In honor of breastfeeding week...

As I sit here with my almost 11 month old rainbow baby nursing in my arms...I am acutely aware of how quickly time passes us by.  This poem spoke to me today...I know it will speak to you too. 

 Wean Me Gently

by Cathy Cardall

I know I look so big to you,

Maybe I seem too big for the needs I have.

But no matter how big we get,

We still have needs that are important to us.

I know that our relationship is growing and changing,

But I still need you. I need your warmth and closeness,

Especially at the end of the day

When we snuggle up in bed.

Please don't get too busy for us to nurse.

I know you think I can be patient,

Or find something to take the place of a nursing;

A book, a glass of something,

But nothing can take your place when I need you.

Sometimes just cuddling with you,

Having you near me is enough.

I guess I am growing and becoming independent,

But please be there.

This bond we have is so strong and so important to me,

Please don't break it abruptly.

Wean me gently,

Because I am your mother,

And my heart is tender.

Random Acts of Wonderment...

I came into my office this evening and found a box on the computer table that my son's had failed to tell me arrived.  You see, they were rather excited about a game they had ordered that arrived, and I'm sure that anything else in existence slipped their minds.   Even so, I did find the box, and I was pretty curious about it, so I ripped it open while my rainbow girl grabbed happily at the tape that kept sticking to her tiny fingers. 

Inside the box... I found the most beautiful thing. 

It was a hand knit bunny with a rainbow dress.  My Venus girl grabbed at it with a squeal of delight.  She squealed and squealed as the bunny flopped joyfully in her hands.  It was love at first sight!  I dug into the box and found a tiny silver key chain...with the names "Simon and Alexander" printed on the back of an Angel disk. 

The tears trailed into my smiling mouth as I read a beautiful note from a dear friend who I haven't seen in years. 

I watched my rainbow baby clutch at her bunny as her big brothers whooped in amazement over the idea that our friend had MADE that toy with her own skilled fingers.  They declared her talent to be above and beyond anything they had ever dreamed about, and longed wistfully for the ability to make toys and clothes and jewelry like that. 

I kept gulping back tears.  Never in my life would I have dreamed of such a gift for my girl.  It simply was too beautiful to imagine. 

I am struck by the heaps of adoration that others have showered into our lives. 

I am awed by the love.  The compassion.  The miracles. 

The sparkling eyes of my little girl shine with delight, and they remind me of eyes that never looked into mine.  Simon and Alexander...I would have loved to see your eyes sparkle with joy.  There are people in this world who understand that.  There are people who know how deeply I yearn for them. 

Every day.

I wanted to share with my readers around the world this photo of my rainbow girl with her new beloved bunny...  I wanted to tell you all that you are not alone.  There is a sparkle in the universe for us.  It shines with golden light and love. 

Sometimes, it is something we can touch, like a bunny made by a friend.  Sometimes...it is a feeling. 

A beautiful, wonderful feeling. 

Shards of Glass

When my father was a boy, he boiled a glass in a pan and it exploded.  You can still feel shards of glass under the skin.  Shards the doctors were never able to remove. 

You'd never know just from looking at it.  But, if you feel carefully...they are there.

This weekend, I took a walk with my rainbow girly and husband...and of course, my amazing sheep dog.   The boys all opted to stay home with a movie, and we agreed because our teen hasn't been home much lately, being a social butterfly and all...  So, it was a nice chance for them to hang together as brothers.  It was also a nice chance to just talk, without interruption.  In all honesty, we typically don't mind "interuption"...but there are moments when it's nice to talk without having to remember what you said moments ago because someone needs toilet paper, and someone else needs a snack and someone else wonders when they can buy that extra special video game, and someone else wonders if I can pay them for cleaning the porch (yes.) and someone else wonders if someone ELSE can do the dishes (no.)

When we walk with our rainbow girly, sometimes we pass other people.  They smile at her and nod knowingly at us "Oh, you just wait till she's older!  They are sweet NOW, but..." 

They don't know that I've been a practicing mother for 22 years.  They don't know that I have five living children.  They don't know that my twins are dead and that I'd give ANYTHING to have them give me hell in the future.   At least they would BE. 

It's the shards of glass in MY heart...loss.  Razor sharp and uncomfortable to the touch.  Sealed under a scar---forever. 

The part of me that longed for "me time".  The part of me that groaned about endless need.  The part of me that wistfully remembered dreams from my youth---before I became a parent.  A mother.  That part of me...seems insignificant compared to the part of me that yearns to be whole again. 

