. I do remember a time when wrapping presents was a joyous occasion.

My last innocent Christmas has all sorts of beautiful memories attached. We traveled all around Europe by car with both of our families and spent Christmas Eve night in Berlin, Germany. We didn't have a tree and we didn't give presents; we just traveled and took it all in. 

This year was a doozy. We had so many changes and more to come. Some were good, some were bad. I'm ready for you, 2016. But December, you're not invited to the party.

The Day Before His Golden Birthday

It's the kind of birthday that comes only once in a lifetime...

Andrew will be 5 tomorrow. I know it's a bit dramatic to say, but can you just imagine for a moment (with me), what it would be like celebrating a 5-year-old? Some of you have children that age, so you already know. I don't know.

I can just imagine. Turning five and it being a golden birthday is really cool. Something about five means you're like, super big. Almost kindergarten status. In fact, I had already started kindergarten at his (would be) age.

I've lamented this birthday for a long time now. Five is half a decade. And just plain big. It's a long time since I held that baby boy body and birthed my very first child. I would do anything to go back and hold him again. More now than ever. It feels like he's so distant, because he is. Five years is a long time since seeing your child.

Benjamin has been talking about Andrew a lot lately. Their grandparents sent the book, Someone Came Before You and Benjamin refers to it as Andrew's book and asks for it to be read all the time. At the end, it mentions lighting a candle for the baby. Benjamin chose a cookie candle and we've been lighting it the past two days because he wants it lit for Andrew. He knows Andrew's birthday is tomorrow. We discuss it all the time, especially on the way to the children's museum (like yesterday) when we drive by the cemetery. There is always lots of discussion surrounding the flowers and wreaths and "big things sticking out of the ground."

Five seemed big enough to have a really great thing planned. Initially I thought about planting a tree in a local park in his honor. I was SET on this idea and thought it would be perfect. But, I'm not sure Illinois is our forever home, and I don't want to leave the tree and miss seeing it frequently if we do move in the future.

As he grows older, I'm going to continue to long for things to memorialize him, because that's what parents do. They want to make their children happy, or at least honor their lives in some way.

I just couldn't think of anything else. Nothing would suffice, anyway. So, on his 5th tomorrow, we'll probably go grab him some cupcakes, have our traditional dinner out at a restaurant and be together as a family.

Tuesday, we'll attend the remembrance ceremony we attend every year.

He'll get his tree eventually and when he does, I know it will be perfect.

Missing you and loving you forever, Andrew. I always, always will.

Paying it Forward: Faces of Loss

In January of 2011, I was one month out from losing Andrew. In my email inbox was a message from a girl in Canada who had just lost her son that month. She had read the story I submitted to Faces of Loss and connected with me. Daily emails ensued. The following year, I had my rainbow baby, she had hers, and I drove to visit her. I actually met her in person at a Chinese restaurant, rainbow babies in hand, on my 30th birthday. It was somewhere in Waterloo, Ontario. Benjamin was not a pleasant restaurant guest (not much has changed) and I was super nervous.

The next day, we drove to her house and stayed two nights with their family. The following year, in June 2013, that friend brought her daughter and husband to our house here in Chicago, and 12 others joined. Laura and her husband (and many others) stayed a few nights with us. We've had many g-chat sessions and more emails than I've probably sent anyone in my life over these four years.

Last month, we flew to Vancouver and rented a house in Whistler for four nights with Laura and her family. This time, there were four rainbow babies present. We hit up the spa together, stayed up nightly lounging with beers in hand and chatting about life as it is with one child missing and two before us. It's natural now.

All of this was the result of the Faces of Loss website, founded by Kristin. As a result of Faces of Loss, Laura found my blog and email address, and sent me that first message. The message that told me I was not alone in that exact moment. The one where I knew that someone else, just 8 hours driving distance away, was missing her firstborn son as well. I read about a girl named Caroline and her son, Cale. We're now great friends who have also personally met multiple times now. This connection to blogs then connected us to one another and it was sort of a game of telephone that trickled out as we all added more to our connection base. As a result of Faces of Loss, I am now personally connected to (and frequently meet, chat, or email with) about two dozen babyloss friends who are on a similar timeline to my loss. Most now have a rainbow baby or two. They supported me heavily through my subsequent pregnancies like no other friends could have. Like my friend Brooke said in a recent post, they not only could say "I'm sorry," but "Me too."

That bit was really important. My friends who never experienced loss like I have were still wonderful and appreciated. But I needed those friends who could fully empathize and commiserate (now still!) with what I have been through in losing Andrew. Faces of Loss brought that to me. Faces, stories, timelines.

I followed Faces of Loss, but then had to take a break while I was pregnant with my two rainbows. I just couldn't manage reading the stories and igniting that fear. I was more interested in distracting myself from the reality of actually being pregnant. For sometime, the stories trickled in and then somewhat slowed to a stop. Running a non-profit website with volunteers who are busy and working and caring for children is a tough job! Story submissions were waiting to be published and there were just not enough hands on deck. Another fellow friend, Amy, worked tirelessly and often alone to keep things afloat with story editing and publishing, but just couldn't manage all that was coming in on her own. Concurrently, I was receiving emails from friends who either lost a child or knew someone who did. They wanted guidance. I desperately wanted to send them to Faces of Loss, because that was my greatest hope after loss. But, I couldn't. Stories were not being published and I didn't want them to feel more isolated in their grief.

Back in December, I sent out an email to some fellow babyloss friends who had been volunteers for Kristin's non-profit website. I was curious about volunteering and how all that worked. I really wanted to get this thing up and working again. They sort of challenged me about volunteering myself.

I thought I couldn't. I was knee-deep in potty training and told myself that if I finally got the toddler to take action on the potty, I'd consider it. I told my friends Laura, Molly, Caroline and Brooke. They also challenged me, encouraged me and let me know they were interested in taking on equal roles with me to get those stories posted for other loss families to read and connect with; that Faces of Loss made a profound impact on them. Molly told Keleen, and she wanted in as well.

Benjamin finally potty trained (and hasn't looked back, people!). I shot the email off to Kristin about our interest to get stories up again so newer loss families could connect and create relationships like we all have. She was thrilled to have more volunteers and sent over instructions. Faces of Loss was created out of Kristin's longing for her own Stevie Joy. But like many of us, she has a very busy job and has two rainbow babies at home as well. It's her lovechild, we're just trying to nurture it.

As of Tuesday, January 27th, Faces of Loss is now up and running after 10 months of dormancy. Forty-seven stories have been published as I type this, with more in the queue. Here's to connecting families and creating lifelong friendships with people who can also say, "Me too." And please. If you would like to support and read the stories from families who have waited a long time to be connected and have their stories read, head on over and check them out. I'm sure they would appreciate some comments, words of encouragement, and maybe an email or blog visit. The site is still undergoing maintenance, so please be patient. But the most important aspect, the faces and stories are up and running! The Facebook page is even up and running again, thanks to Caroline!

Also, tell your friends, encourage them to submit their stories and submit your own! 

*Our goal is to have all submissions in the current queue posted in February and all submissions to follow within a week turnaround, just as the site states. All details on how to submit are here. 

(Even the Littlest) People Matter.

I feel like I need to talk about other things than potty training and my naughty toddler. As a quick update, the toddler is still naughty, but he's totally potty trained for day and naps and it really was fine and good after five days. We're now on day 13 of zero diapers and totally set. We're about to throw his butt in pull-ups for nights though because Mama needs to sleep and do less laundry, but anyway. We have two living children and that's all that really matters.

We'll be celebrating our daughter's first birthday exactly 10 days from today. In six days, about 40 people will cram into our home to witness her baptism and first birthday festivities. Four days later (on her actual birthday!), we will be flying to Whistler for skiing, spa indulgences and fun with our good friends and fellow babyloss family who are also parents to Jack, Grace & Piper. Jack's fourth birthday was on New Year's Day. Who would've thought we'd be renting a ski condo in Canada with friends who also have a dead son, four years later? If you asked me on December 4, 2010, I would've called you a lunatic. But we're so grateful to have such close friends who literally carried us through some tough days in those first months of loss and still have so much support to offer.

Just a few days before Christmas, Andrew's print arrived in the mail. We decided on a professional pencil sketch for his 4th birthday. Like so many of our babyloss friends, we wanted something to display in our homes that would show the true beauty of our children while still keeping them sacred and protected from gawking and ill responses. We first caught a glimpse when I was sent the initial sketch two days after his birthday. I was so happy to receive this during his birth month.

When it first arrived in my inbox, I was underwhelmed. It was stunning and drawn with such care, but it wasn't the boy I held in that hospital room-- nothing one dimensional could possibly contain all that he was in our arms that evening. There were tiny changes I requested she make (space between fingers as I remember & skinnier nostril cartilage). It was beautiful, but I found myself underwhelmed because it wasn't really him, as if what I expected was to have him back in our arms for the cost of a pencil sketch. We will never have more of him and never another portrait or photograph or experience with him. This was it.

This was shared on her facebook page, and now here. Andrew, spitting image of Claire. 

                                                 
After a day or so, I kept staring at his portrait and just fell in love with it. We received the professional copy just a week or so later and had it professionally framed. We picked up the framed piece two days before Christmas and it now has a place among our family photos. It is a cherished piece. We also ordered four copies that will be given to our families when they arrive this week.

Now four years after losing Andrew, we're still trying to find our place in this mess of babyloss. We want to contribute and help others. In many ways, we've already done that. My husband has recently signed up to help as a liaison for NILMDTS. My friend Brooke (who is basically a babyloss celebrity and contributing author to Three Minus One and I've had many meals with her and she slept in my house! Are you jealous?) blogged about a company called Sevenly recently. One of their recent campaigns supported Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep. I bought up two shirts immediately and posted a picture of one of them on Instagram. They still have some available in four different prints, so check them out! They've raised over $19,000 in shirt sales for NILMDTS, donating $7 from each shirt to the organization.

We're just so passionate about supporting them and ones like it because it normalizes loss for everyone. It makes losing a child more bearable, less embarrassing and more accepted. It makes families like us feel like human beings with hearts and not looked at like charity cases and lepers. We gifted some local NILMDTS photographers gift cards during the holidays to encourage their efforts and thank them sincerely for all they have done for us and other families. I attempted and successfully managed to use my grant-writing skills to send $1k their way. We shop on Amazon Smile with with 0.5% of purchases going to the organization that is the sole reason we have images of our firstborn son and proof that he was real, ours, and is adored. 

If we ever get the guts, we'll use a NILMDTS photographer to shoot family pictures. We're not ready. Four years and two kids after losing our firstborn child, we still haven't had another professional photo shoot. He's always missing. It still hurts and there's still a void.

I'm considering another volunteer opportunity (because I really do need more to gab about than potty trianing, amiright?), but that's just being discussed and nothing concrete yet. It will probably take a village and in an effort to keep Andrew's memory alive and well within me, it's something I'm seriously considering.

People are still losing babies. I can't do anything about that (and neither can they, sadly), but it's something that hits me hard and something no one should go at alone. 

Toddler and Baby Lifesavers

The only reason I'm a capable and relatively happy human being right now is because of Benjamin and Claire. Well, mostly Benjamin. He came after Andrew and saved me from a very dark place. Not that the dark place doesn't still exist, but him being alive and allowing me to perform the duties of a mother literally brought me out of a dark place into some light again.

I often tell strangers about Andrew. At least a few times a week, his life comes up in conversation enough for me to explain things. I usually add the whole bit about being able to talk about him without crying because it's been a long time and I have two living children who carry on somewhat of a legacy for him. They carry some of his traits, features, and quirkiness, I'm assuming. I want to assume. I'm guessing I'd be bawling my eyes out while explaining his story if Benjamin and Claire were not in the picture after losing him, no matter if it had been 4 hours or 4 years like we're approaching in December.

With these kids, I feel like I gained some of my happiness and life back.

Without them? I would be in a very bleak place, I think. It's because of them and only because of them that living without Andrew is made manageable. It's a little scary to me that they carry so much of that healing burden for me. It's not fair to them, maybe. But honestly speaking, where on earth would I be without them?

