As I commented to Angie on FB when she posted about doing this project again, writing this "Right Where I Am" post feels incredibly daunting tonight. I fear that it may rip me wide open. (As I added in my comment, "maybe that's what needs to happen.")
20 months, 11 days, 4 and 1/2 hours since my boy left this world.
Most days, I still can't believe it.
I was recently thinking of getting a tattoo across my inner arm: "He was here. And then, he wasn't."
That is the refrain that echos through my mind on my dark days, in my dark moments. It's this paradox. This riddle of sorts that my brains tries to puzzle out and solve. How is it so, he was here, and then, he wasn't?
Now granted, there are far fewer of those exceptionally dark moments, or at least there is more space between them these days. For a few reasons, I suppose.
The first reason, joy of joys, is my second born son, Owen. The most beautiful 8 month old that I have ever known. He fills my days with laughter, with smiles, with tears of joy, of gratitude, of fulfillment. And he keeps me busy. And the only bad part about that (well, other than the constant state of disarray of my personal hygiene and home) is that it often keeps me from Otis.
My cousin (not technically my cousin, but close enough for lack of a better term, a family friend that I've known since I was a child and cousin to my cousins) came over yesterday. Her son Henry died and was born just before Owen came into the world in September 2011. We were talking, and I mentioned how it's hard that I can't tend to my grief in quite the same way that I used to. I used to keep fresh flowers on Otis's table, next to his photograph, and also on the dresser by his ashes. I kept them constantly refreshed. I planted so much last year, rosebushes, daffodils, tulips, trees - and tended to them constantly. It was my way of mothering my firstborn son. And now, the rosebushes need to be trimmed. The daffodils and tulips came up again this year, but amidst many weeds they were hard to see. Our favorite Otis tree needs to be repotted or put in the ground, but we haven't been able to find time to get to it.
I miss having the time to light candles, to cry uncontrollably for as long as I need to, to scream in the shower, to cut flowers, to stare at his photographs. I miss the tenderness that E and I shared in our grief.
Some days it feels like I'm running from my grief again. That if I stopped to actually touch it, think about it, feel it - I would collapse under the enormity of it.
Having Owen here has brought an entirely new dimension to my understanding of what we lost when Otis died. It makes it so incredibly much harder. Every smile, every giggle, every milestone that Owen meets is one that we missed from Otis. Every "first" is a first that we should have done with Otis. The way my heart continues to stretch and grow in the enormity of love I feel for Owen - it kills me that I don't get to have that same stretch for Otis. I wrote it a while back - Owen grows and surprises and is ever changing. As is my love for him. Otis is frozen in time. Forever a newborn. Forever in that striped jammie set the hospital put him in. Forever with his head full of hair combed just so. With his arm draped across his body just so. The photographs have now almost become more real than he ever was. My love for him is still fierce, still all encompassing, and, sure, it grows and changes and evolves - but HE doesn't. And this kills me.
I had a nightmare last night. I lost Owen. He didn't die - I actually LOST him. Like, misplaced him. I could hear him crying, I knew he needed me, I knew someone was taking him, but I couldn't find where or who. I was screaming for him. It was terrifying. I don't overtly fear his death anymore, but clearly my subconscious does.
Reading babyloss blogs and Glow the last few nights has really put a hole in my heart in a way that it didn't used to do. All these new names, all these stories that seem to keep repeating themselves, with a new cast of characters - it's devastating. Too much for me to stomach right now.
So it's interesting. In many ways I would say OF COURSE I am "better" here at 20 months than I was last year at 8 months. My day to day operations do not shout out "MY SON DIED!" (Though I do find ways to weave it into almost every conversation I have with the moms I have met since Owen's birth, and I usually do it rather early in our meetings, as well. I must share him, you must know him.) I work part time, I raise Owen, I do not cry daily, probably not even weekly, I laugh, I dance, I giggle, I function.
