So Glad I’m Here

I have been thinking about this photo of me ever since Ed took it back in June when Jackson was about a month old. Unlike the photos of me before Hudson died or the ones Ed took of me when we were in Paris in December, I recognize this woman. I understand her. It took me a long time to figure out just what it is that I see in her face that is so familiar. And then it came to me.

This woman is grateful. She is grateful to be here. She has survived the deepest sorrow there is and is still standing. Grief is now her constant companion. Her hair is infinitely grayer than it was a year ago. Her smile is knowing, knowing in a way that most don’t know and hopefully never will. Her eyes still shine, but they reflect a different light than they ever did before.

But she is here. She is smiling. Her eyes are shining. For while grief is her constant companion, so are love, joy, and hope. She has the love of an exceptional man. She has two beautiful children, each one a gift she did nothing to deserve. And she has a future full of hope.

I recognize this woman, finally, as myself. Somehow, I made it here. I am a lucky, lucky girl.

And I’m so glad I’m here.

“So Glad I’m Here” ~ Elizabeth Mitchell

Mirage

Hudson is dead.

Her death is a fact that still hovers just out of my grasp, like the perfect word that I can’t seem to conjure when I need it. My awareness of it drifts in and out of my consciousness, like I am constantly in that hazy state between asleep and awake, where I have to keep vigorously shaking my head in order to try to understand.

On one side of that muddled state is a dream world, a sideways existence where Hudson is still alive. In this world, she looms so large in my imagination. I see her in all the places that she should be: running willy nilly as we picnic with friends in the Arboretum, in the space next to Jackson’s in the back seat of the car, pushing the “Little Shoppers” cart at the grocery store, putting her grubby fingers all over her little brother, singing with me in the kitchen at the top of her lungs, learning to swim in her Poppy’s pool, pointing out every plane, train, bus, and automobile she sees, learning letters and numbers. This is the world I wish I lived in.

On the other side is the harsh reality, the world where Hudson no longer lives. On this side, I try to restrain myself from imagining all the places where she should be. I wear a One Good Thing bracelet, a necklace with her name on it, and turtle earrings every day in memory of her. I stumble and stutter whenever I am asked if Jackson is my first child. Sometimes I can say, “My older daughter died” rather matter-of-factly and without crying; most times I can’t. I talk about her all the time, taking any chance I get to mention her in a conversation, as if she is just as alive and present as my living child. In real life and on Facebook, I watch all the children who were Hudson’s age continue to grow up and change and do new things she will never do, and I watch all the children who were born long after she was grow older than she ever did. I am reminded of her just about every other moment of every day in some way or another. This is the world I actually live in.

I still don’t believe it, not in the sense that I have accepted it as an unchangeable fact. It still feels unreal to me. It still even feels changeable at times, as though she can come back to me if I can just figure out how to make it happen. Her death is like a terrible mirage, an image that exists only in the vapor on the horizon, an optical illusion that I can only really perceive if I squint and concentrate very hard.

Hudson’s ashes are all that grounds me firmly in the reality that she is gone. When I begin to drift into the dream world where she is alive, as I do more often than you can imagine, all I have to do is remember that her ashes are sitting in the downstairs playroom and I am snapped back into the real world where she is dead. Honestly, if I didn’t have them, I’m not sure I’d ever be fully convinced.

Letter

My dear, sweet little girl—

I have spent so much time in the past few days talking to you, kissing your pictures, and remembering what it was like to hold you that I figured maybe I should just sit down and write you a letter. Yesterday was a hard day—I spent a lot of the afternoon and evening crying for you, sweetheart, just feeling so very sad for all that you will never get to experience. I looked at your little brother’s precious face and cried for how very much alike you are and for how sad I am that the two of you will never meet, will never get to tease each other, play animalvegetablemineral in the backseat on long car trips, or fight over who gets to lick the bowl when we make birthday cakes for Daddy. It’s just so very unfair that you don’t get to grow up and do all the things that your friends are doing and will do, and I’m so very angry on your behalf. I can still barely believe that you are gone. Even fifteen months later, it still seems as though you were just here. It is almost as if I just expect you to come toddling around the corner into the kitchen while I am making dinner and start opening drawers for your favorite utensils.

But today was a better day. Your brother and I got up early and went down to Hains Point, a long point that juts out into the Potomac River. The weather has cooled off a tiny bit, and at nine in the morning, it felt wonderful. We took a very long walk around the point and then back the other way, with your brother snoozing most of the way in the stroller. I can’t believe your daddy and I never took you to this place, sweet girl. How we never discovered it before now is beyond me. I imagine that if you had lived and we had bought the bike trailer we had been shopping for the weekend before you got sick, we would have probably discovered it last summer as a nice place to pull you behind our bikes.

