So today’s Day of Thanks was again, a little bit of a mixed blessing. When I first saw the penguin items in the Gymboree collection my friend Brooke had told me about, I was pretty disappointed that all they seemed to have were boy clothes. There were a few items that might work for a boy or a girl, but everything was pretty boyish.
And then I did a keyword search for “penguin,” and turned up a whole other collection of little girl penguin items. I was thrilled. It wasn’t until I saw those that I started thinking seriously about going ahead and buying the stuff (these storewide sales usually only last a day or two) and returning it later if it ended up not being for the right gender. I bought a few items from both the boys’ and the girls’ collections. I also bought several items in both 6-12 months size, which will hopefully fit the Penguin next winter, and 18-24 months size, which will hopefully fit the following winter.
After I’d clicked “Purchase,” I had to think really hard about who I was buying these clothes for. A friend of ours told us that when her aunt became pregnant again after having lost her daughter at the age of two, the aunt was convinced for a while that her daughter was in her belly again. Even though I don’t feel this way, I definitely understand the impulse. It’s easy to succumb to a sensation (for that’s what it is—just a vague, inexplicable impression) that having another baby will somehow reincarnate Hudson. I keep having to remind myself that this baby may not be a girl. That this baby will not be Hudson’s age for another two years. And most importantly, that I will love and cherish this baby in spite of those things. I remember thinking when Hudson was an infant that I really needed to cherish this time with her, to stop looking ahead to all the milestones that she would soon hit, to stop looking forward to when she would get more “fun” by interacting and playing—I knew I would never again have this kind of one-on-one time with an infant, because the next time I had an infant, I would also have a really busy toddler on my hands. I could not have known that would prove to be untrue. I imagine that I will have to be even more intentional about appreciating the early months with the Penguin, because I know I will be tempted to look ahead even more, now that I know how much fun things will really get, and now that I miss that fun so desperately.
This is one of the reasons that Ed and I have decided that we are going to find out the sex of this baby. We did not find out with Hudson, and if Hudson hadn’t died, we would not likely have found out with the Penguin, either. When I was pregnant with Hudson, I just felt strongly that the sex of the baby is one of the only real surprises we grown-ups get, one of the only things that can replicate the joy of Christmas morning that I loved so much as a child. But this time, things are so much more complicated. The delivery day is going to be so incredibly emotional, infinitely more so than with Hudson, and adding an additional surprise on top of that just doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense.
But even more importantly, I am going to have to do some serious emotional preparation for either a boy or a girl. Ed and I have discussed that in many ways, it seems like it would be “easier,” on both us and the Penguin, if this baby is a boy. Having a boy would be so totally different than having a girl—boys grow differently, they develop differently, they dress differently. It just seems like it would be an easier emotional experience than having another girl right away—hopefully we’d be less inclined to compare the Penguin to Hudson.
But on the other hand, I loved mothering a daughter. I was so looking forward to all the mother-daughter things. And I guess part of me was hoping to do some healing for myself from my impaired relationship with my own mother by trying to do it “right” with my daughter (I know, I know—start a therapy fund for the kids now). So I really, really want to have another daughter. And each pregnancy that I don’t means one less chance. I certainly know from my friends who have all boys that it’s a joyous and unique experience in itself. And I know that if I ultimately end up having all boys, I will still love every minute of it. But if I never have another daughter with whom I can share those mother-daughter things, then the loss of Hudson will just be compounded so many times over, at so many points long down the road. It just seems like it would be adding insult to injury—I was able to get a small taste of that special mother-daughter bond, only to have it snatched away from me. Not that another daughter could ever replace Hudson. One of my grief books sort of baldly asserts that when a parent finds herself longing for a subsequent child of the same sex, then she may be looking to replace the dead child. Although that sentence has taken on a life of its own in the back of my mind, I pretty much think it is bullshit. No child could ever replace Hudson, and anyone who thinks differently has never lost a child. Another daughter hitting puberty will not change the fact that I will never get to help Hudson through puberty. Another daughter’s wedding will not change the fact that I will never get to help plan Hudson’s wedding. Another daughter’s pregnancy will not change the fact that I will never get to share Hudson’s pregnancy with her. But I guess my hope is that getting to share those experiences with another daughter will ultimately bring some healing, because the alternative is that I will never stop longing for a mother-daughter relationship for as long as I live—every time I see a mother and daughter together, I will think, “That should be me with Hudson.” And again, even though another daughter could never just take Hudson’s place in that equation, at least I wouldn’t forever feel even more cheated, doubly so, than I already feel having lost her.