I yearn for the days before the shards of glass.  Before I knew that my children could die.  Before I knew that I could--and would--find myself sobbing in a super market.  Or any market for that matter.  The days wherein I felt complete, and whole, and...strong.

I walk by smiling people and I wonder what their shards of glass are. 

Or if they have any.

And if they don't...Why? 

How??

As they walk by me, with my beautiful little girl smiling from my arms, do they think I've got it all?  Do they feel that I must not know suffering? 

Do we look like the perfect family of three plus doggie dear? 

It's something to contemplate...that others have shards of glass in their souls too.  That we can't see what those shards are from.  That we don't even know they are there.  And probably never will.

I walk by smiling people and I smile back at them. 

They don't need to know. 

Past...Present...Future.

It's really been three years.  Three long years since losing Simon and Alexander that have gone by with the speed of a freight train running over my heart.  Only faster.  And more tortuous.

Three years in the life of a woman.  When I look at the big scale of my life...three years are a drop in the bucket.  I should be grateful. 

IS that little baby girl really me???

That's what I'm told.  I'm told that that grinning little girl with the big brown eyes is me.  Or rather...she was me. 

See, that little girl with the broad smile and eyes brimming with excitement hasn't been hurt yet.  She hasn't been damaged by life yet.  Her parents love her and feel that she is a delight.  She hasn't been ignored, or belitted, or neglected, or shamed.  Yet.

Life hasn't dealt her any abuses.  Yet.

Nor any cruelties.  Yet.

She still drinks her mothers breast milk, designed especially for her, and when she cries, her mama picks her up.

No one has molested her.  No one has berated her.   No one has decided that she is too needy or too talkative or too...bothersome.

No one has decided that her emotions are unwanted.

She has never known loss...nor does she know that she will walk hand in hand with it.  She has NO IDEA what is in her future.  No idea of what is coming her way.  

She is just loved.  Adored even. 

I was a rainbow baby.

It's funny, to look at the picture now, because...I have a rainbow baby too.

And, just like the me in that picture...she is adored.
She has never known pain.  Neglect.  Abuse.
No one has ever given her anything but tenderness and love.
She has been treasured, encouraged, and celebrated.
She is surrounded by a house of adoring brothers, a doting father, and an especially tender mama.

This is my mother and me.

Yeah...we are sideways...but, that's kind of appropriate.  Because see, my world would soon be turned upside down.  My mother would soon get the son she always craved, and I'd be put on the back burner...suddenly too demanding.  Suddenly too...me.  Rainbow baby or not....It's never been the same.  I was too much work.  Too sensitive.  Too talkative.  Too...sexy?  Yeah.  I was apparently too sexy by the time I could walk.  Weird.  

Not only was I too sexy, which is why it was my fault that I was violated while she frequented bars with random jerks...but I was also too thinky.  See, I thought too much about...everything.  We didn't really see eye to eye, my mother and me.  Not because I didn't want to...but because she didn't want to face her own demons.  She didn't want to look at her own pain...so mine was a nuisance to her.  When my pain didn't just "go away"...I became the object of disdain.  It was my problem.  Not hers.

This is my rainbow girl and her mama...me.  The me I am NOW.

We are right side up.

If i have ANYTHING to say about...that is the way she and I will stay.

In love.

In touch.

In eternity.

I was a rainbow baby.  A discarded rainbow baby.  How bizarre to know how deeply I treasure my own girl when I am an un-treasured daughter.  And yet...I know how to be a good mama, cause I didn't have one!  I searched high and low to discover who I am NOW.  I was a rainbow baby.

Somehow that speaks to me.  A rainbow baby giving birth to a rainbow baby...

I look at the pictures of the me that used to be...and I know that the twinkle in my eyes holds an understanding of joy.  That twinkle has re-appeared...and as I look at my daughter, it sparkles in a wonderment that stands in astonishment as I contemplate my past in view of my present...and my future. 

I know that the little girl that I was had no idea how terribly sad life could be...and life was unbearably cruel to her.

And yet, that sparkle...it remained.

That's how I know that photo is of me.  I still have that sparkle.

When I look at my baby girl and her big brothers...I see that I passed it on.
I will take care to ensure their sparkles are cherished.  I know what it feels like to have that sparkle ignored.

That is what tenacity gives us...even though the walls of our lives come crumbling down... we discover our innate right to love and joy in spite of hardship and our sparkle shines on.
And on.

And on.

And...I am very. very. very grateful for that...

Fact and Fiction

I've been writing.  (What's new??) 

But seriously, I really have been writing.  It's almost done.  My baby. 

