Moving On

One more first anniversary is looming, then I wonder if I will continue to post here regularly. This was supposed to be Blue's space, but I turned it into my own. I want to honor that, that I started this blog because my son died before he was born. Because now I have another son, and something feels...not wrong...but just off...to write about the ordinary joy of having a living child.

November 19 is the anniversary Blue's due date. Or as another blogger put it: the day nothing happened. Actually on November 19, 2011 we planted a tree. We stood in a circle in my parents' backyard on a clear but cold day, and everyone added soil to the hole from which Blue's tree would grow.

This year there will be no ceremony. It will just be another reminder of a day everyone else forgets. Strangely, I do not feel very sad as I think about November 19.

...

I met a real life BLM today. She came to our home to take pictures of Sprout, who is one month old today. She mentioned that her first daughter was premature. When I asked how early, I heard the hesitation that preceded her reply. Twenty-three weeks, five days. Her daughter's twin brother was born sometime earlier, took one breath and died. I motioned to the picture behind her of the little guy I lost. She scanned the bookcase for a photo of a child; I said it was just his name on the beach. She has one of those photos too. In the ensuing conversation we both cried a little. We talked about the stupid things people say.

I told her that if ever "things happen for a reason," it was true in my case. But that doesn't mean you would sacrifice your child. I think if I have any guilt over what happened to Blue, it is the admission that I didn't want the life I would have had had he lived. Because I know that if things hadn't "worked out"--that is, if Sprout were not sleeping and grunting across the room from me right now--I would still be a total mess of a person.

But I am not that sad right now, and that feels strange. It makes me feel like A Sky for Blue is not the place to move on, to live a new life with a new little boy. So on this blog, I will continue to check in about living life without my missing little person. But not about moving on without him.

Yes I Am Happy, But These Tears Are Sad

I missed the chance to take a picture of Blue's tree in fall colors. I believe it changed early, because even when I saw it a few weeks ago many of the orange leaves had crusty spots of brown on them. But here's a picture of what his tree would look like in fall:

And as more trees fell around it, once again Blue's tree survived. Hurricane Sandy did this to a huge tree on the other side of my parents' house:

Not good!

Sprout lost his umbilical cord last week and because it looks kinda gross, and mostly like the cheap plastic clamp that they use to separate it from the rest of the cord, we are going to bury it with Blue's tree. Brothers.

So...the sun has not come out here for over a week. We are still going out for walks, because what the hell else is there to do? I love the cool air and I wish I could be running in it. But yesterday after the longest walk in a while, I bent down to tie my shoe and good-ness it hurt! Like my back was all stiff and my hamstrings were all tight and I remembered how painful it is to run regularly and I felt old and, well, crappy! Like I will never run again. I will never be a triathlete again. I will never run another marathon (probably true but I am not really sad about that).

And I've had some other thoughts, about life and happiness and having one baby in my arms and one in only my heart. I am still sad about everything that happened, when I think about Blue. Naturally. But when I look at Sprout and I just love him so much, my tears are sad, not happy. Yes, I am happy. But they are not tears of joy. And I wonder what that is all about? And I wonder if there is a part of me that likes to be miserable? And I wonder if that is part of our human condition, our modern human condition, or just a part of me? Maybe if I am not miserable, I will have nothing to write about. I write music...sometimes...and there is no tension in the lyrics, or in the sounds, when there is not conflict in the origin of the song. Or so the troubled artist thinks.

I am a troubled mommy today too: dressed Sprout in a sleeper with monsters on it, and he has been acting like a monster today. They looked like happy monsters to me. Of course, the thing is, I don't care that Sprout's being fussy. He could be not here at all. I'll take this any day: