We spent time today with friends whose son died two years ago October at 28 weeks. I don’t think we had seen them since. I sent flowers and then didn’t know what to say, even though I thought of them often. We met their rainbow baby today – she is beautiful of course and looks just like her big brother.

Being with another baby lost mama was like suddenly being able to breathe more deeply, without realizing I was ever struggling for air. It is a remarkable bond, this shared experience. One that happens for too many of us. One I wouldn’t wish on anyone but I’m grateful for nonetheless.

For the last hour I’ve been writing about this caterpillar that we stuck in a container a couple of weeks ago and how today it flew away as a pale yellow butterfly.

And it was all a bunch of blah blah blah.

I wanted it to be deep and important. I wanted to have something interesting to say.

I stepped away and realized that yes, it was cool to watch Nature in action and one of the best things about having a child is seeing the world with new eyes. Yes, there were some universal truths in the experience, but they’ve been explored by much more talented writers than I.

What’s really on mind tonight are the amazing people who have touched my life with their words left here in response to mine, how open my heart feels, how much I treasure my husband and daughter, and how much I love my son. I’m thinking about the pregnant friend I saw today who looks so adorable at 27 weeks I want to be jealous but can’t, and the one who is days home with a newborn, adjusting to life as a family of four. I’m remembering the call with my brother – with his new baby, new job and the stress of finishing a PhD and how as I listened I thought about how different my life was supposed to be.

That’s where we get into trouble isn’t it? Thinking that anything is supposed to be.

There’s no such thing. It’s a mental construct.

Life just is.

I realized moments ago, curled up next to an exhausted and teary Ada as she slipped into sleep, that today marks three months. Three months since the doctor looked at me and said, Now. Three months since my parents held each other after my phone call and hoped both their daughter and first grandson would survive. Three months since I held Benjamin’s tiny weight in my arms.

It was just a day. As normal as a day can be after someone you love dies. I woke up earlier than I would have liked after a not-so-great night of sleep. I played, ate breakfast, watched A Curious George Christmas. I went back to storage and let go of books, crystal decanters, framed photos – things I needed to hold on to a year ago. We looked at dining room tables, hoping to have enough space in our new home to entertain again. We ate lunch and sketched possible layouts for rooms, dreamed up our IKEA list, enjoyed each others’ company. We went to the beach, skimmed through old video tapes to see if they were worth keeping, laughed at the purple suit I wore in one of them. We ate, danced, played some more. I discovered a mouse had been snacking on some granola bars as I cleared shelves of anything with wheat in the ingredients list.

It was a day.

There is a little voice in my head pushing me to feel guilty that I wasn’t – am not – a wreck. A voice telling me that anniversaries of deaths are to be heavy, painful affairs. A voice telling me I’m not grieving hard enough. I can hear it, but I don’t feel it inside. I feel tired, a little hungry, peaceful.  I’m okay with feeling okay.

Today, right now, I am okay.

It was just a day.

I love you Ben. Forever.

Today another shift. Another letting go.

This afternoon I gave away some of my favorites of Ada’s baby clothes. I will be selling some, giving away most of the rest and keeping a few for a legacy blanket (thanks to wholly jeanne for the idea and the support). This feels good and makes my heart ache at the same time. I need to let them go, to create space for what is to come and I need to honor the dreams that spent time in those vacuum sealed bags. Dreams of another child, of pulling those clothes out again for daughter number two or giving them happily away when a son came along. Going through them, I remembered the way Ada looked in a certain outfit, or how I felt when I bought it, or how I wished I’d realized something fit smaller than it should have and I’d missed the window because they grow – she grew – so fast.

So many memories, so much love.

I’m also clearing space inside. The magician discovered today that I feel guilty about sleeping well (what?!) and that it’s tied, once again, to beliefs formed by a little girl who didn’t understand the world around her. We pass emotions and beliefs on generationally without realizing. I wonder what Ada is getting from my current struggles, my grief, my growth. I hold out hope that her light is bright enough to withstand the current storm; that my attempts to turn my face in the direction of ease, love and presence will temper the moments when she feels responsible for what’s happening in our home. Because she’s a child and that’s what children do. It’s what I did. Inside me there’s a little girl who feels responsible for every tear her mother shed, a little girl who took on someone else’s journey as her own.

The same therapist who told me to dance used to ask me, What did you do that was so horrible, so wrong? There is no logical answer to that question from an adult point of view. But somewhere down in the fish poop is the belief that I am not worthy of a marriage that works, a child that lives, work that I love. It’s well buried at this point, this belief. I don’t know when I would have uncovered it if Ben hadn’t died. Grief has me diving deep and stirring things up that I thought were resolved, staring into the looking glass and falling down rabbit holes. This time, I’ve got help. Amazing healers keep appearing in my life and through the pain I hold the vision of myself shining brightly, hand in hand with those I love.

Right now the wounds are open, gaping, raw. I want them to heal clean this time, from the inside out. It’s time to help my inner little girl grow up.

Sweet thing, it’s not your fault. Let go.