Somehow, it was brought to my attention that a story must be told.  The question was, how to do it.  I didn't want to expose my tender family too much.  And yet...it is our story that was chiming in my ears.  So, I took our reality and made it fiction. 

You'll see us in it.  Fictionalized.  I chose to do that in order to morph things well...and in order to protect myself from raised eyebrows and dubious response. 

It is our story. 

And, it's almost done. 

It's been three years since our loss.  Simon and Alexander are waiting in the wings.  Our rainbow girly is at my breast.  And...the story must out. 

It was meant to be. 

Earth Day...

Yesterday was Earth Day.

For those of you who know my story, you know why that day is important to me.  Three years have passed since we lost our twins.  Three years have passed since I discovered that there really is something beautiful to be found after we die.  Three years have passed.

I feel a little bit like a war veteran who has just come home.  I've seen things the "normal" people around me have not seen.  Felt things they haven't felt.  Questioned things they never thought to question. Been through things I hope they never have to go through.

I'm a changed being.  Tender.  A little frayed around the edges.  Bruised.  Scarred.  Maimed.

But I'm here.

I'm here.

Yesterday, we spent the day walking.  Talking.  In the seclusion of river, woods and fields, we found some laughter, shared tears, memories...

We took turns holding our rainbow girl.  How healing is the presence and solid vibrancy of a rainbow baby!  In moments of intensity...heart breaking longing...we would hold her close.  Feel her skin.  Thanking life for giving her to us.  And then, blinking back tears in the knowledge that some of our fellow sisters and brothers of  the loss world have not been given the opportunity to feel that comforting balm.  It pains me so deeply to think that such a painful void would remain empty for so many.

In that...I know I am ever so lucky.

I don't say blessed at the moment, because that would imply that someone decided I was worthy of my girl, while others remain unworthy...and that, to put it bluntly...is solid horse-shit.

I am lucky.

So very very lucky.

I wanted to thank everyone who put Simon and Alexander in their hearts yesterday.  I wanted to thank the people who called...who sent cards...flowers....gifts...  I wanted to thank the people who took pictures and drew their names in the sand.  Thank you.  It isn't blood that defines family.  It's love.  It's thoughtfulness.  It's holding someone's hand in support.  You are the people who do that for me.  You are my family.

I love you for that.

Slip Sliding Away...

I've been crying a lot this month.  Sobbing actually.  There are lots of reasons for this...all of the reasons linked to the same events.

I'm weeping because they would have been three this month.

I'm wiping my eyes because I could have had twins.

I'm sniffling because I feel guilty for wanting something I can not have.  Ever.

I'm gasping for air because it still hurts that they are gone.

I'm feeling my heart race because the agony of that pain has short circuited my body's electrical patterns.  Maybe permanently. 

I'm holding my face in my hands because I'm supposed to be all better, according to others, now that my lovely rainbow baby is actually HERE at my breast.  And yet....I'm still crying inside.

It's not that I don't feel the soothing balm of rainbow baby loveliness.  It's not that she isn't AMAZING in every way.  It's not that.  It's that I lost my twins.  I think I thought it would stop hurting somehow.  I think I thought I really wouldn't feel the pain so acutely anymore.  I think I thought that after three years....

I'd maybe...forget?

Or maybe I'd...just smile at the memory of people who should have been...but didn't get to BE?

Or perhaps I'd...just....

be stronger.

But I'm not. 

And that has to be okay with me. 

It's April.  It hit me hard today as I walked in the woods with that amazing man who, for whatever reason, still seems to love me like there is never going to be a tomorrow.  Our little miss V. was on my back, gazing at the world around her in a perky little bonnet.  Her big blue eyes competing with the sky for brilliance.  Her sweet milky aroma bringing a smile to my lips.  I held the warm, strong hand that has never left my side for 17 years.  I watched my cutie pie sheepdog lope up ahead to catch the disk flying up ahead of us every few hundred feet.  *my husband has a thing for folf...*  And I saw them....

Purple and yellow flowers.  They are here again.  Because they are here every year at this time. 

Purple and yellow flowers.  All over the woods. 

And I remembered. 

I remembered dying.  I remembered seeing our twins.  Holding them.  Talking to them.  Not wanting to leave them.  I remembered.

My throat closed up. 

I gripped his hand. 

And I said..."They would have been three years old."

He knew what I meant.  We stopped and looked at each other.  I saw him looking at our 7 month old daughter.  Our rainbow.  I saw the tears well in his eyes and took note as the muscle in his jaw set to work. 

