Friday, March 12, 2021


    in pregnancy loss communities, when you have a living child after losing others, that child is called a "rainbow baby."  it's like a rainbow after a storm: something beautiful after something turbulent and dark.   when you have a living child before losing one, that child is called a "sunshine baby." it's like the bright happiness before the darkness rolls in.  

    today my son, my triple rainbow baby and sunshine baby all in one, turned nine.  my sister sent around some old photos and videos from nine years ago, and it utterly astonishes me that much time has passed since i first held his tiny beautiful body in my arms. one photo, taken only a few days after we were home, shows me cradling his head against my heart, both of us at total peace.  i couldn't stop looking at it, tears streaming down my face.  only hours previously, my now-comparatively enormous son had crawled into my lap and nestled his head on my chest in exactly the same way, snuggling contentedly and naturally into my arms, without any thought or self-consciousness.  i recognized the look on his 3-day old face as the same that appears on his 9-year-old face: the peace of being surrounded by love.

    "i am grateful for all of it."  i whispered these words out loud, looking at the photo.  and i was thinking not just of him, but for the three that went before him and the one after, that cleared and tilled and fertilized and prepared the soil of my life to be his mother.  the loss isn't forgotten because healing is not forgetting.  healing is acknowledging the babies you’ve lost and also celebrating the joy of the babies who survive.

    family lore (and a vivid memory that i have) has it that on my ninth birthday, my mother kneeled down, hugged me, looked me in the eye, and said "i can't believe my time with you is already halfway over."  while my mom has mixed feelings about this tale, i have always remembered it as a blessing: i knew i'd been given wings long before i knew what that would practically mean.  i didn't say any of this to my son today, but what i did think was, "i can't believe i've had so much time with you already, especially when i had no time at all with the others."

    i'm thankful that time's boundaries don't apply to love.

Friday, November 1, 2019

celebrating loss, celebrating love

for awhile now, it's been guaranteed that i'll at least post here twice a year: around Mother's Day, and on October 15th, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, also known in our home as Tummymuffin Day.  this year... October 15th came and went.  no post.  what happened?
what happened, i am astounded to admit to you, is that i... forgot.  yeah. i forgot Tummymuffin Day.  the feeling in my body when i realized this was first a hollow feeling of disbelief, and then a wash of hot shame and regret, like i'd somehow betrayed my family and all of you.  i questioned my priorities, my time management, my authenticity.  as i calmed down, and forced myself to mindfully consider, i had an insight: i'd forgotten the date. i had NOT forgotten the Day -- in other words, i had not forgotten what makes October 15th usually so important, simply because i cannot.  the loss of my other children is always there, and it makes itself known in wildly different ways.  
recently, i was asked in front of a group of people that well-meaning, but ultimately complex question, "So is he your only one?"  i gave my usual response, "Yes, and i didn't think i would even have one; i lost three before and one after him!" i've said this many times, but for some reason, as the questioner said "Oh, I'm so sorry!", i felt a glow of compassion and freedom for my four other Tummymuffins; there was a joy in knowing that will always be mine right alongside the sadness that i will never know them as i do my living son.  my heart felt peaceful.
however, only a few days before the 15th, i overheard a woman mention a long road of infertility, and when i looked over, i saw her face was frozen in an all-too-familiar rictus mask of 'being strong' -- the too-wide smile, the too-bright eyes.  the other person said "Well, at least you and your husband are having fun trying!" and it suddenly felt like the world around me went into horrible slow motion; i literally had to put my head between my knees to clear the roaring in my ears. i quietly sobbed into my jeans, bewildered by the absolute tidal wave of emotion.  i felt like i was leaking for at least another hour; every time i thought i'd "gotten over it" i would cry again.  the inner turmoil didn't subside until i recognized that the cracks in my heart are actually shared ravines with so many other women, and that maybe by tumbling in, i was sharing in a communal experience of that pain.

i live in a city that enthusiastically celebrates today and tomorrow as Dia de los Muertos, otherwise known as the Day of the Dead.  (for a long time, most people outside of Mexico or communities with a Mexican-American population had never heard of it, but then Pixar gave us the beautiful film Coco.) yes, the whole point of the two-day event is death, but it is an exuberant explosion of joy, love, respect, and community.  families remember loved ones who have died not with sorrowful mourning, but with grateful happiness that their lives intersected.  in fact, it is customary when sharing memories of the deceased, to purposefully pick the funniest, most entertaining memories possible.  there is singing, dancing, and of course's a party, and the spirits/memories/souls (you pick) of the departed join.  it is not twisted glorification of darkness or spookiness, nor is it a romanticized view of death.  it is the acknowledgment of the human cycle of experience, and it is an honoring of who we are as humans who love and who lose those we love.

so even though i did not light my candles for each Tummymuffin on the 15th, i will light them tonight, celebrating the existence of their little brief lives with joy even as i honor the cracks in my heart that need no mending, for they are forever part of me.