Oh, how much you would have loved it, Hudson. I had been walking right next to the water for only about 5 minutes when I came upon a little family of ducks sitting right in the middle of the walkway. They barely noticed I was there until I was a few feet away, at which point they casually stood up and walked a few feet forward so that I could roll along behind them. You would have been able to see them up so close—I could just picture how excited you would be. There were dozens of sea gulls and other birds flying all around, and I was remembering how much you loved all the sea birds when we took you to the beach. You hadn’t spoken your first word yet (you started talking that very week, though), but every time you saw a bird, you said, “Ooo! Oooooooooo!” and grinned your beautiful grin.

As I reached the end of the point, I saw not one, not two, but three helicopters landing at the Air Force base on the other side. I was remembering how much you loved vehicles of all kinds, and how you could say “heh-cop” for helicopter.

And then as I rounded the point, I was facing the airport across the river. “Ai-pane” was one of your very favorite words and you loved it when you heard or spotted one in the sky. We took you to Gravelly Point, on the other side of the river, several times to watch the planes take off, but they were taking off right over our heads, so they were very loud and it was hard to really see that they were planes. I remember you being scared the first time or two we took you there. But I also remember how fascinated you were with the planes on the one plane trip we took once you were old enough to know what they were. About a month before you died, we took you to Chicago to visit your aunt and uncle, and you loved looking out the window at all the planes in the waiting area. Boy, would you have loved Hains Point today. From my vantage point across the river from the airport, I could watch all the planes coming in for a landing AND taking off. I could see everything so much better and it wasn’t nearly as loud. I was imagining us playing a game where we’d see which one of us could first spot the planes far off in the distance as they came in for a landing. I bet you would have been very good at it.

I miss you, sweet girl. I miss you so much. If I sat down to write every time something reminded me of you, I’d never leave the computer. Your precious brother Jackson has done wonders for helping me not feel sad as often as I used to, but life without you will always be sadder than life was with you. And again, I’m not just sad for me. I’m sad for him, too. He should have more than just mine and Daddy’s face to stare and smile at—he should be staring at yours, too. He should have you here to cheer him on as he learns to roll over and crawl and stand and walk. And most importantly, to teach him all the best words. 

But today, as he and I walked in the sunshine and the breeze, as I watched the helicopters and the planes and the boats and the birds, I felt you there with us, and I was so glad.

I love you and miss you so much, Hudson. How I wish you were here with us in person, but since I can’t have you that way, I’m grateful to have you always in my heart.

Love,

Mommy

So Lonely

I haven’t written for ten days. Not because I haven’t needed to or wanted to, but because I was having trouble putting my finger on how I’ve been feeling. I told Jess that I might say I have been feeling “incomplete,” but that word seems so inadequate. My next thought would be “empty,” but that word negates the joy that I feel with Jackson during so many moments of each day.

I finally figured it out. More than anything right now, I have been feeling incredibly lonely.

Some of this loneliness is just situational. I’m at home with an infant during an excruciatingly hot summer here in DC. Most days are not decent enough to spend any time outside with him, I’m paranoid about taking him to any crowded places or mommy and me-type classes, and he hates the car seat so much that I’m not too keen on driving him anywhere either. So I’ve spent a lot of time in the house by myself with him.

But most of the loneliness I have been feeling is psychological—it is loneliness bound up completely in the grief. Grief is so incredibly isolating—the “aquarium” effect that Aleksandar Hemon described so well in his New Yorker essay. Grief of any kind has the tendency to isolate because it is so very difficult to relate to others who have not suffered your loss. But the loss of a child is isolating in the most isolating way, because it is so very rare. Not only is it difficult to relate to those who have not suffered the same loss, but there are so very few people who have.

The situational loneliness can be cured rather easily by getting out more and spending more time with friends. But paradoxically, the cure for the situational loneliness has the unfortunate side effect of compounding the psychological loneliness. Sometimes the loneliest I feel is when I’m with others.

More than one fellow bereaved mom has told me that the second year would be harder in many ways than the first. I am finally starting to get some sense of that. I spent more than half of the first year in shock, thinking that if I could just get past that year of firsts, it would get better. And some things are better. Jackson, of course, has changed the texture of our lives in beautiful and amazing ways. But more so than ever, everyone around me is moving on. The first of Hudson’s friends will start turning three soon. Three. They are all running and jumping and talking in complete sentences and palling around and doting on their younger brothers and sisters. It’s not that I fear that Hudson will be forgotten—I know for certain that she will never be. But no one else remembers and misses her in the same way that I do. No one else lived with her and fed her and diapered her and dressed her and bathed her and clipped her fingernails and folded her clothes and took her to school and let her press the elevator button and giggled with her over the mouse in “Goodnight Moon.” Even my dearest Ed, the only person who was as close to Hudson as I was, and who is an incredibly good companion in grief, is at a very different place on his grief journey than I.