But, this idea that "of course" I'm better, I can't say it with much conviction. Last year at this time I was pregnant, full of hope and dreams (and a healthy shot of fear, too, sure) for this new little boy that was going to grace our world just a week after his big brother's first birthday. I think I deluded myself into thinking (even though I logically knew otherwise and had also heard from enough blms on "the other side of the rainbow" that it wasn't going to magically make it all better) that somehow having a living baby to bring home would change it significantly.
And it has, yes. And it hasn't.
It's like my life has split yet again. There is now the me that operates as Owen's mama - full of love, fierce protective instincts, joy, even, dare I say it, a sense of peace. And then there is the me that is hidden away in a drawer, along with a lock of the finest, most lush, beautiful brown baby hair that I will ever touch. In a box, tied with a bow, along with prints of handprints and footprints that are so big you wouldn't believe they came from a newborn. (I was unable to take Owen's hand and footprints when he was born because doing so reminded me too much of Otis. It felt like a betrayal to take them of my living, breathing baby - when that is all Otis could give me, and Owen will be giving me mementos for (hopefully) many many many years to come.) I have yet to be able to reconcile these two mamas into one. Then again, Owen has just started sleeping at night and allowing me some time to myself before I go to bed, so perhaps as I settle into that time I may begin to reconnect with the parts of me that have been hidden for the eight months that Owen has been here.
I miss him. I wish he were here.
Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Mother's Day
To all of you, I wish you peace this coming Mother's Day.
I miss being more active in the babyloss community, I hate that my browser doesn't support my commenting on more blogs. I've figured out that I can only comment when the comments are in a new window. If it's the same window as the blog post, it won't let me comment. I don't know why. I don't even know if any of you still read along here (save for those of you who comment) but I think of you all regularly. Lots of babies being born right now, more coming soon...you are all in my thoughts so often. Whether you realize it or not, you are still such a lifeline - keeping me sane as I navigate the confusing world of parenting two babies but only watching one grow.
I miss being more active in the babyloss community, I hate that my browser doesn't support my commenting on more blogs. I've figured out that I can only comment when the comments are in a new window. If it's the same window as the blog post, it won't let me comment. I don't know why. I don't even know if any of you still read along here (save for those of you who comment) but I think of you all regularly. Lots of babies being born right now, more coming soon...you are all in my thoughts so often. Whether you realize it or not, you are still such a lifeline - keeping me sane as I navigate the confusing world of parenting two babies but only watching one grow.
Monday, April 16, 2012
rainbow 4.16.12
As I sit here typing, a rainbow falls across the keyboard - coming from the light beaming through the prism that hangs in our window.
As I sit here typing, my beautiful rainbow boy is desperately trying to get himself to sleep in his crib for his morning nap. (This is HARD. Sleep training SUCKS, no matter how gentle the methods are, as our pediatrician said, "It kind of all comes down to some crying, unfortunately.")
As I sit here typing, so many of you, my dearest BLM friend,s are awaiting the births of your rainbow babies, and I wait almost as impatiently as all of you, desperate to meet these oh-so-wanted, oh-so-loved little brothers and sisters.
I listened to a podcast with Anne Lamott the other day as Owen and I were out walking. She wrote Operating Instructions (a must-read for all new mothers, I think) and has a new book out, Some Assembly Required (which I have yet to read). She is one of my favorite authors and I loved so much of what she had to say about parenting and, now, grandparenting. I highly recommend you go check out the podcast link and listen to it if you have a moment. It's not directly related to the grief aspects of parenting after loss but I still found there to be many nuggets of wisdom in there. It also inspired me to want to write more to Owen (Operating Instructions was written as a journal to her son, and he calls it "the greatest gift he's received") I haven't done a decent job of documenting the first half of his first year of life, and it's passing so quickly and I can barely remember that he hasn't always been just as he is today.
For example, my mom was over yesterday, and remarked on how he was passing a toy so adeptly from hand to hand (and pausing to put it in his mouth, of course). "Well, of course," was my response (or something of that sort...) And she reminded me that it was not that long ago that he could barely hold on to a toy. It seems like a vague and distant memory.
Similarly, the days of colic and crying fussy baby seem like such a vague and distant memory. We are just now getting a handle on the sleep issues, yes, but the inexplicable crying has long gone. The fussy no matter what we do has long gone. He is such a cheerful little guy, it's a little confusing to remember that he hasn't always been that way.