Sunday, May 12, 2019

not my choice

here i am, seven years into this journey of motherhood between losses, and i'm still deeply ambivalent about Mother's Day.  sure, i am beyond cynical about the commercial part with packed restaurants and overpriced flowers and cards, but i find it easier to place myself with the people for whom Mother's Day is difficult (see last year's Mother's Day post) than slip beatifically into a role of a smiling mommy having adoration force-fed to her.
ok, maybe i'm still beyond cynical.
but here is the thing: none of this was my choice.
i struggled with infertility before each pregnancy.  not my choice.
i experienced motherhood four times only through happy nausea, hopeful tiredness, proudly tight pants, blessedly hearing a heartbeat, and then crushing grief.  not my choice.
i wrestle with the reality that there are millions of secret mothers with invisible children out there, just like me.  not their choice.
i know that there are also plenty of hurting secret dads out there too, who have even less space and social permission to experience their grief.  not their choice.
i have already hugged several friends who are dreading Mother's Day because their mom won't speak to them, or is a squizillion miles away, or is dead.  not their choice.

i told my patient and understanding husband that i didn't want anything special for Mother's Day, since i still feel so negative and sad about it, which confuses me.  "are you sure?" he asked.  "you know that's not your choice to make."
i did not like this answer, and said as much.
"honey," he said, "our son gets to decide that.  Mother's Day is for him, too."

clearly i married up.

and my wise and beloved husband is absolutely right.  our child is all whispers and secrets and hiding things in daddy's closet and dashing around and happiness.  he keeps asking me how long it is until Mother's Day when he will be able to, if his excitement is any indication, unleash what must be surprise awesomeness of epic proportions.  "it is a special day!" he proclaims. "for special mommys! and you are my only mommy so it is special for you!!!"
this is so clearly Not My Choice.

what is my choice, then, is to accept that my confusing cynical gloom cloud can coexist with the sparkly rainbow sunshine of my family's joy, and neither shall negate the authenticity of the other.  and i shall choose to inhabit the sparklyness with all my presence, and in so doing, honor my invisible children by holding space for them in that expansive joy.

Monday, October 15, 2018

international pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

on this October 15th, on International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, i'm incredibly honored to have been interviewed by the courageous and wonderful Shannon Vandermark, creator and host of the podcast "Happily Ever After...Without Children."  when she first asked me, i was surprised she would want to have someone who has a living child on the podcast, but i understood why when she explained that she wanted to hear the perspective of someone who can say from experience that having a child isn't some kind of magic bullet that wipes out all the pain and grief of infertility and multiple pregnancy losses.  as easy as it is to think that "just having a baby" would make Everything All Right Again -- satisfying all the longing, wiping away all the pain, making everyone happy -- it's simply not true.  the opposite of happily ever after without children is not happily ever after with children; it's sadly ever after either with or without children.  each person responds to grief and loss differently, and each must choose what that Ever After will be.  joy and sorrow dance in lockstep; our enormous capacity to love brings with it an enormous capacity for pain.

you can look in the right sidebar under "labels" and see that i've written extensively here about this emotional duality and how i do not believe that L is a "happy ending;" that motherhood after loss is a unique experience that is affected daily by the struggle that preceded it; that grief has no expiration date, and of course, about the importance of Talking About It. this day is a huge part of that.
October 15th is the internationally designated date to remember and promote awareness of pregnancy and infant loss, and to give those affected by it a worldwide community of solidarity in grief and hope.  for many who swallow their sorrow, this day is perhaps the needed "permission" to recognize the pain of losing a loved child before or briefly after he or she was born...and this would also include the would-be grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, godparents, etc.  

tonight, for Tummymuffin Remembrance Day, our little family of three will light five candles; four for the children we will not meet, and one for our bonus miracle L. we'll hug and talk about the things that make us a family.  later, i will speak aloud the names of those i know who are remembering their lost children, and light candles for them too.  this will be happening in hundreds of thousands of places literally around the globe.  there will be so much light, and so much love.  