Perhaps a dark post for a Monday, but honest. Something I've been thinking about a lot this week. I'll be back soon (after Halloween festivities and Benjamin's first school program!!) with pictures from pumpkin patch adventure and Disney World!

Letters to Andrew + Invitation

If you will join me, please unite in lighting candles to remember the babies at 7 p.m. this evening.

Small Bird Studio

Dear Andrew,

I almost wrote "sweet" Andrew, but really, who knows who you would have been. You might have been spunky, but I presume more circumspect than your younger brother. I think you would've been an intellect and someone who was easy to please. I guess I can't picture you being anything but wonderful because that's the dream I had for you as a baby growing for those nearly 39 weeks.

One thing is certain; the person you would have been has left a gaping hole in our family. I always said I wanted two children, but missing you makes me sure I want three. Except, I have three and you're not here. If I had one more, I would feel like I want four. I will always want you.

Missing and loving and lighting a candle that is not enough, because we love you.

Love,
Mom

Same Old {Grief} Story

We're seriously closing in on four years since Andrew died. The quick update?

I'm still sad and angry about him dying. I know sadness is the primary emotion, but anger comes out most often it seems. Acceptance doesn't appear to be near or even possible.

I don't mask anything well, so if you talk to me on a regular basis, you'll likely sense the anger and sadness when I talk about him. I'm just still so beside myself.

I'm mostly busy and super thankful to have his brother and sister to drive me nuts and amaze me everyday, but if you asked if I was happy or content, I would honestly never choose those words.

Someone asked me the other day if everything was going great with us, as if the alternative was something horrific or saddening. And really, things are going as great as can be with two kids. Except, the obvious knowledge of us really having three means that no, everything will never equal going great like, ever. There's always an addendum, it seems, to our happiness. I know we're not the only ones who've experienced tragic loss, and I'm aware that many people live with that similar addendum.

At nearly 4 years out, I'm still angry with God, even though I don't believe he saves us from harm or is the one who inflicts. I think he is supposed to be a comfort, simply put. I do believe God showed up in other people after Andrew died. The nurses who were doing a lot of the dirty work for us, the friends who showed up in such a horrible situation to offer their presence when they probably just wanted to flee the scene, the strangers who sent cards, and the list continues. I think I'm most angry with God because I don't know who else to be angry with.

I rarely cry. The tears are there occasionally and flood like a river. But mostly, they're absent.

Being at home with the kids can make things even harder, ironically. I have my hands full, but my brain is not full of anything but tasks. The intellectual stimulation is lacking because time does not allow for much of that, which then allows for sadness to creep in. This mom job can be really lonely in itself, and then even more lonely when you know you're missing 1/3 of your kids.

It's a cooler fall day here. The grief season is approaching.

Grant Writing... and Winning!

As summer comes to a close and school starts up soon (Benjamin tomorrow! Eeek!), I am once again reminded of how much I miss the classroom. I miss the freshness of new kids coming in, organizing, planning for instruction, and what I miss the very most, teaching. I just love watching my own kids grow everyday, but I do excitedly dream of heading back to the classroom in the future.

During my teaching years, I wrote a lot of grants. In fact, I was one of the main writers on our team to win our school the California Distinguished Schools Award for the first time. Many veteran teachers had been on the committee before and the school never won after years of trying. They said it couldn't be done. Everyone was discouraged. If you know me, you know I'm fairly determined and not willing to take no for an answer if what I want is something I'm passionate about. Well, we did it. In addition, I won a series of grants through Mobil to be the only classroom on our campus with a SmartBoard, EXPO document camera, students response systems and a variety of other teaching tools, many related to technology. I love writing grants. Maybe it's my journalism background that just gets fired up. Or maybe it's the competition of it all.

Well, it's been a few years. A month or two ago, I randomly saw a program online by JOLLY TIME Pop Corn called the Kernals of Kindess awards program. They were selecting individuals or organizations that "pop up" and make a difference in other peoples' lives. They were giving away 100 grants of $1,000 to keep doing great work in honor of JOLLY TIME's 100th anniversary (of being a 5th generation family-run company... how cool is that?). When I saw this, I immediately thought of Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep and the impact they made on us as a family, giving us the precious gift of Andrew's only photos. Those photos mean more to us than any other gift because that is all we have of our son. We're just so grateful. And we didn't pay a dime for those photos or the 1 a.m. session of that photographer coming into our hospital room and facing us at our worst time. I wanted to support this amazing non-profit and give it a go! I had nothing to lose and only about 15 minutes of my time to sacrifice-- a lot less time than that photographer spent with us that night.

I put my fingers to work and filled out the application, nominating NILMDTS. I don't remember what I wrote, but wish I remembered! I randomly checked my junk mail box last night to find an email announcing I won one of the 100 grants.

Out of 6,620 entries!

The story of NILMDTS will be featured in October and I can't wait to link you all to that when it comes around. Aside from the monetary gift, they are receiving so much publicity that is much-needed for the fantastic non-profit that they run. Conveniently, as my friend Caroline pointed out, they will be featuring the story during the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness week in October. I don't know if that's just coincidental, but it's fantastic.

While it's just a snippet, just look up at the header of my blog to see some of the art of a fantastic NILMDTS volunteer photographer to know why I am indebted to their kindness and work on behalf of grieving families.

Putting on the Brakes

I find myself savoring the smallness that Claire is right now. And it's wonderful. She's already doubled her birth weight and looks like a full-on baby right now. No newborn. She's rolling over, alert, cooing and just insanely beautiful. I'm not going to lie... I thought having two beautiful babies prior to her meant I would birth only a face a mother could love, but we didn't. She's stunning. And maybe it's a mother's bias. I'll wear those blinders any day.

I am guilty of not savoring it all with Benjamin. I spent the majority of his babyhood being terrified something would happen to him. The other half was spent trying to speed things up to what Andrew would've been like and things he would've been doing. Not intentionally, but grief does that sort of thing. I was eager to get him out of his bucket seat and into a convertible carseat. I was eager for him to eat table food. I was eager to be done with breastfeeding and eager for him to crawl and walk and be independent because those were all things I knew Andrew would've well mastered by then.