So I'm going to attempt a project of sorts, writing him a note at least once a week (start small, I vote) and track what he's doing, loving, working on during that week. Tell him what we did, blah blah blah.
I can't decide if I want to post these letters here or not. It's easy, and it's a familiar way for me to write. But at the same time, I kind of want to keep them all as separate word documents on my hard drive, and I'm just not efficient or organized enough to type it in word and then come to blogger and repost it. (I know that sounds crazy lazy, but for some reason typing on a word document feels quite different than typing into the blogger text box.) And of course, this is Otis's space, first and foremost.
But there is no delineation anymore, really. Otis's space, Owen's space. They both fill my heart. They both fill our home. They are incredibly separate, my two sons, and yet they are so intertwined I can't untangle them. Owen is now growing into sizes of clothing that we never even had for Otis. New purchases, new gifts, no more hand-me-downs from his big brother. The playthings in our home are no longer the ones we planned to use with Otis, as Owen has outgrown so many of them. Even his infant seat is likely not going to be used much longer. We are talking about moving Owen's crib out of our bedroom and into his own room, which requires a rearrangement of that room (currently my office/Owen's "playroom"). We are finally nesting, setting up a nursery for a baby that is almost 7 months old.
In many ways, I feel like my feet are finally getting under me again. The ground is feeling a lot more stable. I trust and believe that this beautiful boy is going to stay with us, grow with us, challenge us and teach us...Setting up his room seems to be a tangible sign of that belief. Finally.
And as things with Owen settle into a calmer place, I realize this has created more room for me to remember Otis, for me to grieve him, and also for me to honor him. I was finally able to get out to his garden patch and pull weeds this weekend. I feel inspired to do some planting again for him.
It is so strange, for lack of a better word, to have a son that will forever be a newborn, and to have another son that is growing in leaps and bounds every minute. It still boggles my mind, and breaks my heart. My words to Otis are repetitive, stagnant almost: "I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I miss you. I love you. I want you. I miss you. I miss you. I wish you were here." (repeat ad infinitum) My words to Owen are ever changing, reflecting the crazy trajectory of both his learning curve and growth, and my own. Underneath both sets of words is the same ferocious love that a mama has for her babies, of course. But somehow that's not much consolation today...
As I sit here typing, my beautiful rainbow boy is desperately trying to get himself to sleep in his crib for his morning nap. (This is HARD. Sleep training SUCKS, no matter how gentle the methods are, as our pediatrician said, "It kind of all comes down to some crying, unfortunately.")
As I sit here typing, so many of you, my dearest BLM friend,s are awaiting the births of your rainbow babies, and I wait almost as impatiently as all of you, desperate to meet these oh-so-wanted, oh-so-loved little brothers and sisters.
I listened to a podcast with Anne Lamott the other day as Owen and I were out walking. She wrote Operating Instructions (a must-read for all new mothers, I think) and has a new book out, Some Assembly Required (which I have yet to read). She is one of my favorite authors and I loved so much of what she had to say about parenting and, now, grandparenting. I highly recommend you go check out the podcast link and listen to it if you have a moment. It's not directly related to the grief aspects of parenting after loss but I still found there to be many nuggets of wisdom in there. It also inspired me to want to write more to Owen (Operating Instructions was written as a journal to her son, and he calls it "the greatest gift he's received") I haven't done a decent job of documenting the first half of his first year of life, and it's passing so quickly and I can barely remember that he hasn't always been just as he is today.
For example, my mom was over yesterday, and remarked on how he was passing a toy so adeptly from hand to hand (and pausing to put it in his mouth, of course). "Well, of course," was my response (or something of that sort...) And she reminded me that it was not that long ago that he could barely hold on to a toy. It seems like a vague and distant memory.
Similarly, the days of colic and crying fussy baby seem like such a vague and distant memory. We are just now getting a handle on the sleep issues, yes, but the inexplicable crying has long gone. The fussy no matter what we do has long gone. He is such a cheerful little guy, it's a little confusing to remember that he hasn't always been that way.
So I'm going to attempt a project of sorts, writing him a note at least once a week (start small, I vote) and track what he's doing, loving, working on during that week. Tell him what we did, blah blah blah.
I can't decide if I want to post these letters here or not. It's easy, and it's a familiar way for me to write. But at the same time, I kind of want to keep them all as separate word documents on my hard drive, and I'm just not efficient or organized enough to type it in word and then come to blogger and repost it. (I know that sounds crazy lazy, but for some reason typing on a word document feels quite different than typing into the blogger text box.) And of course, this is Otis's space, first and foremost.
But there is no delineation anymore, really. Otis's space, Owen's space. They both fill my heart. They both fill our home. They are incredibly separate, my two sons, and yet they are so intertwined I can't untangle them. Owen is now growing into sizes of clothing that we never even had for Otis. New purchases, new gifts, no more hand-me-downs from his big brother. The playthings in our home are no longer the ones we planned to use with Otis, as Owen has outgrown so many of them. Even his infant seat is likely not going to be used much longer. We are talking about moving Owen's crib out of our bedroom and into his own room, which requires a rearrangement of that room (currently my office/Owen's "playroom"). We are finally nesting, setting up a nursery for a baby that is almost 7 months old.
In many ways, I feel like my feet are finally getting under me again. The ground is feeling a lot more stable. I trust and believe that this beautiful boy is going to stay with us, grow with us, challenge us and teach us...Setting up his room seems to be a tangible sign of that belief. Finally.
And as things with Owen settle into a calmer place, I realize this has created more room for me to remember Otis, for me to grieve him, and also for me to honor him. I was finally able to get out to his garden patch and pull weeds this weekend. I feel inspired to do some planting again for him.
It is so strange, for lack of a better word, to have a son that will forever be a newborn, and to have another son that is growing in leaps and bounds every minute. It still boggles my mind, and breaks my heart. My words to Otis are repetitive, stagnant almost: "I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I want you. I want you. I want you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I miss you. I love you. I want you. I miss you. I miss you. I wish you were here." (repeat ad infinitum) My words to Owen are ever changing, reflecting the crazy trajectory of both his learning curve and growth, and my own. Underneath both sets of words is the same ferocious love that a mama has for her babies, of course. But somehow that's not much consolation today...
Monday, March 19, 2012
6 months
My dear sweet Owen,
6 months old today, dear one. You bring me more joy than I ever imagined possible. Your smiles and squeals fill my heart and stretch it out exponentially. Being your mama is worth every minute of missed sleep, every ounce of spit up, every missed shower and all the stretch marks. It's worth all the tears and all the stress and all the worry.
The days are long, the months are whizzing past. I've already started romanticizing the early days of sleeping on the big chair in the bedroom with a tiny little jellybean of a boy in my arms. I look at the clothes we brought you home from the hospital in and my eyes fill with tears - such a tiny little being you were. You are a big boy now, a "big, fat, baby!" as your cousin proclaimed the other day with glee. (Nevermind those growth charts that say you're small for your age or you're in the low percentiles. Bah!)
Last week our family suffered another great loss, your GG, my grandmother, who passed away after 98 years on this planet. She was so well loved, and I'm so happy she got to meet you. You know, I was never certain that she really understood who you were, and after the loss of your brother, I wasn't sure if she allowed herself to fully believe you were here. (Lord knows it was hard for me to believe you were actually here, I don't blame her one bit, especially as her memory was failing her so much in these last months.) But. Owen. My sweet, sweet boy. When GG went into the hospital last Saturday night, she was almost already gone. Her heart was failing, her kidneys were failing, her blood pressure and pulse were both extraordinarily low. She was not lucid. My mom and brother were there by her side, and she was mostly making babbling noises or little moans. But around 5 in the morning, as clear as can be, she started spelling your name. "O. W. E. N. Owen." She said it four or five times, my mom said. It was the only thing she said that night that they could understand. Her last intelligible words. If there was ever a doubt as to whether she knew you were here, that doubt is now gone, little boy.
I'd like to think that she's now cradling your brother, spelling out his name, O. T. I. S. and singing him lullabies and covering his body with kisses and holding him in that warm lap of hers. We both know that doesn't really match my idea of what happens after someone dies, but I still have allowed myself the fantasy more than a few times in the last week.
When Papa came in to tell me that GG was in the hospital, you and I were asleep, and amidst all my sadness, all my fear, all my grief, all I could do was hold you. You were in bed with me, and I just couldn't let go and put you back in your crib that night. You snuggled close all night, and you kept me safe. Yes, you read that right. You kept me safe. Thank you, sweet boy.
Baby boy, please stick around, please keep growing, keep delighting us all with your beauty. (And if you want to start sleeping just a few more hours in a row, or napping in your crib for longer than 45 minutes, well, that would be just dandy as well.)
All my love,
mama
6 months old today, dear one. You bring me more joy than I ever imagined possible. Your smiles and squeals fill my heart and stretch it out exponentially. Being your mama is worth every minute of missed sleep, every ounce of spit up, every missed shower and all the stretch marks. It's worth all the tears and all the stress and all the worry.
The days are long, the months are whizzing past. I've already started romanticizing the early days of sleeping on the big chair in the bedroom with a tiny little jellybean of a boy in my arms. I look at the clothes we brought you home from the hospital in and my eyes fill with tears - such a tiny little being you were. You are a big boy now, a "big, fat, baby!" as your cousin proclaimed the other day with glee. (Nevermind those growth charts that say you're small for your age or you're in the low percentiles. Bah!)
Last week our family suffered another great loss, your GG, my grandmother, who passed away after 98 years on this planet. She was so well loved, and I'm so happy she got to meet you. You know, I was never certain that she really understood who you were, and after the loss of your brother, I wasn't sure if she allowed herself to fully believe you were here. (Lord knows it was hard for me to believe you were actually here, I don't blame her one bit, especially as her memory was failing her so much in these last months.) But. Owen. My sweet, sweet boy. When GG went into the hospital last Saturday night, she was almost already gone. Her heart was failing, her kidneys were failing, her blood pressure and pulse were both extraordinarily low. She was not lucid. My mom and brother were there by her side, and she was mostly making babbling noises or little moans. But around 5 in the morning, as clear as can be, she started spelling your name. "O. W. E. N. Owen." She said it four or five times, my mom said. It was the only thing she said that night that they could understand. Her last intelligible words. If there was ever a doubt as to whether she knew you were here, that doubt is now gone, little boy.
I'd like to think that she's now cradling your brother, spelling out his name, O. T. I. S. and singing him lullabies and covering his body with kisses and holding him in that warm lap of hers. We both know that doesn't really match my idea of what happens after someone dies, but I still have allowed myself the fantasy more than a few times in the last week.
When Papa came in to tell me that GG was in the hospital, you and I were asleep, and amidst all my sadness, all my fear, all my grief, all I could do was hold you. You were in bed with me, and I just couldn't let go and put you back in your crib that night. You snuggled close all night, and you kept me safe. Yes, you read that right. You kept me safe. Thank you, sweet boy.
Baby boy, please stick around, please keep growing, keep delighting us all with your beauty. (And if you want to start sleeping just a few more hours in a row, or napping in your crib for longer than 45 minutes, well, that would be just dandy as well.)
All my love,
mama
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Deep Breath
The boy is napping.
I am so madly in love with him, it's mindboggling. We are (finally?) settling into some semblance of routine and I feel like I'm breathing again, for the first time in so very very very long.
And yet I miss his brother with every breath. Sharply, softly, and everything in between. It sneaks up on me, and then again his absence has become such a part of my very existence I don't know how it could possibly still surprise me.
I am so madly in love with him, it's mindboggling. We are (finally?) settling into some semblance of routine and I feel like I'm breathing again, for the first time in so very very very long.
And yet I miss his brother with every breath. Sharply, softly, and everything in between. It sneaks up on me, and then again his absence has become such a part of my very existence I don't know how it could possibly still surprise me.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Argh, blogger
I don't know why, but I am having serious issues leaving comments on blogs today. I've finally got an afternoon napping baby (in his crib! not my arms!) and I went to go pay so many of you visits and check in and blogger keeps eating my comments. Argh. So frustrating.
