BamamaPancakes

Nov 27, 2019 Dear Abram, Usually I write in front of a Christmas tree, its soft colorful lights warmly surrounding your tiny footprints, remembering all that is you.   This year, Thanksgiving falls late, on Nov 28 th , the day you were born.   The last two years, I desperately wanted a tree before then, so that evergreen smell and magic of the season would be in our home, holding your memory with it. One of the last memories I have of you kicking was when we were gathered in the cold after Thanksgiving weekend, picking out the biggest tree we could find for your Christmas. For some reason, the following two years, I needed that clear ritual to remember you, purposeful and planned. Perhaps this year, sweet boy, Thanksgiving coming late is a lovely reminder, both of the thanks we give every day for you, and because I’ve learned more about remembering and grieving, and how it’s not always perfectly planned or predicted. No matter what time of year or date...

  Nursing is a funny thing. It doesn’t work out/isn’t best for some people for many reasons, all of which are *okay* and should not be judged (this thought needs a separate post/rant). I wanted to nurse, and I feel like I got lucky and was able to. Aside from a few “preemie”-ish issues at first with Bria, I was able to feed my babies fairly easily the first year of their life and donate what seemed like a gazillion bags of milk to 2 other bab ies when their mamas didn’t have breastfeeding as an option. It’s a little bittersweet, this journey ending. I’ve pretty much either been pregnant or nursing for the last 8 years, and now we’re shifting to the next chapter. My body is just going to be my own again. It feels different and looks different and is different, but I’m thankful for what it could give. Some days were hard when I was on the every-2-hours clock. Sometimes it was nice escaping a chaotic place to a quiet room or corner to feed the baby. Sometimes a baby would cry in ...