There are two people on this earth who miss two people not on this earth more than we can bear.  There is a family in the mountains that remembers it is not complete. 

There is a hole that isn't filled by other babies.  No matter how perfect and wonderful they are.

Our rainbow girl is a new person.  She isn't a replacement.

She isn't a substitute.

She is our wonderful baby girl.  We adore her.  She is lovely and enchanting in every way.

To think she could replace our little twins is ludicrous.  She didn't replace them.  She is her own person.  She should have had twin brothers who were three years old.  Twin brothers who would have made her smile just as her other wonderful brothers do.  It could have been that way. 

It could have been.

Instead,  it isn't.

And that makes me weep every time I see purple and yellow flowers.

Time passes so quickly.  It moves right past us.  When you have lost a child, others want to have that mean that you are "all better".  That you too have moved on.

That isn't how it works.

You remember.

You just try not to let others know you remember.  but, not for you or your well being...for them and their preference to forget what they wish they never knew in the first place.  

What a crazy world.

Fairy Dust and Race Cars...

The moments of my day have changed dramatically in the past few months.  I couldn't help but to realize this as I sat, with a small girl looking attentively at my activity, paintbrush in hand.  The small girl watched as I dipped the brush in a selected color and rubbed it carefully onto a designated spot.  Just so.  Every now and then, she would break into a joyful chattering of delight--much like the sound of a baby pterodactyl.  I would stop, smile on face...beaming at the little bundle on my left leg...and then, continue painting.

What was I painting you ask??

THIS.

The idea was inspired as a reinforced box appeared in my car after my husband's office moved to a new location.  The box was just perfect and my little miss's brothers zoomed her around in it for over an hour before I saw, in my mind's eye, what it really was.  Her first car.

I imagine her tearing through town...a gleam in her eye.

And the most wonderful part of it all...the most magical part...is that I get to pretend.  With her.  Because she is here.

When you have lost a baby.  Or babies as is the case with me...  You know how precious that reality is.  To have the option of pretending.

In the depths of loss, there is no pretending.  Anything.  You can't pretend your baby is here.  You don't get to fill your hours juggling activities.  The hours tick slowly on.  Without end.  You lose track of days.  Months.  Even years. 

The painful reality is so stark, it leaves no room for imagination.  For silliness.

I remember being silly.  I remember being creative.  I remember not knowing that I didn't know.

I found a picture of the pregnant belly that contained my twins on my cell phone yesterday.  Honestly, I am pretty sure I took it at this same time of the year three years ago.  It was what I looked like right before they were gone.  I took that photo and sent it to my husbands phone right before I set off to teach a psychology class at the University.  I remembered it...because it was the last one I took that year.  

As I painted the little car for my rainbow baby girl, I thought about the fact that I never got to do anything for my twins.  Maybe that's the part that hurts the most.  I didn't get to mother them.  I didn't get to show them how much I would have treasured them.

I held my little girl a little closer as that feeling crept over me, as it often does.  That feeling that knows all too well how lucky I am to have her here.  With me.  In my lap.

I know how fleeting this time is.  Because, even when you get to HAVE your baby in your lap, it's really only the blink of an eye before they are moving out, having their own lives.  Their own babies.
I know how precious these moments are.  The moments of shared smiles and silly box cars.  The moments of wakeful sleep and eager nursings.  The moments where you are the most important person in a child's world.

In a simple life moment, one of those moments that happens before you want it to, she will step out of her box car, and into the real world where I can not insure her safety, or her happiness.

I'll just have these pictures as a reminder of this joyful moment.  The moment wherein she was my baby.

And unlike her twin brothers, she got to be here with me.  Enjoying the blissful world of imagination.

She's here. 

I could never forget how lucky I am in that.

It's no joke...

April 1st.

I had the momentary desire to pull a prank on my boys today but I couldn't think of anything that would be actually funny.  It occurred to me that, while not ALWAYS true, April fools jokes are more often mean spirited than funny.  The whole idea of tricking someone into thinking something shocking, whether it would be a happy thing or not, is just...well....it's just not always so funny to the person being tricked.

I sound like a party pooper I guess.

When I woke up this morning, there was the little girl in me that wanted sooooo much to pull a fast one on my family.  To tell them something that would make them gasp...and then, say in a sing-song fashion, "Aprilllll Foooooools!"  But, I couldn't think of anything funny.  I couldn't think of anything silly.

All I could think about was that this is the month.  April.  This is the month that has haunted our lives for the past three years.  April.  This is the month when we lost them.  April.  This was our season of loss.  And it still is.

April.

I rolled over and hugged my rainbow baby close to me.