and if you like, you can listen to me talk about October 15th at the following places below  (warning: mild profanity.  it is, after all, an honest conversation from the heart and i saw no need to self-censor.  apologies in advance.):

Sunday, May 13, 2018


i see that now i come here to post twice a year: once on National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, and once on Mother's Day.  i didn't intend to do this, but i suppose this is because these are the two markers in the year when one simply cannot NOT remember.
i'm having a small existential crisis right now; the construct of "Mother's Day" is still not really that cemented into temporal reality for my son, and so it's up to me to figure out what i "want to do for Mother's Day." my original idea has been sidelined due to capricious weather, and i still have a very, very fraught and confusing relationship with the holiday.  after having a small meltdown about it, my wise husband pointed out that perhaps it is just that what i would like to do is NOT have a Mother's Day, just a normal family day.  oh. huh. but of course.
an artist i regularly appreciate for her keen human insight, Mari Andrew, created an illustration that is titled "Thinking of You." it depicts six different lovely bouquets of flowers, each one with a caption underneath:
:: Mothers Who Have Lost Children
:: Those Who Have Lost Mothers
:: Those With Strained Mother Relationships
:: Mothers With Strained Child Relationships
:: Those Who Have Chosen Not To Be Mothers
:: Those Yearning To Be Mothers
this more or less perfectly sums up how i feel about Mother's Day and explains to me why i still cannot approach this day with anything like peace.  i have no problem celebrating my own amazing mother, but i have a hard time celebrating my own motherhood without also acknowledging those other bouquets i've held and still hold.
i used to feel incredibly guilty about my turmoil over the holiday for various reasons, but now i'm choosing not to. it takes a lot of energy to choose not to feel guilty about something, and that's probably where the existential crisis is coming from.
i see that my last post dealt rather thoroughly with the idea that something as wrenching as infertility and/or pregnancy & child loss remain potent through time, circumstance, and growth -- both negatively and positively -- and so to any of you who are awkwardly clutching any of the above bouquets, especially you secret unseen mothers, i hope for you some measure of joy and peace even as what feels like legions of other women triumphantly wave their "normal" bunches of mom flowers.
and remember: until we speak, we do not know one another's please: tell a trusted friend or family member, or even me about your bouquet(s), especially if they are still painful, for there is no shame in them.

Sunday, October 15, 2017

pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

very recently, i went to a movie with my husband -- we can do that sort of thing now, because L is now in kindergarten, and we can enjoy the early bird shows.  We were the only people in the theatre, and we were pretty early, so my husband went to use the bathroom, leaving me alone with the ads for concessions and insurance and lawn care and mobile phones and whatever it is they run forever before you actually even get to the trailers.
i was excited to be feeling like a grown-up, relaxing in an air-conditioned movie theatre, on a date with my husband, when an image came on the massive screen in front of me: a woman looking at a pregnancy test, with a slowly spreading smile on her face, and then a shot of her and her partner, cuddling happily with the test in hand.  i sat in shock for a second, and then completely, unexpectedly, and utterly lost it.
it literally felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my chest.  i gasped for breath, clutching the back of the oversized plushy seat, heaving with sobs.  while the lizard brain part of me fell to complete pieces, the rational bits of me were terrified: what if there's someone in the projection booth and they think i'm having a heart attack? what if my husband comes back right now and finds me like this? and what, for the love of all that is holy, is happening to me?
i curled into a fetal ball into the corner of the seat and tried to breathe through the giant, primal sobs. i scrabbled around in my bag for a tissue, and tried to keep from drowning in my own tears and snot.  i had no idea what that ad had been selling, and didn't even really understand what was happening to me in the moment, but i certainly knew why it was happening: it was the concentrated grief of all those many, many pregnancy tests...and how even the positive ones amounted to a negative when it came to actually having a child.  it was the memory of the last, unexpected one that hurt the most.
"that's all i had for some of you," i whispered, "just blue lines on a stick. i wish you were more. oh, i wish you had all been more!"  and then -- like a switch had been flipped -- the sobs just...stopped.  it was as if the acknowledgement of my lost babies' presence in my life was the truth that needed to be spoken to acknowledge the grief and send it back to rest.
i stabbed the tissue furiously at my eyes, blew my nose, and did box breathing while the lights went down and the trailers started.  miraculously, my husband did not re-appear until a few minutes later, and the darkness effectively hid my swollen eyes. we proceeded to enjoy a movie like a couple of happy teens cutting class. now, you'd think this abrupt emotional shifting would've ruined things, but instead i found myself simply relieved to know that They Still Matter A Lot. 