I'm thinking of all of you - so happy to see so many rainbow pregnancies progressing along so beautifully...and the babies that have been born recently as well - gorgeous. And to those who are currently TTC - all my best wishes that this is the month. And to everyone else as well - love and light to all of you.
--------------------
We're doing pretty well here. Not really sleeping, still fussing, but getting the hang of it pretty well. We had some serious marital stuff hit the fan a few weeks ago but we are bouncing back fairly well I think. (I hope.) E is back in school full time. I am interviewing for a new job. I am NOT ready for a new job, but I need to pursue this one because it's pretty ideal. I'm at stage 2 of the interview process right now (of three stages) and it's gone pretty well. I'm hoping it will even be a job that has an option for transitioning slowly to full time, and also with a work at home component (it seems likely it will, but directing your good juju in that direction would be appreciated!)
I love my boys so incredibly much, it amazes me daily. A few nights ago I was tearing up just thinking how incredibly lucky I am to know love like the love I have for my family. For Otis, for Owen, for E, for our dogs, for my mom, who has become a semi-permanent fixture here and an incredible support, and Owen's favorite person besides Mama and Papa.
Last year on Superbowl Sunday, we were in Maui, and I took a pregnancy test (I was *maybe* 8 dpo?). It was a barely visible line, really almost invisible, to the point that E said "there's no line," and I believed him, but I also didn't believe him....and I carried that test with me all day and held it up to the light and compared it to plain white paper and saw lines and didn't see lines...and then when the Packers won the game, E looked at me and said, "NOW I believe you're pregnant!" and we sort of did let ourselves believe it might be true, and then there was the most amazing sunset I've ever witnessed, and we definitely thought it was a sign, but then the test the next day didn't look any more positive, so we decided I wasn't...and now, here we are, our four month old napping in his crib. Owen Kekoa, I love you so much.
I'm thinking of all of you - so happy to see so many rainbow pregnancies progressing along so beautifully...and the babies that have been born recently as well - gorgeous. And to those who are currently TTC - all my best wishes that this is the month. And to everyone else as well - love and light to all of you.
--------------------
We're doing pretty well here. Not really sleeping, still fussing, but getting the hang of it pretty well. We had some serious marital stuff hit the fan a few weeks ago but we are bouncing back fairly well I think. (I hope.) E is back in school full time. I am interviewing for a new job. I am NOT ready for a new job, but I need to pursue this one because it's pretty ideal. I'm at stage 2 of the interview process right now (of three stages) and it's gone pretty well. I'm hoping it will even be a job that has an option for transitioning slowly to full time, and also with a work at home component (it seems likely it will, but directing your good juju in that direction would be appreciated!)
I love my boys so incredibly much, it amazes me daily. A few nights ago I was tearing up just thinking how incredibly lucky I am to know love like the love I have for my family. For Otis, for Owen, for E, for our dogs, for my mom, who has become a semi-permanent fixture here and an incredible support, and Owen's favorite person besides Mama and Papa.
Last year on Superbowl Sunday, we were in Maui, and I took a pregnancy test (I was *maybe* 8 dpo?). It was a barely visible line, really almost invisible, to the point that E said "there's no line," and I believed him, but I also didn't believe him....and I carried that test with me all day and held it up to the light and compared it to plain white paper and saw lines and didn't see lines...and then when the Packers won the game, E looked at me and said, "NOW I believe you're pregnant!" and we sort of did let ourselves believe it might be true, and then there was the most amazing sunset I've ever witnessed, and we definitely thought it was a sign, but then the test the next day didn't look any more positive, so we decided I wasn't...and now, here we are, our four month old napping in his crib. Owen Kekoa, I love you so much.
Monday, January 30, 2012
The Only Thing Constant is Change
Raising Owen is like one huge lesson in learning to be flexible and adapt to change. Little Man clearly has no intention of adapting to a routine or a schedule. What works one day is futile the next, what failed miserably yesterday may be a stellar success tomorrow. The only really reliable constants I've come to expect are that he wants to nurse about every two hours (often sooner) during daytime hours (though he has occasionally gone up to three hours) and he will sleep at some point in the night. But the specifics around sleep, we have yet to figure those out. He went through a stint of "sleeping through the night" and then shifted back to waking every three hours. He was going to sleep between 6 and 7 for a while there, and then last night he didn't truly fall asleep until close to 9 or 10. Some mornings he sleeps until 8, others he's up at 6.
It's a bit crazy making for a control freak like me, to have a baby that is so defiantly opposed to routine and scheduling!
This morning we are having a rare, dare-I-say-it successful nap, and I have a moment to fold laundry, hop on the computer, breathe. Many days he won't nap unless he's in my arms, and then he doesn't nap very well. Yesterday was one of those days, lots of piecemeal naps that added up to shoddy rest and a very cranky little guy.
And why, why, why are new parents so obsessed with sleep? I swear, I feel like an opium junkie, chasing the dragon of a few precious hours of uninterrupted sleep. My planning for the day and night seriously revolves around whether or not I may get some sleep in there. I would go to bed every night at 7 if I could, but that would likely mean I haven't eaten or showered or responded to emails or gone to the bathroom or folded laundry or done dishes...and two nights each week I work until 9. Those nights are so hard, I can barely keep my eyes open but still don't get into bed until close to 11. Oof.
Speaking of 11. E responded to an email link I apparently had sent him, of some dandelion wall stencils that apparently I loved. He claims we even had a conversation about them. I have absolutely NO RECOLLECTION of sending him the link. Of ever seeing the stencils. But there is an email, sent by me, with the link, and a time stamp of 11:30 pm on a Wednesday night. No. Recollection. Whatsoever. Sleep deprivation is a bitch, yo, and I can only wonder what else I've been sending in the wee hours of the night/morning. Yikes.
Owen continues to amaze and delight us with his smiles and giggles - he is a charmer, that's for certain. When he's in a good mood, there is nothing to stop him from bringing joy to everyone that crosses his path. Every day he surprises me with something new - a coo, a rollover, a grab for a toy, an easy transition to napping or bedtime...I love watching him grow and change - I cannot believe he's already been here with us for four months.
However, when he's upset, there is also nothing stopping him...it breaks my heart. He clearly has difficulty regulating and has little or no ability yet to self-soothe, it is agonizing to hear/watch him cry. Yesterday he just did not want to be in the car seat running errands with us, and he cried and cried and screamed and cried. He was fiercely tired, but couldn't get himself to sleep, it was agonizing and heartbreaking. He would doze off for a second or two then awake screaming again.
Last night I caught myself thinking that Otis wouldn't have been this challenging. Partly because I was more flexible to begin with back then, because I wouldn't have been held back by the fear and worry around doing any and everything, and also because I have it in my mind that he would have just been an easier baby. This line of thinking does NOTHING to serve any of us, and it makes me sad that I keep going there mentally. But Otis lives only in my idealized memories of what was going to be, not in the reality of bringing him home. So in that idealized memory, I am the mommy who can walk two dogs all by herself with a happy baby in the Ergo carrier while she drinks her latte (god I miss coffee and milk) and then leaves him with papa and a bottle while she goes to yoga class. (Ugh, that sounds a little obnoxious, actually...) And I will never know if that would have been my reality with Otis or not. My idealized memories persist, and I ache for them - because I miss Otis, because mothering Owen is so vastly different that what I expected - but it doesn't serve me to sit in the "what could have been."
Similarly, sitting in the "this isn't what I expected, this should be different" does nothing to serve me or Owen. I love him so incredibly completely with every cell and fiber in my body, and spending my time comparing my reality to what I thought it would be like or what I thought it should be like or even what other mamas are experiencing with their babes is detrimental on all fronts. It's so tough to not get caught in the comparisons, but in those moments when I find I've broken free from them is when I feel the most joy, the most comfort, the most satisfaction and peace in mothering this little guy. He is truly amazing, I can't say that enough.
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