And I cried.

Silently.

I thought to myself,  "There is nothing at all funny about loss."

And, I breathed.  I tried to follow her sleepy breathing.  I cuddled against her downy hair.

And I cried some more.  For all the mama's who don't have the rainbows I know they wanted so deeply.  For all the mama's who know loss like the jagged rip I feel acutely this morning.

Who know how painful emptiness can feel.

I see the blue sky creeping out from under storm clouds that left my lawn damp.  The light is starting to peek out in streaming beams.

My cheeks feel taut from the salt tears that soaked them this morning.

I know my boys will each play a trick on me today.  And, I will laugh...and maybe forget for a moment how raw this pain felt in the wee hours before anyone else was awake...and I'll be grateful for all the wonderfulness I am surrounded with...and I'll know I am just about as lucky as anyone has ever been....

And they will still be gone.

They will still only be a whisper.

Their ashes dissolved into soil. 

I think I'll take my rainbow girl to the gully today.  I think I need to spend some time there with her.

It's funny...somehow I believe that she knows Simon and Alexander better than all of us.
Somehow, I believe she will understand.

It's no joke...but, it's funny all the same.  Funny in exactly the way I would expect April 1st to be. 

Standstill...

There is this different place wherein time not only stands still, but also flies by. 

It's a place where a computer virus is met with a shrug.
And where the understanding that the computer will be gone for weeks, is met with a smile.

And months go by in the blink of an eye.

And tiny toes get bigger.

And the thorn in your heart continues to fester...and yet...you smile anyway.

Because there are things to smile about that feel better than the pain of loss.

And then...you look out the window, and something reminds you. 

A yellow balloon sails by the window, tied with a purple string.

Two birds land on the porch.

A baby girl smiles...at nothing.  And probably something.  Probably.

Walking hand in hand with your best friend.  Your lover.  The one who has walked through everything with you...who will walk through everything yet to come.  You walk...and you talk....and only the two of you are aware that there should have been little twins running up ahead.  Almost three years old.  There should have been little chubby twin fingers stroking the soft cheek of a beloved little sister. 

You look into the eyes of an older child...who is drawing a picture with purple and yellow flowers.  Who always adds purple and yellow to every picture.  Who always will.  Probably.

Because...we were changed. 

All of us. 

And as life speeds ahead.  Parts of us all are standing still.

Changed.

The memories that never were, and that always will be.

In a standstill.

Sorry...

It's funny how hard it is for some people to say they are sorry.  In fact, some people have all kinds of ways to actually avoid saying it at all.  There are the roundabout pseudo apologies like "IF I have done anything to hurt or offend you, please forgive me."  and "I stand corrected".  Both of which simply say..."I am NOT going to SAY I'm sorry...but I hope you will think I have said it so that I can continue doing everything exactly as I've done before.

Then, there are the apologies which come seriously delayed, after every other possible stall tactic has been tried.  Once one realizes that, really, the ONLY way they can save face for their own selfish reasons is to finally say "I'm sorry"...they say it.  Even if a year has passed.  Or years.  

Of course, there are those who will never say it at all.  For, to admit one has wronged another is a mighty hard thing to do. 

My eldest son struggled with this concept throughout his childhood.  He would do something he shouldn't have done, or accidentally hurt someone...or hurt someone on purpose....and when the subject of apologizing would come up he would say "BUT...I didn't mean to hurt him!"  I would then have to go into the monolog about how even if we don't mean to hurt someone, and especially when we haven't meant to hurt someone, an apology is what we give to the person we have hurt in order to express that we understand that we have hurt someone.

Can you see the concept soaring over my son's head?  yeah....it soared.  It literally had wings that would fly over him and out the window.

It's funny how some personality traits seem to be heritable.  It baffles scientists.  How is it possible for a child to inherit a personality?   Aren't personality traits learned?  Well...yes and no.  Some personality traits are learned.  And others...are heritable.  For example, mental health issues can be passed through family trees.  In my own experience...it's also strange things...like the ability to apologize.  

The concept of being to blame for another person's heartache is apparently something that some of us have a hard time with.  I was raised by a father who believed that any suffering I experienced was my own fault through karma and/or perception.  So, if something he said or did or neglected to do caused my heart to ache...it was my fault and not his. 

I take issue with this. 

If I say or do something that causes my child pain, I apologize.  I may also explain why I did what I did, or why I said what I said.  I don't negate their feelings.  I don't act like I should not have to apologize, because, I know that when you hurt someone, the most important issue at hand is to repair the damage you have helped to create.  You say you are sorry.  And, you do it in a timely manner. 