I don’t know. As I’m sitting here writing, I’m thinking, “Well, maybe this does sound like I just want a replacement for Hudson.” Because the special relationship I have been denied is with Hudson, not with another child, be it a boy or a girl. It makes sense in my head, but when I write it, it sounds a lot like a rationalization.
In any event, you can see why it’s probably a good idea for us to find out in advance what we are having. If we are having a boy, then we can spend the rest of this pregnancy getting excited about that, buying boy stuff (which we have none of), and learning a little about what things might be different (and, though it fills me with dread to even think about, deciding whether or not to circumcise—argh). If we are having a girl, then we can spend the rest of the pregnancy preparing ourselves that this little girl will not be Hudson, and though she may be like Hudson (as may be a little boy), she will be her own little person, with her own personality and way of doing things (which, of course, is also true for a little boy). That may sound like it should be common sense, but when it comes down to it, I imagine it will be harder than I even anticipate it will.
Wow. This all does make sense in my head. Reading it, though, just makes me scratch my head.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
30 Days of Thanks—Day #15
I am grateful to have the wherewithal to do a little online shopping today, including these little numbers:
And maybe a few more. With 60 days to return stuff, I figure once we find out what the Penguin actually is (probably the first week of January), I can return anything that’s too boyish or girlish. (I’d like to buck gender stereotypes and all that, but part of me still thinks it would just be really unfair to send a little boy to school in a ruffled jumper embroidered with a little girl penguin with a bow in her hair).
As I told my friend, Brooke, who was so sweet to let me know that Gymboree was having a sale today and had all these great penguin items, money certainly can’t take the pain of losing Hudson away, but buying some things for the Penguin was a lot of fun and did help me build up some more excitement for his or her arrival. Brooke was right when she said I will probably have a huge smile on my face when these arrive in the mail.
As I told my friend, Brooke, who was so sweet to let me know that Gymboree was having a sale today and had all these great penguin items, money certainly can’t take the pain of losing Hudson away, but buying some things for the Penguin was a lot of fun and did help me build up some more excitement for his or her arrival. Brooke was right when she said I will probably have a huge smile on my face when these arrive in the mail.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
30 Days of Thanks—Day #14
I am grateful for whatever force finally made me decide to go to prenatal yoga tonight. I had been wavering about it all day—it’s so cold outside, I’d already been out twice and really didn’t want to bundle up again, I don’t have yoga clothes that fit my belly anymore. You name it, and I had the excuse not to go. But somehow, about 45 minutes before the class was supposed to start, I just decided to go.
It was hard. Emotionally and physically. Unlike the first class I went to, there were about 20 women there, most of them very pregnant. And unlike in the first class, this instructor did begin the class (during what’s called centering) with a lot of baby discussion, asking us to rest our hands on our bellies and pay attention to our feelings about the life growing inside us, with eyes, nose, and a little mouth, ten fingers and ten toes. This is exactly what I was dreading about going to a prenatal yoga class—not that I don’t want to focus on those things, but I was pretty sure that I couldn’t do so without crying, and crying is just not what you want to do in a room full of happily pregnant women who are peacefully meditating about their babies.
And I did cry. But quietly (I was pretty close to losing it, but just kept trying to breathe normally again). And everyone was laying down with their eyes closed, so no one noticed.