so why do i tell you this very personal and awkward story?  because you can see the tickers in the right-hand column (scroll down if you want to) saying it's been eight and a half years (!) since we first honored a would-be day of a child that never came -- and the sorrow still packs a hard punch.  it's another October 15th, Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day (click the links if you want more information on what this is), or "Tummymuffin Remembrance Day," as we call it in our home.  with time, each one is no easier than the last...they're just different.  i wrote in my last post about growing within the measures of joy and sorrow, and as my story shows, said growth will likely never be done.  i will likely always carry some pain of hopes crushed, just as i live every day the joy of a dream fulfilled beyond measure in so much more than even the life of my one living son.

friends, there are a lot of other parents tonight who will be lighting candles, remembering the ones they never met and choosing to courageously keep loving them anyway.  so please break the silence: offer a word of encouragement.  say "i love you and i'm remembering with you." give a hug.  light your own candle. ask for stories. say their baby or baby's name out loud.  just be there. 
and thanks to all of you who have been there, some of you for each and every one of these October 15ths over the last many years, who have extended so many acts of love that have defined our family in ways we could not imagine.  my candles will be lit tonight with so much gratefulness because of these, because of you.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

the measure of a (wo)man

recently, someone said to me they had realised a basic truth about life: that the measure of joy in your life is in no way connected to the measure of the amount of sorrow.  in other words, if you are very happy, it doesn't necessarily mean you should have very little sadness. and if you are struggling with some overwhelming challenge that leaves you  breathless with grief, this shouldn't preclude the presence of joy in your life.
there is no other day in the calendar of my adult life that so starkly racks this usually hazy duality into sharp focus than Mothers' Day. i am at the life stage now where more and more of my friends are losing their parents to the inevitabilities of age -- cancer, heart disease, accidents not recovered from.  they miss their mothers (and fathers) with a raw emptiness than i can only guess at.  i have my own inkling about it though, because i still miss my four lost children in a way that startles me.  how is that chasm of grief still so deep, and dark, with edges i cannot see? 

i am five years into being the mother of a living child, and every day of those five years has changed and shaped and challenged me in the best and most exhausting ways possible.  i have never before felt so much love, and joy, and also terror, and frustration, and above all, how strong i am.  my son is a miracle in every way -- and i know that the tenderness i feel when he puts his small arms around me is all the more fierce because i truly never thought i would have this experience. 
some of you have followed this journey from the beginning; some of you are new to it, and so i will admit to you all that yes, i gave up.  the clutching hands of my exhausted soul were cramping up after years of infertility and three lost babies, and i felt i had to simply let go of hope.  it actually felt good, like releasing a spiked iron ball into an ocean wave.  in time, i realised that it was being replaced with another, different kind of hope: hope for me, hope for my amazing husband, hope for the family of two that we were.  and since that was what i already had to work with, i didn't have to hold it so tightly.  so when i lost the much-wanted, and not-realistically-hoped-for-pregnancy after having my miracle-gift son, that spiky ball had been growing soft algae at the bottom of the sea for several years already.  getting through the day by focusing on my everyday, present hopes alongside recognising my crushing anger and hollow sadness felt actually normal.   i suppose i can call this Growth, or maybe it's just Growing Up. because generally, growing up isn't fun, but it is certainly healthy and good.
please don't hear what i'm not saying: i am not saying to anyone dealing with the grief of a denied future to just "give up hope." what i am saying is that the more i do the hard work of internalizing the dual nature of joy and grief; of having and having-not, the more i grow and the stronger i become.  letting go of hope for a dream that is not going to become a reality is a true loss, AND that loss is not connected to all the dreams that have come true; they should not lessen one another in any way.  there are many other things in my life that require this awful, messy work, and i cannot shrink from them with an unfounded fear that to do so would somehow decrease the overflowing joy in my life.

sigh. this all feels rather inarticulate, and i suppose it should be, since this is a lesson-in-progress.  i "know" all this, and yet i find myself more and more falling into the trap of guilt and denial over any present sorrow i still feel for my missing children: i have so much -- SO MUCH in my life that is rich and beautiful and marvelous, including a robustly alive son whose face, i am told, looks like mine. (strangers who tell me that on random playgrounds have no idea how deeply meaningful that is, how it feels like they are actually saying, "my dear lady, may i congratulate you on winning the Grandest of the Grand Prizes?")   shouldn't i just be able to leave those years of loss, and grief, and disappointment behind me? isn't it selfish to still sometimes cry so hard that i must sit down because something, anything reminds me of my other Tummymuffins? can't i just be happy with what i have?
the truth is, Mothers' Day is still emotionally conflicted for me. i cannot fully access the joy of my little son reciting a poem to me about our love and giving me a tiny flowerpot, without also fully accessing the years of pain this day has meant for so long -- both to me and to so many i love who are "secret mothers." both are real, both are completely heart-exploding, both are inextricably part of me, and neither negate the other.  perhaps the measure of joy and grief in a life is actually a measure of love.