It's not that I wanted Benjamin to be Andrew (though thankful I was able to experience another boy at all), it's just that my mind never fully reset the idea of not having a child who should be three-and-a-half-years old now. I just always internally expected to be a part of that other group of moms who I see at the parks with their preschoolers now and have full conversations about what they are making for dinner and what they learned in school that day. I think it's finally starting to settle and we're seeing Benjamin as a two-year old who is amazing and learning and saying new things everyday. The person he is.

Just today I asked him if he wanted to go to the playhouse after dropping Dad's car at the shop and he said, "Yes I do." He speaks so well now. He also told his Dad the other day when asked if he wanted to potty-train yet, "No Daddy, No(t) yet."

I feel saddened that I wanted so badly to speed things up and be ahead where we belonged with Andrew. I feel like I missed some of the wonder and excitement. Just last night we were looking back at old pictures and videos from Benjamin's first year in Elliot's phone. I was absolutely amazed that he looked the way he did in some photos. Yes, I remember. It wasn't all that long ago, but time is a thief. Well, so is grief. It robs you of so much if you're not careful to take it all in. And even then, it's easy to forget with the hustle and bustle of daily life.

Claire is giving us another shot at this babyhood business. And it's awesome. Well, the 2:30 a.m. wakeup call this morning and the 4:30 one and the 5:45 one and the 7:15 one... well those aren't wonderful. But to have the chance to see her beautiful face and to know she is all ours and needs us? It's beyond the most glorious thing we've ever experienced. I just wish we weren't so terrified with Benjamin and confused in our grief timeline that we let some of that slip right through our fingers like quicksand.

She can stay in that bucket seat a little while longer.

Free Chicago Pregnancy & Infant Loss Couple's Retreat

One of my fellow babyloss mamas  (thanks, RyAnne!) sent over this flyer about a special couple's retreat located in Chicago for families who have experienced pregnancy or infant loss.

It's a one-day retreat, free of charge and open to all faith backgrounds. For those who are local and haven't personally connected with other couples (or even those who have!), this is a great opportunity to develop a community of support. I know firsthand, having that tangible support and getting a hug from someone who understands the piercing pain of loss can be a huge salve for the heart.

On The Night You Were Born...

...The moon smiled with such wonder

That the stars peeked in to see you

And the night wind whispered,

"Life will never be the same."

 

He was born at 9:04 p.m. Tonight, at 9:04, I was taking a hot shower. I wasn't laying in a hospital bed vomiting, shaking and welcoming my son into the world silently like I did three years ago. It was much more pleasant this evening. The smell of his candle (apparently discontinued, of course)--dubbed as such because it was given to me during my pregnancy with him and has a very babylike smell-- permeated the air. 

 

Today wasn't nearly as kind. Before noon, I'd sobbed at least a handful of times. Ray and I chatted about how it's crazy that even three years later, it's horrible how raw your grief can still feel at times. It might be just a day, but it's the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.

 

Of course we still miss him. Of course we wonder what our lives would be like with an intelligent three-year-old roaming our house. Of course we wonder what he would be eating for lunch and what his favorite toy would be. But the sad truth and reality is that we never knew and will never know a single answer.

 

We went about our day and I took Benjamin to storytime between sobfests. Surprinsingly, I held it together at 2-3 year old storytime. We had a drive-thru lunch because that's all I could muster. Naptime arrived and I made Andrew's 2013 ornament out of pieces of clothing he had worn. I thought that would do me in, but really, I was okay with it. I was mostly composed because I wanted to make something worthy of displaying in his honor. I look forward to hanging his four ornaments on the tree this year. Christmas trees, while beautiful and innocent in nature, still mock me. Never will we have a tree in the same place we did on that cold December morning we arrived back home with empty arms and a bag of mementos. The tree has a whole new room and will never be purchased before his birthday.

 

In between cutting pieces of the only clothing he had ever worn, I read countless texts messages and emails from some incredibly thoughtful people who still remember he lived and existed. I was honored and completely humbled by people who remembered. It's really one day a year that I fully experience the impact my lifeless son had on so many people.

 

I took Benjamin to the playhouse down the street after naptime and we went to dinner at one of our favorite local, kid-friendly burger places that has toys and books for kids to play with. We know Andrew would've liked that place. Benjamin sure does. We arrived back home to the fanciest of Whole Foods cupcakes I purchased yesterday and Benjamin attempted to burn himself while I blew out the candles. My three-year-old would've been elated to do so himself, I'm sure.

 

A traditional evening of books, toys and all things Benjamin and off to bath and bed for Andrew's little brother. The fourth December 5th we've experienced without our firstborn son alive. And the numbers keep adding.

 

Because there has never been anyone like you... ever in the world.

For never before in story or rhyme

{not even once upon a time}

Has the world ever known a you, my friend,

And it never will... not ever again.

Mom Squads

It's no surprise to anyone that I've struggled with my identity ever since Andrew died.

I knew that I was a wife, daughter, and friend above all things. His death didn't define who I was, though it sure changed how I felt about existing in the world. The world didn't see me as a mom. Hell, I didn't see myself as a mom all that much either. I definitely was/am, but it was pretty hard to confirm those facts when you are still only caring for yourself, even after buying all that baby crap and gestating for nearly 39 weeks. I wanted everyone in the grocery store or passing by me on the street to know. But they didn't.

We visit parks everyday. Some days, we even make it to 4 parks! Benjamin just thrives around other children. No joke, if I see kids at the park across the street, I make a b-line for it. I don't know how to explain it to other people because they often see him in public settings that provide gobs of stimulation, but this boy is a full-fledged tantrum-throwing toddler. He was having one continuous meltdown this morning until I opened that car door. He basically sprinted, jumped into his carseat and off we were to a (faraway) park.

He's a whole different child when being fully engaged. And to most parents, he's pretty freaking pleasant. They don't know home-bound Benjamin. I fear winter.

We usually see an independent mom or two with their kiddos at our local parks. There are about 7 parks we visit within walking distance from our house on a regular basis. He's even well known by other kids and their parents. Ray was riding his bike with Benjamin through the "big red park" the other day and passed a family. Ray heard them say, "Hey, there goes Benjamin!" The kid is a little bit famous in our 'burb.

