Today I go to bed grateful for…

the beautiful bright light who chose me to be her mama – her smiles, her hugs, the sound of her laughter, her growth, the way her brain works, her love

the kindness of friends and neighbors – a dog walked, a meal delivered, a call and an email to check in

the gifts of grief – deepened by conversation with a woman who knows them well

the chance to move my body – and the vision that I will one day look graceful while hooping

the opportunity to experience life in all its fullness, despite its sadness, because of its joy

Today I go to bed. Tomorrow I will wake up. There will be more to be grateful for.

Today was my first full 24 hours on my own with Ada since Ben died. I am exhausted and heartbroken. The day went well, all things considered. I was a little less patient than I would have liked, my pizza stuck to the pan, and the Walk Like the Animals “movement” class we started was lame (I’m getting my money back) but more things went right than wrong and I’m proud of how well I did. The problem is the day isn’t done.

What I want is a glass of wine (or hot chocolate), a foot rub, a shoulder massage, a long hot bath, someone to clean my kitchen, sweep the floors, take 50 pounds off my body and put me to bed. What I have is…me.

I realized just now as I was laying in bed with Ada, not wanting to move, that some time in the last week a switch flipped in my head and now that my incision is officially healed and we’re back from vacation, I’m supposed to be superwoman. The mental list goes something like this: exercise daily, cook three healthy meals plus snacks, keep the house clean, be a great mama, spend time with friends, stay on top of emails, return phone calls, get back to work…. How did my expectations for myself suddenly do a 180 without me even noticing?

All I want right now is a shower, a good cry and maybe a few minutes with a book. Now I need to find the strength to let everything else go and give myself what I need.

The should’s are a whole lot louder when Steve is out of town.

I went to Barnes & Noble today to pick up a new cookbook. The woman at the register was the one who had exchanged a book for me just before Benjamin died. I’d bought a gift for a friend and had meant to return it immediately because it wasn’t the right version. Then I started bleeding again and by the time I got back there, the 14 day return window was up. I was rather short with her when I asked her to make an exception because I’d been in the hospital and on bed rest. She gave me a look that I interpreted badly. I got in the car and sobbed. I’m usually really nice to people but this had me feeling horrible even though I knew it was all tied up in my emotions.

When I saw her today I apologized. I told her I felt that I’d treated her badly and that my baby had died and I needed to say I was sorry.  Somehow all of that was connected in my mind, though I doubt it made much sense to her. She wiped a tear away, then held my hands when she gave me my change.

I got in the car and sobbed. Only this time I didn’t cry because I felt like a horrible person. I cried because I miss my son.

*****

I came home tonight to a beautiful flowering plant and note. From my two favorite labor and delivery nurses. Almost 8 weeks after his death.

It is amazing what happens when we live with our hearts wide open.

*****

In other news, the first piece of writing that I’ve had the guts to submit has been accepted for publication. In between all the tears today I have been smiling from my head to my toes.

When are you due?

Oh. No. I was pregnant but our son died when I was five and a half months along.

Oh. I’m so sorry. You know, my daughter had a very similar experience…

It took seven weeks and three days for someone to ask the question. She asked if I’d be able to have another. We talked about our options and that her daughter was about to adopt when she got pregnant again and all was well.  I loved that she didn’t shy away from it, didn’t change how she spoke with us. She was able to convey warmth and understanding while implying, this is life – we never know what we’ll be handed.

So I thank you, grandmother with the beautiful Australian sheepdog, selling your house (hopefully) to a family from Santa Monica. Thank you for asking the question and for hearing the answer.

One more step in the journey of healing.