Saturday, October 15, 2016

national pregnancy and infant loss remembrance day

my neighbours are landscaping their front yard, and it's currently a childrens' paradise, with huge piles of stones and dirt everywhere. they have a daughter only a few months older than my son, and a few evenings ago, they were happily playing together in their makeshift "construction zone." L drove his bulldozer up and down a dirt hill, loading piles of fragrant soil into his friend's little cement mixer.  her mom and i stood nearby, contentedly watching our kids play and enjoying the last moments of daylight.
we first became friends when we both had huge pregnant bellies and no real idea what to expect.   we shared maternity clothes, nursing shirts, baby food gear, kids' books and toys, and each others' yards.  after awhile, we also discovered that we shared the experience of three prior miscarriages previous to our fourth child's live birth.  and recently, we've also shared the grief of letting go of the dream of a family of four, as she also has experienced secondary infertility.
as the sunlight began its steady autumn-evening fade, she turned and asked me, hauntedly, "how do you let go of what you never had? how do you deal with the guilt of wanting another child when you already have one against the odds? how do you move on?"
i listened. i breathed deeply. i was silent. the sound of our kids laughing made me wonder if she also sometimes thinks about how it would be to hear her child's laughter mixed with that of a brother or sister that never was.

at this time last year, i was aching and so angry, hollow and raging, fresh from the loss of Tummymuffin V and full of unanswered useless questions, most of them starting (and ending) with the word WHY? in this year's span, i've healed a lot; i've let go more, but i have done so mostly quietly.  i have yet to write about the unexpected laying to rest and naming of my last lost baby; perhaps my silence is evidence of how soul-weary i am from these sorts of thoughts.
you see, i don't have an easy answer to her question.  it's really asking: how do you balance feeling unbelievably blessed and unbelievably cheated? can you? should you? i don't really know. what i do know is that i still don't think you really "move on" or "get over" pregnancy loss and infertility. you have to move with it; accept its presence in your life, and make it an acknowledged companion so it doesn't become some parasitic vampire of your actual identity. 
recently i have noticed that perhaps the lack of peace i feel is possibly -- dare i say -- feminist in nature: that pregnancy loss, and the insidious culture of silence that society imposes around it, is part of the acceptance of the idea that a woman's worth is measured by being someone's wife (you attracted and caught someone! you win!) and someone's mother (your ladyparts all work! good job!). i'm astonished by how often i hear comments that imply that i'm cheating my son, or i'm being irresponsible or selfish, or even that i "have it so easy" because i have only one living child and i do not (actually cannot) plan to have another.  i can rationally reject these comments, just as i can and have rationally rejected the many unintentionally devastating comments regarding my pregnancy losses and infertility.  but they take their toll.
so on this Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, or as we call it here, Tummymuffin Day, i lovingly and humbly make this request: please don't ask the couple "so when are you going to have a baby?". don't say to the parents " oh but (s)he needs a brother/sister!".  and for the love of all that is holy, please do not ever say to any woman, "you better hurry up and have a/more kid(s); your clock is ticking!".  and if you are privy to the details of someone's family-making journey, and you know there has been tragedy and roadblocks, just saying "i love you and support you" goes a long, long way.

as the sun became a red-orange glow, and the outlines of our precious children's beautiful, vital, innocent bodies showed against the pink-tinged sky, i turned to my friend, put my arm around her shoulder, and said, "you know, some moments are better than others. in the best, i am simply grateful. and i let THOSE moments define my life. this is one of them."  
tonight, i shall light my candles and speak the names of my own lost children, and then love my friends by speaking the names of theirs, and i will hear my own life taking shape. and i will be grateful.