I don't mind talking with the others parents at the park. We usually get on about preschools and various other activities their kids are involved in-- almost always with parents whose kids are quite a bit older than Benjamin. It's fine with him that the kids are older, because he seems to have little interest in kids his age. But the big kids who will talk to him and faun all over him? Baby crack. Where these parents of 1.5 year olds are, I have no idea. Benjamin has to be out and about.

Despite feeling like a different kind of parent always, I still manage to be honest about our story and engage with the other adults. It's when we're at parks with mommy groups that I can't handle. I find a corner bench to sit on and practice breathing exercises. I have no desire to engage, introduce myself, make new friends... or any of that. Maybe if the mommy group was for parents of just one kid, but they never are. They're always toting around their double strollers, toddlers and babies.

And it makes me uneasy. This happened yesterday and I hermit-crabbed my way into a hole and only approached the scene when Benjamin was getting himself into a predicament. My subdivision even has a mommy group. They advertise in the monthly bulletin (yes, it's pretty much perfect little suburbia) about the mommy group on facebook. Perfect excuse to avoid-- I don't do facebook.

There's a fine line between avoiding those groups because they're a grief trigger for me and knowing what's best for my son. Even before Andrew died, I never pictured myself involved in these mommy groups. They didn't seem like my style. I'm more rogue and less rule-driven, or at least that's how I've always viewed my outlook. Tantrums aside, little brother's growing up pretty well... mommy group attendee or not.

Watering Hole Conversations

We spent an hour at the waterpark this afternoon. I like Benjamin having access to both water and other children on a regular basis. This seems to meet the criteria pretty swimmingly {so funny}.

A little boy walked up and kept asking if I saw him make a HUGE SPLASH {motions with hands and splashes me every time with great effort} and each of the three times, I told him I did and was quite exuberant in my response.

When asked why Benjamin was not going down the fish waterslide in the tot area, I commented to said child that he was too small. He said, "Well he has a big head!" {obviously that renders someone quite capable of waterslides apparently}. In his defense, Benjamin insisted on climbing the steps and peering down the slide while the other children pushed him aside to make their moves. And also, he does have a big head. Touche, kid, touche.

...

A bit later, a mom with a very cute Lululemon bikini {they make those? noted.} was catching her little boy at the bottom of the same fish slide. This kid just kept going in circles. Up the stairs, down the slide backwards and into his mom's arms. He was blond and about 2.5. You know where I'm going with this.

The mom saw that Benjamin was interested and asked if I wanted to let him go and that she would be there to catch him. I stood at the top of the slide {no longer than 5 feet} and she moved closer to catch him. I let him go and she caught my gleeful little tot. When done, I commented that her son will be quite worn out after going around and around on this slide dozens of times. Something about naptime and getting him good and tired was muttered, and then she told her son Drew to say hello to Benjamin.

Knife to the heart. Never gets old {or comfortable} seeing these beautiful blond boys with my boy's name. I'm not one of those moms who can say it warms her heart to meet a cute child with her should-be alive son's name. Not this mama.

...

We had to take a breather. Left the tot area and Benjamin found himself a 4-year old girl to attach himself to after trying unsuccessfully to befriend a few other children much older than himself. And by befriend, I mean trying to climb on their lounge chair. The little girl's mom approached and we discovered both of our sons shared the same name, Benjamin. She then asked if we had more children and I told her about Andrew. She apologized.

Sometimes I wonder if they are apologizing because they are sorry about our sadness, or sorry because they asked the question.

Then later our kids found one another again and she commented how Benjamin was a small 15-month old.

The small comment. Somehow that comment makes me feel small.

Just another day at the ol' watering hole. We were there 55 minutes and I'd had enough. Remind me why I go out in public again?

Chicago Rainbow Weekend 2013

This past weekend was monumental.

I had expectations for the weekend meeting of 13 of my friends (only 3 of which I'd met before) and their rainbow babies. Those expectations were shattered.

It was better than I could've ever imagined.

To an outsider, I assume the idea of 14 women (3 husbands) and 14 children, all who have the common bond of dead children would be royally depressing. A group you'd hope to avoid running into because our faces represent whole families of children who are missing for no acceptable reason. I'm sure we represent what every other person on the planet hopes they will never become-- a parent who has buried a child.

And I guess that's true. Before losing Andrew, I would probably have gone out of my way to avoid that sort of thing. On second thought, I would've ignored the thought of such a group meeting because I was invincible. Had it all together and knew it would never happen to me. Why would it? Life was good.

Our group represents a bunch of women, men and children that are intelligent, attractive (yes!), fun, interesting, unique, and bereaved. We're different in so many ways, but the people we've become over the last few years since losing our children is what bonds us.

I've spent the last 2.5 years (yes, Andrew's 1/2 birthday was just a week ago) pouring my emotions out to writing as a way of therapy. Others took to their keyboards and did the same. We supported one another with words and that meant we did not feel entirely alone. Like we were not on the island of grief alone. And that someone, somewhere was crying similar tears of sadness over losing out on the life of a child they fully envisioned would be coming home with them and staying for good.

This past weekend, my house in the suburbs of Chicago was home base for what we coined the BLM Get Together 2013. Or Rainbow Weekend. We were central-ish being in the Midwest. In total, 31 people filled my home over the course of a few days with every single one of us missing at least one beloved child. We each had our rainbow in tow-- the child born after the sadness of losing a child-- the light after our storms. Our storms are never over and our children never forgotten. In fact, they are remembered and recognized even more because we have their siblings to hold and love.

This weekend.

We laughed. We cried. We did both at the same time. We ate. We took photos. We picnicked. We stayed up late hours chatting. We smiled.

It felt therapeutic. This whole weekend was just what our souls needed. After 2.5 long years of feeling isolated and suffocating in my own skin, I felt a huge release this weekend.

Sure, it was mayhem. With that many children ranging from 7 months - 2 years, you can imagine what kind of crazy my house looked, felt and sounded like this weekend.

But honestly? We wanted it to be crazier. Instead of 14 children, there should have been 29 of them wreaking havoc on everything they could find. Sure, we wouldn't know one another and this whole meeting would be null and void. But tell our hearts that. They aren't rational.