I see that personality is heritable because, though my eldest son was raised away from my father, he has the same issues with empathy and compassion and accountability that my father has.  You can see the effects of my consistent teaching, because he shows glimmers of what he was taught, and is now, at the age of 21, able to accept that to make things right, he must be accountable and apologetic when he has said or done something to hurt another.  Even when he didn't mean to.  That's the part that was learned. 

My father has not yet learned this. 

It took him a year to apologize for hurting the feelings of one of my other sons.  A year.  I know that in that year, he basically came to the conclusion that there was no way he could get out of it if he ever wanted to be allowed to move forward.  So, he apologized.  It was looooong overdue. 

He also owes me a big whopping "I'm sorry" as well.  I don't expect to get it....but, maybe he will surprise me.  My suspicion is that he's only good for one douse of humility a year, so...maybe next year he'll be able to come to terms with the concept of being sorry for hurting someone that perhaps he didn't mean to hurt.  Without an apology, I can only assume he is glad he hurt me.  Why else would he resist making amends with his daughter who loves him so deeply? 

It reminds me of an obsure Dr. Suess story called Bartholomew Cubbins and the Oobleck.  In the story, a silly king asks his magicians to make something new fall from the sky.  And...something does fall.  It IS new.  And...it is awful.  The oobleck falls and falls, ruining everything around.  The king can not and will not admit that he has made a poor choice...and things get worse and worse.  Finally, the little boy, Bartholomew Cubbins, tells the king that he HAS to say he is sorry because he has really caused the whole village to suffer terribly.  The king finally wails that he is so very very very sorry...and suddenly, the oobleck stops falling.  It simply stops. 

Not being able to say you are sorry is a lot like allowing your village to be covered in Oobleck.  It will keep on falling until you own what you have done to another person.  The next time you suspect you have hurt someone, even when you didn't mean to, talk to them...hold their heart as a precious jewel...say you are so sorry for causing them pain, and explain how you will prevent that from happening again.  In that way, they will see that you mean your apology and understand what you did...

In doing that, you have not only apologized, you have opened the door for forgiveness.  It takes courage to own your actions...but it the effort that is required of any healthy relationship.  It doesn't come natural for us all, but it is a skill that can be learned.  It can be learned.  The first step in learning it...is to do it. 

Darkest before the Dawn

Once very recently and not so far away, there lived a little girl in the deepest valley of the world.  This little girl walked through this deep valley, aware that there must be a place beyond that she had never been told about.  She didn't know how she knew this, but she felt sure of it.  Every day, she would wander through the trees in the hopes of finding a path that would lead her away from the valley that enclosed her.  One day, she came upon a path that she had never seen before.  It seemed rocky and narrow and she was afraid that it might not lead her anywhere.  Nevertheless, she found her self climbing it slowly. As it grew dark, she looked back from where she'd come and knew that not only could she not find her way back but that she was perfectly sure that there was no way to return to the life she had decided to leave.  She walked on.  The blackness of night chilled her to the core, and she felt a distinct glimmer of fear well up within her.  Tears flowed down her cheeks where the grime collected from her journey turned into muddy tracks.

She walked on.

And on.

Her feet bloody from the rocks, she walked on.

It seemed that the night would never end.

Owls hooted in the trees where the wind whispered encouragement to the little girl.

And as the sun made its way into the sky once more...the little girl saw the new dawn.

The colors swirled purple and golden over the horizon and the birds sang a lullaby to the night owl that lulled him to sleep.

The little girl walked on and as the light brightened the world, she saw herself in a land that existed above and beyond the valley below where the flowers bloomed and rainbows danced in the misty air.

She was finally home. 

Doing it differently

There are people who believe that it is best to forget the past.  Perhaps they feel that remembering negates any beauty of the present?  Honestly, as a person who feels that one must remember in order to fully appreciate what IS, I can't pretend to understand the desire to forget implicitly in the name of "being healed".

What IS healing, anyway?  Is it not remembering?  Is it turning the other way when the sharpness of a memory permeates the present moment?  Or is it being able to see the contrast, acknowledge the pain and longing, and then...continue living.

Once upon a time, (many times actually...) I was called diarrhea mouth. This "loving" nickname hurt me deeply.  It was an effective way to express that what I had to say was so abundant that it was sickening and uncontrollable.  Funny that I would go on to become a writer: ie: a person who has much to express.  Call it diarrhea mouth...or call it being expressive.  My parents chose the former...and as I watch my rainbow baby coo and croon and babble and chat in beloved baby expression, I am choosing the latter.  Expressive.  Not diarrhea mouth.  Beautiful.  Not nauseating. Precious.  Not dismissible.