Even though it was painful, it helped me realize that I need that kind of time. I am 16 weeks pregnant and still haven’t really begun to focus any emotional energy on my little Penguin. I forgive myself for this—I don’t expect myself to be superhuman and just be able to choke down the grief in order to bond with this baby. I know that the work I have been doing for the past six (almost seven… gulp) months is important. I know that it is work I will be doing for the rest of my life. Grieving, remembering, and honoring Hudson is now part of who I am, part of my life’s work—it is work I never expected to have to do, yet here it is in front of me.
But I have other important work to do, too. In five and a half months, we will bring another new life into our family, and I have a lot of preparing to do. A kind of preparation I never expected to have to do, but here it is in front of me. During my days, I spend most of my time trying to keep myself and my mind occupied in order to keep the pain at bay, or I spend it sinking into the pain, writing, crying, remembering, grieving. The times I think of the Penguin the most are when I am getting dressed and undressed, and when I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night—it is in those moments when my hands come to rest on my belly, when I give it a gentle pat or rub, and when I remind myself that I am carrying another life, a baby that will not be just Hudson’s brother or sister, but a person to be valued for his or her own self, for the new and different gifts he or she will bring to our lives. But those moments are so fleeting. So I need some extra time set aside for the specific purpose of thinking about that. Not that Hudson leaves my mind for a second during yoga class, but at some point, I have to start practicing for another part of my life’s work—how to parent and love my living children while I continue to parent and love my child who is no longer with me.
So I’m grateful for whatever impulse pushed me into my yoga clothes, coat, and scarf, and out the door into the cold night so that I could spend some quiet time with both of my children.
It was hard. Emotionally and physically. Unlike the first class I went to, there were about 20 women there, most of them very pregnant. And unlike in the first class, this instructor did begin the class (during what’s called centering) with a lot of baby discussion, asking us to rest our hands on our bellies and pay attention to our feelings about the life growing inside us, with eyes, nose, and a little mouth, ten fingers and ten toes. This is exactly what I was dreading about going to a prenatal yoga class—not that I don’t want to focus on those things, but I was pretty sure that I couldn’t do so without crying, and crying is just not what you want to do in a room full of happily pregnant women who are peacefully meditating about their babies.
And I did cry. But quietly (I was pretty close to losing it, but just kept trying to breathe normally again). And everyone was laying down with their eyes closed, so no one noticed.
Even though it was painful, it helped me realize that I need that kind of time. I am 16 weeks pregnant and still haven’t really begun to focus any emotional energy on my little Penguin. I forgive myself for this—I don’t expect myself to be superhuman and just be able to choke down the grief in order to bond with this baby. I know that the work I have been doing for the past six (almost seven… gulp) months is important. I know that it is work I will be doing for the rest of my life. Grieving, remembering, and honoring Hudson is now part of who I am, part of my life’s work—it is work I never expected to have to do, yet here it is in front of me.
But I have other important work to do, too. In five and a half months, we will bring another new life into our family, and I have a lot of preparing to do. A kind of preparation I never expected to have to do, but here it is in front of me. During my days, I spend most of my time trying to keep myself and my mind occupied in order to keep the pain at bay, or I spend it sinking into the pain, writing, crying, remembering, grieving. The times I think of the Penguin the most are when I am getting dressed and undressed, and when I get up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night—it is in those moments when my hands come to rest on my belly, when I give it a gentle pat or rub, and when I remind myself that I am carrying another life, a baby that will not be just Hudson’s brother or sister, but a person to be valued for his or her own self, for the new and different gifts he or she will bring to our lives. But those moments are so fleeting. So I need some extra time set aside for the specific purpose of thinking about that. Not that Hudson leaves my mind for a second during yoga class, but at some point, I have to start practicing for another part of my life’s work—how to parent and love my living children while I continue to parent and love my child who is no longer with me.
So I’m grateful for whatever impulse pushed me into my yoga clothes, coat, and scarf, and out the door into the cold night so that I could spend some quiet time with both of my children.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Resilience
From another grieving mother:
“Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it’s less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you’ve lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that’s good.”