Our beautiful rainbow babies in hats knitted by a grandma missing her granddaughter, Elizabeth. Incredible and emotional for us all. Lots of Kleenex.

Mamas and their rainbow babies

Families from all over: Missouri, California, Washington, New Jersey, Alabama, Texas, Illinois, Canada, Minnesota, Tennessee (and many others were in our hearts and thoughts as they were unable to come).

These families and many others who could not attend this weekend were part of a large camaraderie we created through blogging. I know blogging gets a bad wrap as being self-indulgent drivel. However, without this bit of communication, I'm not quite sure where I would be today in my grief. It's still misery. It's still horrible to wake up every single morning knowing that I will never see my son again. Blogging has become a way to connect with others in a way I never imagined would be necessary in my life. That picture is important proof that these women and their beautiful rainbows have changed my life for the better.

Misery loves company. Maybe. Okay, yes it does.

But Lord. I'm just so happy I found these "miserable" people when I did and that I got to hug and cry with each one of them this weekend. I'm only sad it's over.

Candles lit and wish paper sent in honor of our babies and those who could not be present to light candles for their children.

Other recaps from the weekend written by Brooke, Melissa, Tiffany, Natasha and Keleen.

Black and White

You'll never see one of those photos on Instagram posted by me. And I'll never have another one printed.

We have a large canvas print from our wedding in black and white that I love, but that was before. Before is okay, but this is after. Like two sides of a coin and definitely different people within us.

Before all things I knew were good all of a sudden turned upside-down, black and white photos were modern chic. They had edge to them and provided a sense of mystery to photos that left you wondering.

What color is that shirt?
Is that tulip white or yellow?
What color eyes do they have?

Your brain is left to the intriguing mystery and fantasy that the colors could be anything you want.

Andrew's photos were in black and white. For obvious reasons. And as much as I cherish/adore/love/hoard them, it saddens me that they are black and white. They're gorgeous. Taken by a professional photographer and touched up in probably so many places that it makes you wonder what the real baby looked like. Well, except us. We know exactly what that gorgeous baby looked like.

They do look like him, except the color. Of course the color. It's as though the obvious choice to print in black and white helps conceal imperfect skin coloring... but more vividly adds the mystery of the unknown about a baby sadly unknown. And it's hard to forget the notion that things are quite black and white when it comes to the reality of loss. That things are not colorful or cheery. They're black, white, gray, permanent. Their lack of color somehow symbolizes the permanence of losing him.

In June, he would be blowing out the candles on his half-birthday cake. A boy standing tall at the age of 2.5 years. What a joy that would be to see the boy he should become. At well over 2 years after losing him, it still brings me to my knees. Maybe not so often, but still painfully so.

Letters to Andrew {6}

The day we arrived home empty-handed from the hospital after losing Andrew, we immediately re-booked our flights from California to Florida instead. Our California trip was scheduled for a post-baby shower and to introduce Andrew to all of our friends and family. With no baby to bring, we chose to change our itinerary altogether and booked a cruise to the Bahamas. It wasn't meant to be a vacation and we didn't look forward to it. We were far too sad to look forward to anything. I couldn't even manage to understand how I'd make it another day, let alone look forward to a trip we'd take a few months from that date.

This time, we set out for the islands again, but this time a bit further into the West Indies. Somehow, I feel connected to Andrew when we travel to that region, because he was so close to me then. He was still so fresh in my mind and it was days and not years since I'd held him for the one and only time.

On one of the days we spent on St. Kitts, we took a taxi to Cockleshell Beach at the Southern tip of the island, looking on to Nevis, the sister island and other half of the small country. The entire beach was pretty desolate as there were no cruise ships docked that day. There were other families with their children playing in the calm waters and people dining at the two restaurants. We took walks up and down the narrow shoreline and spent the time on shaded beach chairs with the only sound coming from the crashing waves and a rooster that couldn't seem to figure out his place in life.

I felt an overwhelming need to see his name in the sand, so I wrote it. A few times, actually. The waves wanted to wash it away and I needed to see it.

Beloved Andrew,

I don't shower what's left of you with kisses quite as much as I did in the earlier days of missing you. I don't cry as much... though just typing that has reduced me to big alligator tears. It upsets your brother to see me crying, so it's a good thing he's napping right now. The magnitude of losing you still catches me by surprise when I think of just how much we lost on that dreary day in December. 

I read an article this week about a celebrity who had a late miscarriage and was deeply saddened by the loss. There were comments from ignorant strangers that made me so angry. They didn't understand that an entire life and all of the plans that came with that precious life were gone. It's been a long time since I felt injustice and anger about losing you. Those feelings came right back up when I read about others trivializing that baby's life.

When we were in St. Kitts with your little brother this past weekend, I couldn't stop thinking about you. There were many children at our resort. Many that were about the age you would be now. My heart will always wonder and ache for the boy and man you should become.

We arrived back in Chicago to cold, just as we did when you died and after that Bahamas trip we took because you died. The winter chill stings my soul and mocks us with its presence. 

We miss you. There's nothing more to say about it, but I'll keep saying it. It can never quantify how much, as the words are just not powerful enough. I love you. 

Love, 
Mom

Full Circle

This is just one of the series of birthday week posts, but I felt like it deserved its own.

This day is big, you guys. Remember this post last year?

Huge. Monumental. It's the day we brought one of our babies home for the very first time. It was magical. On the way home, I snapped about a hundred photos of Benjamin staring confused about his new surroundings that didn't involve bright lights and alarms everywhere like the NICU. Just the flash of the camera as we drove away with excitement and adrenaline fueling us.

We cried on the way home as we talked about how it felt like we were being followed home by the NICU nurses we fought so hard to release our baby. How the feeling was so surreal and bringing home one of our children was all we'd dreamed about for nearly two years.

We arrived home and fed Benjamin, swaddled him, and laid him on our bedroom floor as we took turns staring at him and switching off to feverishly tear apart the nursery that was left in shambles from when we lost Andrew. We didn't want to count our chickens that Benjamin would be coming home with us, so we had a lot to do to make things functional.

We were exhausted, but wanted to soak in every moment of this baby. He brought so much love with him and we needed it all. We need it all.

