2008 March 23 — slackermama . com

First off, you all are wonderful friends. Thank you for the kind emails and comments and twitters today, letting me know I’m in your thoughts. It is a rough day, but I do feel that being here for his fourth birthday really helped me to put a lot of unfinished business to rest.

Still. That said, it was a hard day. I’m freshly post-partum and we all know that unleashes a torrid flood of hormones. Last time, it was fretting over a breast pump to take home. (okay, “fretting” is probably a mild statement compared to that meltdown, but still) So I’m well aware that the tide of emotions I suffered today are probably mostly related to hormones. But my “trigger” was not a breastpump (rather, Evie is doing very well on breastfeeding!) but a combination of Jackson’s birthday, being alone all day, being alone with Evie and realizing that I was in over my head most of the time and then digesting the knowledge that eventually I will need to care for Liam and Evie at the same time.

It was too much. Of course, it doesn’t help that Liam is teething (STILL) and has been incredibly touchy lately. It’s probably exacerbated by the upheaval he’s been dealing with (I can’t even imagine what a change this is for him to deal with). So Kile tells me these stories of fits Liam has thrown and has even shown me PICTURES and video showing me Liam’s state of unrest.

^{If Liam had a “thought balloon”, it’d say “This wouldn’t happen if mama was here.”}

Of course, Kile didn’t immediately realize that teething was a large culprit and once ibuprofen was distributed, he was much better and happier. So.. yeah. But COME ON, you’ve just had a baby and are riding a hormonal tidal wave and you see pictures like that and see video of your little one crying inconsolably and hear these stories and it’s going to cause something to shift loose in your head too.

And, like I said, I’d had a hard day alone with Evie. Yes, I’m still in the hospital and I know I could have asked for more help than I did. BUT, when it comes to getting up and picking her up out of her bassinet and taking her back to bed, it feels silly to call a nurse just for THAT, you know? Even though the c-section kinda gives me a “pass” on that and it really was rather difficult to maneuver her and myself back into bed all the time, I still couldn’t ask for help. And Evie is really on board with breastfeeding now, which is GREAT, but she also decided that she’d like to either be eating or being cuddled all day long. Naturally, I am HAPPY to do this for her. I could spend all day holding her. I could lose years just sniffing the top of her head. It was just the constant up/down/up/down all day long and then being so ALONE.

I’m still scared about the days ahead. My emotions are still bubbling near the surface. But I do have perspective. Evie’s bilirubin is WAY up tonight. So much so tt they called her pediatrician and drew some labs just a few minutes ago. I’m thinking they’ll want to put her under the lights tonight. I’ll miss her terribly, but I want her levels low enough to home tomorrow. Keep your fingers crossed.

Get the word out:

Dear Jackson,

This has been a strange week. Shoot, it’s been a strange MONTH. For one thing, there’s been peace between myself and the month of March. That’s definitely new. I’ve been able to put aside past differences and hurts and see the beauty in this month. The buds of life growing on the trees, the days that struggle to be warmer than the days before it (even though they’re not always successful), the different shade of blue the sky is taking on during those rare, clear days. I’ve paid extra attention to the mercies in this month. There’ve been several, and not just ones concerning me.

But this week takes the cake. This is a week I normally dread all year long. Something to survive, get through, move past. “Another birthday down,” I’ll say to myself. No celebrations, though. Only remembrance. This year, however, there has been celebration. And this has been a week that has been greatly anticipated. This week saw your baby sister come into the world.

^{Wrapped around her little finger already}

She looks like you. I know it sounds improbable, but she does. Even your dad is skeptical. He agrees that her hair resembles yours, in that it looks more like yours did than any of the other boys’ hair. But he thinks the similarities end there. I think he thinks that I’m reading too much into it. I don’t think so. I was holding her last night, up against my chest after we’d had yet another successful breastfeeding session and I swear to you, in that moment her face looked just like yours. Her mouth, my mouth, looked just like yours. The set of her eyes, closed as they were, just like yours. The shape of her nose and curve of her cheeks… the retreating chin that it seems all newborns have…

Maybe she doesn’t look exactly like you, but it’s close enough in my book.

It’s strange being back in this hospital, four years later. So many things have changed here since then. Then again, a lot of things are the same. This room we’re in right now is the ghost of the room we stayed in after you were born. Not the same. But close enough. It makes me think of you, a lot. My mind is filled with the memories of you, of that awful day four years ago and of the total redemption we have found here this year. It’s nothing short of a miracle.

The corny side of me wonders if you looked after your baby sister in heaven, if you held her little hand and ushered her down here and into our arms yourself. If your soul kissed hers before sending her to the family you never got to enjoy. It’s corny, I tried to warn you. But I have had that thought.

Your dad and brothers and grandparents are going to visit your spot at the cemetery today. Part of me wishes I could be there but part of me is glad I won’t be. You’re not there anymore than you’re here, in fact, you’re probably just as much here as you are there. And we have no marker for you there yet, something that makes me sad every time we visit. It’s not that we don’t love you. Please know that. I will change that, eventually. They’ll bring you some flowers, stand over your spot and think about what could have been. Wish you a happy birthday (and a happy Easter too!). I suppose I can do the same (well, minus the flowers) here at the hospital, can’t I?

Thank you for touching our lives. I do wish what your four year old self would have been like today. Would you have been thrilled to share your big birthday with Easter? Would you have competed with Harry to see who could find the most hidden eggs (and gotten frustrated, likely, when Harry found more)? Would you have argued the case for eating your chocolate bunny before church, even though it would make you wild? Would you have insisted we have birthday cake for desert after our ham dinner and that we open presents as soon as possible? Things to think about.

It’s a special day. It’s a special year. You were our special boy. We miss you, love you. We won’t ever forget you. I’ll leave you now, with the song that we always think of as being “yours”.

Love,

Your mama