Thoughts of a First Snowfall

People, very kindly, ask how we are doing a lot, especially as the holidays have settled. We usually answer that we’re good, and that’s true most days. Christmas held its usual magic with the girls. We talked to Santa; we attempted crafts.  There were old traditions and new traditions. Addie wanted to help wrap; Bria wanted to help unwrap. They sang [read: yelled] the same carols over and over. White Christmas was the favorite movie, with the Grinch being a close runner-up. Bria learned to say no, and now happily babbles it even when no one is near her. We’ve transitioned to the bunk beds Santa brought, and both kiddos love it. Addie studied the screws and confirmed that it was in fact made by elf magic. Like most human parents, we’ve been excited to get into routine for January – normal meals, normal bedtimes, normal pre-school and story times and Amazement Square. January already seems to be moving quickly.

Sometimes I can’t believe we lost a baby. It was just over a month ago; it seems like ages since we found out the news, and yet it feels like it all happened too fast. I’d be 27 weeks yesterday.

Something I learned from the movie Inside-Out is that you can’t put Sadness in a circle and ignore her, even when there is much joy around you. Sometimes, she just needs to say her piece and that’s enough.  Other moments, she pops up out of nowhere, and it can take you by surprise.  The other day, I opened a hamper in the hallway we don’t use anymore, but for some reason I’d thrown the shirt in there that I wore to UVA the day we found out Abram likely wouldn’t survive. The shirt is the only item in there, and I can’t move it. I’m not sure why, except that everything changed that day, and so much has changed since I wore it. It’s the only piece of maternity clothes out, as I had put the others away. My belly is now back to its normal size; it’s hard to believe I was just stretching out shirts with the 5-month bump, belly-button popped, poised to just keep expanding. Sadness sits beside that hamper, nodding at me, understanding.

 Yesterday, we walked into an LC Women’s basketball game, our first one we’ve been to this season. I had expected to be growing my way through basketball season like I did when I was pregnant with Bria, waddling up the bleachers, feeling the kicks, and answering questions about the due date, gender, all the usuals. I didn’t realize that I’d feel a loss for something so specific until we walked through the doors, and saw so many familiar faces who knew what we had been through. I froze for a brief second, taken aback by the surprise of sadness, although I was vaguely thankful that these folks knew something was different in our world. I realized that day that I hadn’t even gotten to imagine Abram growing up in the gym like our girls have, toddling around the floor at half time, chasing his sisters, wearing a jersey, a part of the chaos, a little boy. Those points of realization make the grief feel suddenly sharper, the loss so real, and the peace waver in the unexpected surge of emotion. Those moments, my heart hurts terribly for Abram, missing what we won’t have with him. Down to the core, it hurts.

In those moments, I go back to the hospital in my mind when we held him, and I think about the details of him that were real. His tiny eyelids, the button-nose and profile that matched his sisters, his perfect fingers, the way his feet were shaped like Sheaff’s, his so-fragile skin, his tiny ears, the very light weight of him. 

The first time I held him was difficult. Every piece of me hurt inside for him, for his tiny body, and I could barely take it in because it all hit so hard. The next time, once everyone had gotten their time with him, I held him for much longer. It was calmer in my heart then, like I could just love him, look at him, soak in the details. It wasn’t easy, but it was peaceful. Remembering that time is soothing when my soul feels like its cracking. It lets me frame my processing thankfully, grateful for everything that was and is Abram.

Soon I will be mostly writing about the girls’ adventures. I started this blog to write about motherhood, and motherhood rolls on with joy and craziness and meltdowns and curiosity and the routine of little ones. And I’m glad for that.  I have the semester off from teaching, which lets me focus on the girls, their growing brains and the time I have with them every day. I’m so happy to refuel with them. Nothing has made me love our life any less; in fact, quite the opposite.

I know moments will sneak in, reminding me there is a loss, the world pressing on that wound, telling me to miss a little boy named Abram.  And god knows, I will. Every day. We will feel what needs to be felt, and continue to find the ways that let us love Abram and pass on the good he showed us in humanity. At the end of those hard moments, I will go back to that place in my heart that gratefully whispers, you have held each of your sweet babies in your arms. That alone is a gift. Adalyn. Bria. Abram. They have known the love of the world, and they have known the love of their mom and dad. Many days, that simple knowledge is enough.

As I watch the snow pour down, I know that if all three of our little ones have taught us anything, it’s that Joy remains at the helm. Starting out 2017 with that at my core, I know we will be okay. Onward, we go.