Tonight at 6:30 p.m., we celebrate. With champagne. Benjamin will celebrate with a sippy cup of milk. 

Meeting New Friends

Two years ago, I imagined meeting new friends would forever go something like this:

"Hi, my name is Brandy and I have a dead baby. Would you like to be my friend?"

...Except, things aren't quite going like that.

I used to want every single person I encountered to be very, very aware that I was in mourning and have a baby which therefore makes me a parent and you better not think otherwise because I will hit you with the grief train. Luckily, Benjamin really does prove I'm a mother now. In the flesh as I wipe his snot and change his stinky diapers. Will I stand firm and tell people that Andrew made me a mother first? Forever. In many ways, Benjamin makes it easier to speak up about his big brother.

There isn't really a doubt that Benjamin saved my life. When I say I need him, I'm not really just kidding around.

I'd be in a very dark place without him here and I'd definitely, definitely not have put meet new friends on my year's resolutions list {which, by the way, are going great. We're on Day 11 of the Shred and I want to kill Jillian Michaels and yes... my husband doing the Shred with me is the only reason I am still committed}.

You know what? We met new friends. And, we've already had two playdates and are going to a dinner they're hosting at their house this weekend where we might meet even more friends. We've talked about Andrew and told them we lost him at full term and they were apologetic and sweet. Yet, that is not the cornerstone of our friendship and I'm somewhat okay with that.

How do you meet new friends {who haven't lost a baby} after you've lost a baby?

I mean, we can't have expectations for them to remember our baby, because to them, they have no history of  Andrew. And really, we're friends because we happen to have children the same age and a bit more in common. But babyloss? That's not one of them.

Benjamin deserves his own friends and for me to step out of my comfort zone to meet others that will engage and enrich his life. This is the balance of not wanting him to live in Andrew's shadow, but to encourage his individual growth and social awareness. It's challenging though, because no matter how hard I try, the person I was before Andrew has a really hard time being present in relationships now. Yet, I do enjoy escaping the beast of my babyloss mom status for just a bit. It's a skin I can't take off, but maybe cover for bits of time.

This territory is all new for us. We're happy-ish again. Always mourning and frankly bitter at those who aren't still at 2 years because how can you not be? But, we're also living that whole picket-fence life of the house and the kid and definitely not the minivan, except, grief is still very much alive. We're still sad we'll never see out the path we thought would be ours just over two years ago.

Jane's Event: Chicago

It's no surprise that blogging has been such an outlet for us. Despite myself being the only blogger in the family, my husband reads and is able to release some of his grief through the words I write. The comments I receive from you wonderful followers have helped us both through some very rough times. It's important to know others are grieving with us, listening, mourning, and loving us. This blog has also connected me to others who have lost their children and I have been able to support them with words and love. I receive emails frequently from some loss parents who just need to hash things out with someone who understands their grief journey.

Enter, Berkley. She lives in Chicago and contacted me through this blog for support nearly a year ago after losing her daughter on January 25, 2012. She wanted to share her daughter's life with me as she knew I'd understand her heartbreak and also celebrate her life. I wouldn't feel sorry for her, but empathize and encourage. I hope that I can do that for every babyloss friend who comes my way.

Berkley sent me an email about an event being held in Chicago on January 26, 2013 in memory of her daughter. On the website she created for her daughter, she states the mission of their fundraising event:

Established in loving memory of our baby daughter Jane, the Jane B. Wellstein Memorial Fund provides philanthropic support to hospitals and organizations that offer comfort, supportive care services, and other essential resources to parents and families who have experienced an infant loss. 

Berkley wrote me an email describing their efforts to build Jane's Room to help other families who may find themselves enduring child loss.

From the day we came home from the hospital without our little girl, we knew that we wanted to give back, give to others that would have to unfortunately travel this same horrible road, and give to the hospital that provided us with so much care and strength at a seemingly impossible time.

Working with the hospital where I delivered Jane (Northwestern's Prentice), we had realized that it was necessary to have a waiting room designated for grieving families, as my husband and our families had to wait at certain times during my labor and delivery in the “normal” waiting room surrounded by celebrating and happy families. This grieving waiting room is called Jane's Room and will be dedicated on her first birthday, January 25. We are raising money to start more of these in the Chicago area hospitals as well as hopefully other hospitals throughout the country. 

If you're a Chicagoan who might be interested in purchasing tickets to an event to benefit other loss families in the name of Jane, please find more information here. All are encouraged to attend-- you do not need to be a loss parent to participate and celebrate Jane's life and the wonderful efforts her parents are doing in her honor.

*The family did not ask me to blog... I'm doing it because I love to support loss families. 

Andrew's New Diggs

Yeah, that's totally morbid to write it like that. I'm aware.

For those not so savvy, here's Urban Dictionary's explanation of the word, in case you really hated my choice of a title:

1.	diggs
	home;place of residence;place of business "my bro just moved into new diggs across town."

See? Totally fitting.

I wrote a post earlier this month about visiting the funeral home and how our emotions affected the B-man. Here's the full story, for what it's worth.

The day after I delivered Andrew, our nurse came in with a paper of funeral homes we needed to call. Burial or cremation? Funeral or memorial service or not? Such questions we didn't anticipate ever having to answer and yet we were bombarded with decisions. When in a state of shock, you don't make decisions or think clearly through the tough stuff very well. And how were we to know what to do? You never anticipate having to choose where your child's final resting place will be.

Thanks to the nurses, we have professional pictures of Andrew. We would've never known about NILMDTS and yet, they were there for us in time of need. Our nurse on December 6 told us she would handle calling around to make arrangements for us because it was not something we were in a state of mind to be doing. Bless her.

We were discharged on December 7th and went over to select an urn for Andrew. The funeral home is about 2.5 miles from our home and I remember being a complete sobbing mess still swollen from being nearly 39 weeks pregnant just two days prior. I sat in a chair in a room where the walls felt they were suffocating me. We were shown some booklets and steered to select a keepsake urn for our son. I remember vaguely being told that because he was a boy and because he was a baby, that people often choose blue and this small heart urn. At the time, I didn't care much or have any clue how we could even do such a thing as pick out an urn for our son that we thought just 48 hours before, would be coming home with us in a carseat. We went with the blue urn and they told us they'd be picking up our son from the hospital.