There are those who would wish that I wouldn't think of what I was called as I give my daughter the warmth I feel she (and I) deserve.  Instead, I say to her "Sweetie!  You have SO much to say and I LOVE to listen to you!"  or "Oh Ali V.  Tell me MORE of that sugar!"  or "You go sweet Venus...tell the people what you want!"  there are those who feel, to this day, that they wish I didn't express what I feel or call it like I see it.  But...there is a discrepancy between the sentiment of wishing a person could find healing while wishing they would shut up about their pain. Diarrhea vs. Constipation??  Better out than in!!!

Oh yes.  I hear, in the words of a parent not as enthusiastic as I happen to be, the groan of "there goes diarrhea mouth again...." in the depths of my own childhood memory.  Because I love my own beautiful little girl so much, I feel the contrast, and it aches in my gut.  That I, a beautiful baby girl...a rainbow baby myself (!!!)...would not have been cherished...that my earliest sentiments would have been viewed in a similar fashion to something as wretched as diarrhea...well, all I can say to that is---wow.  I deserved better.  I'll give my daughter better.  That is my promise to her.  That is my promise to me. Healing.

As I love my daughter, I am learning that I deserved just as much love.

That is true healing.  See the now.  See the past.  And do it differently in honor of the love you wanted...in honor of the love deserved by all.

The Past...

This morning, I am thinking about what has been.  I am thinking about what has been in the light of what is now.

It is, surprisingly, not making me feel sad.

When I look at what has been, all by itself, I typically feel a wave of grief.  I can look behind at my footprints and see that there are so many tears about so many things.  I can find myself falling back into those footprints, wishing I could change them.  Or, at the very least, make them more palatable.  That isn't the way footprints are though.  You can't erase them, or turn them in another direction without messing up the rest of the journey.  So, as I look at my footprints, I found myself realizing that it was those very steps that have led me to now.

I found myself feeling...grateful.  Yeah.  I said it.  Grateful.

I started thinking this way because my on and off again boyfriend of middle school years found me on facebook.  I had to smile, because this boy was one of my happy memories of the past.  I remember...  I remember him passing me a note in Mr. Mormon's class in 6th grade.  I was new to the school, and had pretty low self esteem after my torture from a particularly mean girl in the school I'd been in previously.  He passed me a note.  It simply said..."I think you're cute."

Harmless enough, but...being the silly fool I was at the time, I thought he was making fun of me because I knew without a doubt that I was everything BUT cute.  I ran out of the classroom in tears because I was horrified that this very cute boy was making fun of me.  I wasn't cute.  I was ugly.  I was fat.  I was stupid.  I was....worthless.  I cried and cried until another girl came out of the classroom onto the field to console me.  She assured me that I was cute, and that if this boy, whom she also agreed was as cute as I'd thought, said I was cute, he meant it!  I was elated!  Have you ever seen Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?  The old one...with the fur-mation and the snow monster?  The scene when Rudolph leaps into the air, flying better than all the reindeer because the girl reindeer tells him he's cute?  Well...that was me.  All because of being given a letter (a confirmed one at that!) that said I was cute.  He became my boyfriend, and gave me my first kiss.  Of course, we were kids, and we broke up, he went with my best friend, they broke up, we got back together, we broke up, we got back together...and then, he met another girl.  A girl whom he married.  I remember her...she was sweet, pretty, and smart.  They were perfect for each other.  Everyone agreed about that fact.  When he told me he'd married his high school sweetheart, I was elated!  It was meant to be.  It was perfect.

I saw our footprints of the past join happily, and then move apart to join other footprints.  Just as it needed to be to bring me to my husband.  Had I stayed with my 6th grade crush, the first boy to tell me I was cute, well...I wouldn't have my husband.  I wouldn't have this life. 

I saw my footprints join with the wonderful man whom I love with every fiber of my being.  I saw tiny foot prints walking beside us.  I saw tears in some of the deeper prints and sparkles in others.  The most recent footprints are filled with the light of rainbows.  Deep, sturdy prints are these.  No mistaking that these prints have been taken with determination.  With purpose.

I walk more carefully now-a-days.  I'm not as flitting and fleeting as I was once upon a time.  I feel like I know where I am going, though I can't chart the course on a map of any kind.  As I make new footprints, I realize that the past has made the present and the two combined will make the future.  We all carry baggage with us on our journeys through life.  One of the things I carry in my pocket is a little note with the penciled scrawl of a boy who gave me back my self esteem.  The boy who first told me I was cute.  And meant it.