-Elizabeth Edwards (1949-2010)
“Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it’s less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you’ve lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that’s good.”
-Elizabeth Edwards (1949-2010)
30 Days of Thanks—Day #13
I am grateful for little bits of inspiration, little things that inspire hope.
So many of my friends have recently posted photos of their holiday baking exploits with their children. All kinds of holiday cookies and cheery faces and stubby little hands covered with icing or sprinkles or flour. I want so badly to be in their number, but I’m not. I can’t. It’s so hard to believe that it will be almost another two years before we have a child who’s old enough to participate in those kinds of activities. Two more years, when his or her older sister should be turning four. Shit.
But today, I was standing in line at Whole Foods and this magazine caught my eye. It was America’s Test Kitchen’s Holiday Cookies recipe book. Before this summer, I had never heard of America’s Test Kitchen. But in June, my dear friend Megan (with whom we’d visited in Chicago about a month before Hudson died, when they caught our girl on this sweet video) came down for a weekend visit and brought with her one of their other magazine-cookbooks, from which she made the most delicious browned butter chocolate chip cookies. Megan loves to cook and bake. This is a girl who used her dorm room toaster oven to bake her boyfriend (now husband) cookies for Valentine’s Day. She is hard core. And she is therefore to be trusted in matters of cooking and baking.
When I first saw this magazine on the stand in line today, I looked away without thinking twice about it. And then I looked back. I saw HOLIDAY COOKIES in big block letters on the front. And then I looked closer and saw the America’s Test Kitchen logo. “Hmm… Megan would approve,” I thought. I picked it up and started thumbing through it. Just looking at the pictures made me feel a little bit festive.
It is so hard during these first holidays without our sweet girl to imagine there ever being a time again when we will feel any joy at all between October and January. But when I looked through this cookbook, I started thinking about Christmases in the future, when I will have children around to bake with. When I’ll have kids fighting over who gets to lick the bowl (but no raw eggs—what were our parents thinking?). When I’ll have loads of pictures of silly kids pouring too many sprinkles on their cookies or eating them before they get decorated.
I bought the cookbook. When I got home, I opened the front cover to read from the beginning. Guess what the first recipe was?
Chocolate Turtle Cookies. When the time comes, I think we’ll start with those.
So many of my friends have recently posted photos of their holiday baking exploits with their children. All kinds of holiday cookies and cheery faces and stubby little hands covered with icing or sprinkles or flour. I want so badly to be in their number, but I’m not. I can’t. It’s so hard to believe that it will be almost another two years before we have a child who’s old enough to participate in those kinds of activities. Two more years, when his or her older sister should be turning four. Shit.
But today, I was standing in line at Whole Foods and this magazine caught my eye. It was America’s Test Kitchen’s Holiday Cookies recipe book. Before this summer, I had never heard of America’s Test Kitchen. But in June, my dear friend Megan (with whom we’d visited in Chicago about a month before Hudson died, when they caught our girl on this sweet video) came down for a weekend visit and brought with her one of their other magazine-cookbooks, from which she made the most delicious browned butter chocolate chip cookies. Megan loves to cook and bake. This is a girl who used her dorm room toaster oven to bake her boyfriend (now husband) cookies for Valentine’s Day. She is hard core. And she is therefore to be trusted in matters of cooking and baking.
When I first saw this magazine on the stand in line today, I looked away without thinking twice about it. And then I looked back. I saw HOLIDAY COOKIES in big block letters on the front. And then I looked closer and saw the America’s Test Kitchen logo. “Hmm… Megan would approve,” I thought. I picked it up and started thumbing through it. Just looking at the pictures made me feel a little bit festive.
It is so hard during these first holidays without our sweet girl to imagine there ever being a time again when we will feel any joy at all between October and January. But when I looked through this cookbook, I started thinking about Christmases in the future, when I will have children around to bake with. When I’ll have kids fighting over who gets to lick the bowl (but no raw eggs—what were our parents thinking?). When I’ll have loads of pictures of silly kids pouring too many sprinkles on their cookies or eating them before they get decorated.