He was cremated at a facility somewhere in Chicagoland and I guess the urn was sent to the crematorium for it to be filled.

Days later, we received a phonecall to come pick up our son from the local funeral home where we placed the order for that small, blue heart-shaped urn. We were told on the phone to come anytime. I don't remember when we picked him up, but I know it wasn't right away. We were a mess of emotions and had no real urgency, after all, he was gone.

When we arrived, they told us we could go into a room where his ashes were placed-- the room where they hold funerals. On a table would be his urn. The heart urn was wrapped in a velour black bag with a little Brother P-Touch label on the back of the urn that read, "Baby Wilson" on it. Not even his name. The box next to the heart urn also had his name, date of cremation and location of cremation, all in typewriter font. We were told his remains did not fully fit. Until just weeks ago, I had no idea how much did not fit, because I was too afraid to open that box. It turns out only half of his remains fit into that little urn and the other half were in the box. Sealed with a twist-tie.

I remember sobbing as we drove home. I was holding a heavy urn with my son's ashes, and they couldn't even put all of him inside the container. Insult to injury-- perhaps an understatement of that long-used phrase. I was surprised at how heavy that urn was-- but I know much of it was the urn itself and not my son at all. At the time, it felt like I was holding his full weight, 7lbs. 6oz.

He lived on our bookshelf in the formal living room for two years. His additional ashes were inside a basket underneath and it bothered us that he wasn't ever whole. I was frustrated that we did not receive a phonecall telling us that we should select another urn. Or that they didn't just leave his ashes in one container for us to decide later. What good is an urn with only part of our son? Our intention was never to spread his ashes. I also felt incredibly sad to obviously be an anomaly. Clearly they didn't deal much with dead babies, or they would have this all figured out by now. Lucky us. The anomaly.

For his 2nd birthday, we knew things needed to be made right. I wrote it on the whiteboard in our laundry room and we finally made the trek back to the funeral home the Saturday before Andrew's 2nd birthday. I called ahead of time to schedule an appointment and gave them all of our information. We were told we could come in later that afternoon. I received a phonecall a bit after making the arrangement to tell me they had lost our file.

Lost our file.

You read those words correctly. I can't make this stuff up. {I know my husband is considerably more understanding in this regard, but I'm not and I write this blog, so I'll be carrying on now.}

We arrived at the funeral home and sat down in that very same room, this time with Benjamin in our arms. I sat in the opposite chair I did before, but within those same 4 walls. The funeral home director plops a book down in front of us with urns to choose from. I was instructed to bring all of Andrew's ashes with us, so I brought the two containers. Despite explaining the situation on the phone since he lost our file (dead infant, too small of an urn, cremated, 2010, name, date, etc.), he didn't seem to connect the dots.

Once he saw the containers, he said he understood and started flipping through to show us our options. He sighed here and there, telling us they don't really have a size that would work for Andrew's ashes, at least not in the catalog. There are full-sized options and keepsakes-- primarily used to hold a small portion (about 2-4 cubic inches-- Andrew is about 7.5-- it's nearly a 1:1 ratio. Try Googling that for a good time) and for the rest to be spread or buried.

The he tells us that he'll jump on Google to look at some more for us.

Jump on Google.

No, sir. We know just how to jump on Google to search for urns ourselves. We were hoping to avoid that whole process, hence the middleman.

We decide on an urn he checked online to see that they had the middle, rare size that would still be far too big for Andrew's ashes. I was sobbing at this point and ready to leave. Benjamin wanted to crawl around and I was not having any of that.

We hurriedly ordered and walked out and I sobbed while holding Benjamin in the parking lot. We left Andrew inside. He wouldn't be with us on December 5th.

Before we got in the car, Ray headed back in because he just couldn't leave Andrew's ashes there on his birthday. He went in to retrieve him and we sat in the car, sobbing some more. We were no more than 2 blocks away before he asked me if I wanted to cancel the order. I hated the urn we chose, again, and really didn't think this was a good solution. But Ray knew that without me saying a word.

He called and canceled everything, stating that we weren't pleased with our options and that we would be handling things on our own from now on. We arrived home and Benjamin wouldn't sleep. He was feeling our grief.

Once he was down to sleep, we researched urns online. Nothing like having a website called "urn shopp.er" show up in your dropdown menu when typing websites in daily. Note to self: delete history. We found one that was perfect. As perfect as one can be anyway. LuciaUrns is an Etsy shop started by a potter in Massachusetts. People loved her pots so much, that they often asked her if she made urns for their loved ones-- as the current options on the market are not personal, warm and artist-made. Dealing with a rare size issue, it was fitting that she created urns that would meet the needs of any size, including babies.

We selected the smallest size, suitable for 10 cubic inches. Ordered, shipped and to our home the day after his birthday. I spent the rest of that day during naps figuring out what we would do about his ashes. I knew we'd pour them ourselves, but I was scared. I don't know of what, but I guess the idea of staring down the ashes of your deceased child doesn't exactly warm your heart. I opened his old urn, the heart, with a flathead screwdriver and there was residue. I didn't take the bag out of the urn because it was jam-packed in there and looked quite difficult to handle. But the ashes? They were more coarse than I imagined.

Once Ray came home, he took the additional container, the old urn, and the new urn into the laundry room and performed the switch. With some tears, our firstborn had a final place in our home where he would be whole again. The bag from the old urn with its very own twist-tie (like on your garbage) along with the urn itself, the screws, the "baby wilson" label, and the additional box were placed in the garbage along with dirty diapers and food scraps.

Just another example of the heartbreak of baby loss. The paradox of life and death.

While this post is terribly dark and sad, I do want to update that we are so pleased with the new urn, its beauty, and the daintiness of it. We're thrilled Andrew has a perfectly chosen piece of art as his very own. As sad as it is to have such a thing, we are pleased and feel more at peace with things ever since that package arrived on our doorstep. {I waited to post this on a day that there were no birthdays, to my knowledge. It needed to be in Andrew's birth month.}

We're finally done with that forsaken funeral home.