If it wasn't for him, I might have never known that.

I might have believed a lie told by a mean girl instead.

To all the people of the past...to all the things that have been...To all the smiles, and all the tears...to all the loss and all the gain...

Thank you.  Thank you for being part of my now.

Of panic attacks and wishful thinking...

There is a sleeping bundle of girlishness on my bed.  She's sleeping in the pseudo-starlight of  her turtle nightlight.

And I...I am here.

I had a panic attack last week.  Two of them actually.  It's amazing to me that the nervous system can really get fried badly enough that it misfires even when you're feeling just fine.  Because, I really was feeling fine.  Or...was I?

Apparently...I wasn't feeling fine enough.  I get that there is this underlying anxiety that lives in my chest at all times.  I get that I'm hyper vigilant.  I get that I'm basically damaged goods.  But...I also get the psychology of grief.  I get the human psyche.  I understand what I've been through and I've been working hard to heal.  And...she IS here.  Sleeping on my bed.  Right next to the co-sleeper that she never sleeps in, because...that is too far away.  I can hear her sleepy noises from where I stand right now.  She is 10 steps away from me at this very moment.  She is here.  Alive.  A big gorgeous girl with bright blue eyes and a presence that say's "Mama...I am here to stay!"

She's vibrant.  Unscathed by life.

And...my grand-babies are within her body right now.   All the babies she could ever have....inside her ovaries.  And that was what did it.  I was holding her.  Loving her smell.  Cherishing her presence.  Knowing all too well how very very very lucky I am.  It was that moment when my heart clenched.  My breathing shallowed.  My eyes swelled with tears...and it began.

I couldn't really protect her.  Not forever.  Not in every way.  Not from loss.

As I held my tiny 2 and a half month old daughter...all 16 pounds of her...I was deeply aware that I was also holding all her babies...her future darlings...and the fear poured over me.  I quaked.

I lost it.

She slept through my jerky sobbing and my sudden fear that I might just die from the despair that was racing through my veins.   She slept through my wails.  Cuddled on my chest...peaceful.

As if to remind me that she wasn't worried.

As a parent...you have to remember not to push your fears on your children.  I bite my lip hard when I see a spider...and calmly try to act like I'm not terrified that it will run up my leg.  I feign composure when we drive on narrow roads near mountain cliffs.  (Of course...I typically lose that battle...My boys are all too aware of my fear of heights, but, I haven't passed it on.  They just think it's silly....)
I don't want my daughter to fear bearing a child.  I don't want her to fear loss.

But mostly...I don't want her to experience loss.

Ever.

And that isn't something I can force.  It isn't something I can protect her from.

I can only watch.

I can only hope it isn't on her path.

And I fear that it isn't enough.  Hope isn't enough to protect her from pain and tears and loss.

It isn't enough, but it's all a mama has.

When she wants me, she calls for me.  She actually says "Ma mam! Meh Mem!"  She only says this when she wants me.  She can talk.  She's been doing this since birth, and there is no disputing the communication.  She trusts me to protect her.  She trusts me to know what she needs.
I know that she trusts me to have the answers.  She needs to know that I can help her when she's gassy or hungry or lonely or just plain...needy.  She turns to me for help.

My panic attack was over knowing that there will be times that I can't help.  Won't have the answers. Won't be able to take away the pain.

The thing that eased the second panic attack was remembering that I don't need to know the answers.  I found a peace in my being by remembering my readers...my friends...my sisters on this journey that is being a woman who has lost babies.  I remembered all you have done and all you have been to me.  You've been HERE.  You couldn't take away my pain.  But you witnessed me in it.  You couldn't change the fact that loss was part of my being.  You understood and validated my pain.  You couldn't promise me that it wouldn't happen again.  But you held my hands and gave me hope.

And in that, I suddenly realized that hope is more than enough.

Hope is everything. It's all we have.  It's not desperate and it won't change hard events.  It gives you a reason to go on. To find your path. To know that doors will and DO open, even if they aren't the doors you thought you'd venture through.  Experiencing life isn't a bad thing, though it can be a hard journey.  When I look back, I understand that there is hope.  I can give that to my little girl when she needs it...even though I hope she won't need it in the way I did.

Hope.  It saved my life.  It brought me to this moment, where I can hear her breathing.  Where she is only 10 steps away.  Where she is being watched carefully by a loving furry sheepdog who wants nothing more than to lick her tiny feet, but is resisting the temptation....for now.