Thursday, May 12, 2016

i will not, i will

there have been so many things i've wanted to write about coming to terms with "not having another one," and also grieving the loss of a baby after having a living child.  one of the realities of this is that as a full-time parent with a small child around, one is almost always tired, and autonomous time is scarce (and only comes in increments of several minutes or less).  yes, this affects posting on a blog, but more than that, it greatly changes the process of mourning changes and losses.
this recent Mother's Day was a really tough one. i've written before about the challenge of this day for women who are infertile and/or have suffered pregnancy loss, but i was really quite unprepared for how much i'd still have mixed feelings about this day.  last year when the holiday came around, we were at a wedding in the mountains and were too busy celebrating that.  but this year we're right now in Germany, visiting my in-laws, and "Mutterstag" has been exported in all its commercial glory to this country too.  my son is still too young to do the whole breakfast in bed/card/present/flowers/etc. thing, and i told my husband that he should concentrate on his mom and direct all of L's attention to her as well.  we had a lovely day with a long all-family bike ride through the woods (yes, very Black Forest-y) to a little restaurant where we had homemade bratwurst and kuchen, and we laughed and L played, and we all delighted in our love for one another and the good mothering that got us there.
there was such sharpness and strength to that joy: hearing my son's pure lilting giggles while seeing my husband and his mother share a good story, the warm sun filtering through trees, the clean, crisp smell of spring and growth filling my lungs every time i drew breath to laugh.  that tangible joy felt like a sturdy shelter, and even a natural respite, from the heavy grief that permeated the other hours of my day, and i believe its brightness was intensified by the contrast, and its protection.  it made me grateful for many lessons hard-earned about the complementary nature of joy and grief.

today is the Would-Be Day for our fifth child, who is yet to be named.  i feel somewhat lost as to how to lay her memory to rest; she is unlike our first three Tummymuffins, who were alive and real enough but still, for me as a mother, only promises of a future not experienced.  however, this Mother's Day, which was in cruel proximity to today, i couldn't stop remembering, as i sprawled on the floor, sobbing for all the things i now actually knew.  i couldn't stop remembering what it actually felt like to be 40 weeks pregnant; how full and heavy and taut and uncomfortable and thrilling.  i couldn't stop recalling the feeling of tiny feet kicking from within, or even the indescribable exhilaration of feeling my baby finally slide from my womb into the world and burst into full-throated life. 
over the last several months, i have tried to drink my full tea mug of grief, but there has been so little mental space and energy, and i think i only sipped when i should've stared into its murky depths and then downed it.  the Mother's Day cup was scalding, and bitter, and difficult to finish because it entailed recognizing that i was mourning for someone whom this time, i could truly imagine. 
today, i understand now as i did not before with my first three, what this would-be day will not have.   i will not feel the weight of a small beautiful body placed upon my chest.  i will not smell the sweetness of a soft, downy head.  i will not look down into bright clear eyes and see my own face reflected.  i will not be looking at my husband with pride and even deeper love as he cradles his new child. i will not see my parents, or my sister, or my parents-in-law, or my friends' joy at a new arrival. i will not have a little face nuzzled against my breast.  i will not gaze down in amazement at this marvelous creature that i, by some miracle, will call my own.  i will not fall dizzyingly, splendidly, exhaustingly in love. 
and yet, by the same token, i know what i do have.  i will experience bone-deep gratitude when i feel the weight of my son, formerly Tummymuffin IV, snuggled on my lap tonight.  i will run my hands through his thick, bewilderingly curly hair and hear him say in his sweet voice, "I love you, Mommy." i will kiss my amazing husband with decisive pleasure and pride, and tell him again that he is a wonderful father.  i will send photos of today's adventures to my family and know they will take joy in seeing our son's growth and exuberant happiness.  i will be flooded with compassion as i enfold my boy in my arms and comfort him after an inevitable bump or bruise, as he buries his wailing face in my chest.  i will gaze down in delight at him when he does something hilarious, and then in the next moment takes my hand and asks some astonishingly insightful question.  i am daily, over and over, falling in love.

oh my little Tummymuffin V, i will never know you, but i know how it is to be your mother.  happy would-be day, and happy Mother's Day too.  i love you.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