I bought the cookbook. When I got home, I opened the front cover to read from the beginning. Guess what the first recipe was?
Chocolate Turtle Cookies. When the time comes, I think we’ll start with those.
Monday, December 6, 2010
But Then There's This...
And now I’m going to have to eat my words a little bit. Well, not eat them, because it’s not that what I just wrote earlier about being grateful is wrong or untrue (nor are any of the things I’ve written about gratitude in this process). It’s just that there are these awful feelings that exist right alongside of the gratitude. I’m learning that that is OK. As I’ve told some of my fellow grieving mothers, it is OK for us to be grateful for the universe and yet hate it at the same time. It just has to be.
Because here’s the thing. I am grateful that Hudson’s spirit has had such an impact on the world. I’m grateful that so many people know about her and will remember her. But I’m only grateful for those things because this is my reality. In this reality, Hudson is dead, and I can either recognize and be grateful for the goodness that has come out of this awfulness, or I can crawl into bed and never get back out. Those are my choices, as I see them. And the second one is not an option for me.
But in the world I want, the world I long for, the world I still have to wake up from sometimes (even as I sit here writing, I sometimes look at what I am writing about Hudson and am struck again, and again, and again, by the mind-boggling fact that she is GONE)… in that world, none of you has ever heard of Hudson, or me, for that matter. No library books have been donated in her name, no bracelets are being worn to help share her story, no funds are being given in her name to a hospital and a school and a national park, no acts of kindness are being done on her behalf on her birthday. In that world, none of that exists, because in that world, Hudson is still alive and there is no need for any of this. In that world, I’m sitting here right now putting up pictures from her birthday party and her visit with Santa—I’m putting up pictures of ANYTHING that happened with her after May 13, 2010. In that world, I’m not sitting here writing, crying, and wondering why this happened to us and when this pain will ever soften.
Some days it’s harder than others to find that One Good Thing. And even when I can find it, I sometimes still just want to curse it, because goddamn it, I don’t want the One Good Thing. I want Hudson. I just want Hudson.
Because here’s the thing. I am grateful that Hudson’s spirit has had such an impact on the world. I’m grateful that so many people know about her and will remember her. But I’m only grateful for those things because this is my reality. In this reality, Hudson is dead, and I can either recognize and be grateful for the goodness that has come out of this awfulness, or I can crawl into bed and never get back out. Those are my choices, as I see them. And the second one is not an option for me.
But in the world I want, the world I long for, the world I still have to wake up from sometimes (even as I sit here writing, I sometimes look at what I am writing about Hudson and am struck again, and again, and again, by the mind-boggling fact that she is GONE)… in that world, none of you has ever heard of Hudson, or me, for that matter. No library books have been donated in her name, no bracelets are being worn to help share her story, no funds are being given in her name to a hospital and a school and a national park, no acts of kindness are being done on her behalf on her birthday. In that world, none of that exists, because in that world, Hudson is still alive and there is no need for any of this. In that world, I’m sitting here right now putting up pictures from her birthday party and her visit with Santa—I’m putting up pictures of ANYTHING that happened with her after May 13, 2010. In that world, I’m not sitting here writing, crying, and wondering why this happened to us and when this pain will ever soften.
Some days it’s harder than others to find that One Good Thing. And even when I can find it, I sometimes still just want to curse it, because goddamn it, I don’t want the One Good Thing. I want Hudson. I just want Hudson.
30 Days of Thanks—Day #12
I am grateful for all the readers of this blog (and others, too) who have told me at some time or another that either Hudson’s story has had a significant impact on their lives or that through my blog, they feel like they actually know Hudson, even though they have never met her.
I’ve said it many, many times, but I’ll say it again now: the only (and I mean, the only) real consolation I have in the wake of Hudson’s death is knowing that her life still has meaning, that even though she is gone, she is still having an impact on the world. So when I hear people’s stories about how she has changed the way they relate to their children or to someone else in their families or to their lives in general, or that her story and my grief have allowed them to access or process some loss of their own, I am comforted.
And to hear that people feel like they’ve come to know Hudson from reading here… well, I can’t really even explain how much that means to me. One online friend recently told me this (and I REALLY hope she doesn’t mind me sharing, but this just touched me so much):
I have been reading your blog for a while and I want to tell you that the way you write your daughter’s story, I have such a sense of knowing her. In fact-- and I hope this isn’t totally weird to hear-- I have twice had the experience of seeing a toddler and being struck by the thought, “That reminds me of Hudson!” Hudson, who I of course never met, but who has touched me so, so deeply, I can’t even explain it. You have given many people the gift of knowing just a smidgen of her beautiful little self, but that smidgen is really something, mama.
It’s hard to describe why this is so important to me. I’ve been sitting here for five minutes trying to put it into words. Certainly, there is an aspect of it that has to do with Hudson’s siblings—I can only hope that over the course of their young lives, I will do as good a job helping them know Hudson as I have done here, but in a way that does not make them feel overshadowed by her. And when they are old enough, hopefully they will come to know her (and me) even more by reading here. But I guess it’s more just knowing that Hudson’s spirit is out in the world in that particular way—I don’t know… there is just something really special about that. I guess I fear that as time goes on, as Ed and I have more children, that Hudson will fade into the background for everyone except us, and I never want her to be forgotten. Never. Ever.
So thank you, readers, for sharing these stories of how Hudson’s story has affected you and how her little spirit keeps living in your corner of the world. It honestly just means more than I can say.
(And to the many, many of you who have sent me personal messages on Facebook and email in the last few weeks, I am so grateful for those messages. I am really working hard on responding, and I’m sorry that it’s taking me so long.)
I’ve said it many, many times, but I’ll say it again now: the only (and I mean, the only) real consolation I have in the wake of Hudson’s death is knowing that her life still has meaning, that even though she is gone, she is still having an impact on the world. So when I hear people’s stories about how she has changed the way they relate to their children or to someone else in their families or to their lives in general, or that her story and my grief have allowed them to access or process some loss of their own, I am comforted.
And to hear that people feel like they’ve come to know Hudson from reading here… well, I can’t really even explain how much that means to me. One online friend recently told me this (and I REALLY hope she doesn’t mind me sharing, but this just touched me so much):
I have been reading your blog for a while and I want to tell you that the way you write your daughter’s story, I have such a sense of knowing her. In fact-- and I hope this isn’t totally weird to hear-- I have twice had the experience of seeing a toddler and being struck by the thought, “That reminds me of Hudson!” Hudson, who I of course never met, but who has touched me so, so deeply, I can’t even explain it. You have given many people the gift of knowing just a smidgen of her beautiful little self, but that smidgen is really something, mama.
It’s hard to describe why this is so important to me. I’ve been sitting here for five minutes trying to put it into words. Certainly, there is an aspect of it that has to do with Hudson’s siblings—I can only hope that over the course of their young lives, I will do as good a job helping them know Hudson as I have done here, but in a way that does not make them feel overshadowed by her. And when they are old enough, hopefully they will come to know her (and me) even more by reading here. But I guess it’s more just knowing that Hudson’s spirit is out in the world in that particular way—I don’t know… there is just something really special about that. I guess I fear that as time goes on, as Ed and I have more children, that Hudson will fade into the background for everyone except us, and I never want her to be forgotten. Never. Ever.
So thank you, readers, for sharing these stories of how Hudson’s story has affected you and how her little spirit keeps living in your corner of the world. It honestly just means more than I can say.
(And to the many, many of you who have sent me personal messages on Facebook and email in the last few weeks, I am so grateful for those messages. I am really working hard on responding, and I’m sorry that it’s taking me so long.)
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