national pregnancy & infant loss remembrance day

a few days ago, we drove past our very-pregnant neighbour's house, and she was outside with her daughter S, who is the same age as L.
"Mommy," he said, with that This Is An Urgent Why Question upper-register voice of his, "is S going to have a baby?" 
i explained that yes, her mommy has a baby growing inside her body, and that very soon S will have a little sister.  now, we'd just come back from a playdate at the park with one of his school friends, who also has a little sister.   L was very quiet in that special preschooler way that indicates Big Thoughts Are In My Head Right Now.  i looked in the rear-view mirror.  his brow was furrowed, and he looked worried. 
"L, your face looks worried.  are you having a big feeling right now?" i asked.
a little voice said "yes."
"Sweets, are you wondering if you are suddenly going to have a little sister too?"
he burst out in relief "YESSSSSS!!"
i'm glad we were driving, so he couldn't see my face.  part of me was laughing merrily, and part of me went very, very still.
"Oh L, it's ok.  don't worry.  that won't happen." i explained.
"It's not?!"
"No, honey, getting a little brother or sister usually involves a big decision made by the mommy and daddy, and then it takes a long time for a baby to grow inside its mommy's body.  so you get plenty of warning if you're going to get a little brother or sister.  it doesn't happen suddenly.  the mommies and daddies tell their kids way before it happens."
"Did B (another friend) know about his little sister before she came?"
"Yes, he did."
"Ok."  L was quiet for awhile, again with that Big Thoughts look. "Um, Mommy?"
"Yes, Sweets?"
(Quietly) "Is there a baby growing inside your body RIGHT NOW?"
my breath caught.  "Oh, no, my love, no. there is not. not anymore."

i swallowed hard.  "Babies can't grow inside Mommy's body anymore."
"But WHY?"
"Oh love, i don't know. i just don't know."
He was quiet again.  "Can we listen to the elephant song please?"
i gratefully turned on the kids' music CD and made it as loud as was safe, so he wouldn't notice me crying.

today is October 15th, National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day, or in our home, Tummymuffin Day.  (click links for more information, if you are unfamiliar with this -- it is observed worldwide, with candles lit from 7:00-8:00pm local time.)  tonight will be somewhat different -- we will be remembering our four lost children, instead of three.
you see, it's been less than a month since i had to say goodbye to Tummymuffin V.  yes, as i was writing that last post about closing and latching the gate on more kids -- i was, unbeknownst to me, already pregnant.  and then just as we were joyfully adjusting to this new reality, it was all over.  everything went back to being the same.  and nothing will ever be the same again.

as L grows older, and becomes more aware of other kids having brothers and sisters, our decision to Talk About the children we lost becomes more complex.  he knows that he had brothers and sisters that "no one got to meet," but as he starts to better understand that most people only talk about or know about siblings that are alive, there will inevitably be questions -- not just from him, but from others who won't understand why a little kid would be talking about babies that were never born. 
the reason is exactly why this day exists, first brought into being in America by Congressional decree (and then spreading internationally; most recently Australia passed a resolution to recognize it) -- because the lives of these never-met babies, even if they were so short as to have never been born, massively impact the lives of their families and friends.  my son's life is irrevocably shaped by the three before him, and now also by the one after. 

pregnancy and infant loss -- and especially the accompanying grief and sorrow -- is not at all a comfortable topic of conversation, but it is imperative that our society becomes more accepting and adept at Talking About It.  while every loss is unique, and especially every parent's response to it is also, they must be given the right to make a choice of how to respond in their own way.  and too many of them have felt that silence and secrecy is their only option.  it is incredibly hard to speak openly about this, and it takes practice with those you love and trust. 
if you have lost a child in pregnancy or early infancy, please know that you are far from alone. many of the links to the right will take you to places that have wonderful resources for coping with the grief, finding support, and talking openly about your loss.  you can also feel free to email me (my information is under the "About" tab at the top of the page).  talk to your partner about where you are in your journey; too often even in our house, i am surprised by where my husband is, or he is blindsided by how fresh the pain feels for me sometimes.  being open, at least in your family relationships, is a good start.

and for those of you who love someone who has had a loss -- or especially if they're revealing this part of themselves to you for the first time -- simply be present.  let them tell their story without judgment or any "fix-it" responses.*  give a hug and an "i'm sorry."  or if you already know of someone mourning a loss/losses, perhaps use this day to send a quick text or email to say "i remember with you."  don't worry that you might be reminding them of something painful; they are most likely all too aware of it on a regular basis.

keep talking. keep listening. keep loving.  thank you to all of you who have done all of this for me on my journey.  i promise to do the same.

 *you can find posts about helping someone who's had a loss under the "advice and resources" tab at the top.

Friday, August 28, 2015

my another

-->that's the giant exhalation of breath that i just released. 
i've been struggling for awhile with what to continue writing about here regarding my personal journey, mainly because i had no real conclusions.  that's a problem; this blog has always been about life in process.  at the same time, because it dealt with what i now think of as one of the more publicly asked-about intensely private decisions ("so when are you going to have another one?"), i wanted just a little more clarity about what constitutes a "complete family." and how that definition can either continue to be a carefully-constructed faux reality, or an acceptance of the actual story.
get to the point, i hear you saying.  ok, well, even choosing the verb for how to say this is awkward: we've chosen? decided? accepted? come to an understanding? embraced?
fine, then.  we have, in our own ways, and together, (fill in the verb from above list here) that L will most likely be our only living child.

looking back on the pendulum swing of a journey that got me here, i know that it started with the blueprint i always had for "family:" 2 bio parents, 2 bio children.  this is what i lived; this is what my husband lived.   i never questioned my personal idea of "family" -- while i am very familiar with all the permutations of other people's families, my family was four people.  and thus, i think, i absorbed that this number is what would make our family complete. 
i remember driving home from one of L's earliest post-birth checkups, his impossibly tiny, freshly-hatched infant body asleep in the back, and me with my body still healing from the birth and milk newly come in, saying to my husband, "so...i guess we're going to start trying again as soon as possible?".  one of the nurses had made a passing comment about how ideally a new mother needs a solid year to heal/adjust to motherhood/go back to being an unpregnant body before another pregnancy, and my first reaction was mentally screaming "I DON'T HAVE THAT KIND OF TIME, LADY!"  i was looking down the barrel of 40, coming out of three miscarriages and years of infertility, and i thought: we gotta get going on this next kid.
despite exclusively breastfeeding my ridiculously hungry baby, my cycle came back when he was just 4 months old.  my OB/GYN, whom i love, called it "a particularly adventurous egg."  then, 28 days later, i had another period. and then, another 28 days...another period.  inwardly, i rejoiced.  this obviously meant my reproductive bits were back online, and we were ready to have another baby! 
only those 28 days kept coming and going, like clockwork.  they didn't stop.  at first, i was too sleep-deprived and overwhelmed by new mommyhood to really care too much; it was only after L's 1st birthday that i started to worry.  no, actually, it wasn't worry.  it was more like the slow decay of of a bouquet of cut flowers: my hope was wilting, being replaced by the "oh no, here we go again" dread.

secondary infertility is defined as when you can't conceive or carry to term in a given period of time following the birth of your biological child without assisted reproductive techniques or fertility meds.  it is a very real and common thing, and it's talked about even less than the "silent corrosion" that is primary infertility.  even medical professionals are known to downplay it, along with well-meaning friends and family ("just keep trying!"  "relax!").  the problem is, the toxic emotional cocktail of sadness, anger, frustration, despair, self-blame, etc. that usually accompanies infertility now comes in a big tall highball glass of guilt and criticism.  having an existing child (or children) means you have their welfare to consider, and other people (and maybe even your own internal voices) can be astonishingly vocal about the perceived selfishness of wanting to increase your family.  the emotional duality of being grateful for your child while still mourning the ones you didn't have, i have found, extends not just to babies lost in pregnancy, but also babies not conceived.  both situations mean facing and grieving the lost future that you hoped for that will not come to pass.

over time, the answer to the very common question, "so when will you/are you going to have another one?" has shifted.  it's gone through a lot of permutations, listed here in all their wilting-flower chronology:
"hopefully soon!"
"we're 'leaving the gate unlatched' and hoping for the best."
"we're so grateful for this one, and we do hope there will be another."
"we're trying to be patient -- it was a long journey to have this one and we're grateful just for him."
"we didn't even think we could have him, so who knows?"
"we don't know if we can or will. we're just grateful to have him."
and now, the current one:  "he IS our another one."

the pendulum has reached the other side, and i don't think it's going to swing back.  it shouldn't -- because the resolution of saying goodbye to our previous imagined incarnation of family (2 parents, 2 children) and instead fully, mindfully accepting and rejoicing in our actual family (2 parents, 1 living child), means that we can also move forward in our story being the best family we can be. 

after the first two miscarriages, our wise long-time family therapist told me: you must take your circumstances and choose a direction.  either you can stay defined as the grieving mother with empty arms, or you can be Yourself, and that weeping childless mother is a component of Who You Are.  he reminded me of this during our last visit, when my husband and I went to seek his counsel on this very difficult decision.  we can mourn this piece of our family story, but it is not who we are.  we are not a family with Not Enough Children.  we must be a family with One Child, who is even more than we may have at one time hoped for.  we are a family of three, and that is, for us, abundance.


    in pregnancy loss communities,  when you have a living child after losing others, that child is called a "rainbow baby."  it&#...