So often when I am with others now, I feel as though I am in a bathroom with the door closed and the hot water running, steaming up the entire room. The steam chokes my lungs and my throat and coats the only window to the outside with a thin film so that I can barely see what’s on the other side. I try to write messages in the steam only to realize that from the other side, everything I have written is backwards, yet when I try to write backwards, everything just gets garbled, and in the meantime, every time I write anything, the steam keeps billowing out behind me and fogging over my letters so no one can see them in the first place. There is just no way to make myself understood, because there is just no understanding it unless you have lived it yourself. And even those who have lived it didn’t live it with my sweet Hudson. In this one way, I am entirely alone and so very lonely in my grief.

And yet I remain indescribably grateful for all the love and support I’ve received over the last fifteen months (oh, my—how can it be that we will soon reach the point where Hudson has been gone longer than she was here?). When all of this was really settling in with me on Wednesday night, I posted one word as my status on Facebook right before I went to bed: “Struggling.” By the time I woke up on Thursday morning, I had dozens of kind messages of support waiting for me. And that, even on my loneliest day, is certainly One Good Thing.

If only it could cure the loneliness.

An Ounce of Prevention

Jackson got his first big shots today: Pentacel and Prevnar. The Pentacel vaccinates against Hib, DTaP and polio. Prevnar protects against invasive pneumococcal disease (IPD) caused by streptococcus pneumonia bacteria. This is the bacteria that took Hudson’s life.

I know many people have wondered whether Hudson was vaccinated. The answer, if you are one of those, is yes: she was fully vaccinated and totally on schedule. She had received all the scheduled doses of Prevnar when she died. At the time, Prevnar covered 7 strains of s. pneumo bacteria. In the months just prior to and after her death, the vaccine expanded to include another 6 strains. And there are more than 90 different strains of the bacteria—it is one of the most common bacteria in the world, colonizing in all of our noses and throats regularly. A small number of these strains are known to cause most IPD, so these are the ones the vaccines focus on. I am under the impression (because I can’t remember an exact conversation) that the strain that killed Hudson was not included in either the Prevnar7 or the Prevnar13.

I remember very well when Hudson got the Prevnar vaccine—the nurse told me it was the one that usually stung the most, and this always proved to be true each time she got a dose. I remember the first time she got it, at two months, her face screwed up into an angry cry and turned bright red and it took her several seconds before she exhaled with a giant scream. It was awful to watch and I felt so sorry for her.

I have never opposed vaccinations and never even considered not vaccinating my children, but given our experience with Hudson, I became militant about vaccinations. Even though the Prevnar vaccine didn’t save Hudson, it wasn’t because it was ineffective—it was just incomplete and imperfect. The strains it did protect her against were the ones that most commonly cause serious disease, so certainly it was doing the job it was intended to do, since she never got any other major illness except an ear infection or two.

There was no question that we would get Jackson vaccinated, fully and on schedule. And true to form, he screamed a lot harder from the sting of the Prevnar than from the Pentacel.

But this post isn’t actually about vaccines. It’s about my old nemesis, the what-if monster. Yes, again.

By getting Hudson vaccinated (and breastfeeding and washing my hands incessantly and feeding her healthy food and so on and so on), I thought I was doing everything I could do to keep her safe from serious infectious diseases. I never imagined I’d be in a position to try and prevent her from dying from one.

Recently, several different friends have posted on Facebook about their kids having high fevers like Hudson did, and taking them to the emergency room or urgent care when those fevers hit 104 degrees. And I didn’t. I thought about it, but I didn’t. So I’m thinking again about why I didn’t. Why did I react differently?

What follows is the very first thing I ever wrote after Hudson died. I wrote it about 10 days later, after both memorial services and after Ed and I had left town to get away for a few days down in Belhaven, where we were married. I started writing about exactly how everything went down with Hudson that fateful weekend, my brain trying its best to process it and figure out how and when all hell broke loose.

In the early morning on Mother’s Day, May 9, 2010, Hudson woke up screaming. It was around 1 or 2AM and she was at full bloody-murder pitch. She had been fussing off and on throughout the day, a little bit clingy– we thought maybe she had some molars coming in. She had been sucking her thumb a lot lately, at times other than to go to sleep, which was her norm, and her thumb was always at the back of her mouth– hence, the molar theory. Saturday morning, I had taken her to her first music class. We had missed the previous two because we were out of town for the first one and then had the start time wrong for the second one. After the music class, I realized I was fairly close to the Value Village thrift store– I had been looking for some sturdy closed-toe sandals for her to wear to school, so I headed over there before going home. Didn’t find anything at Value Village, but saw a CVS next door and decided I should finally get around to buying some non-recalled baby Tylenol. Pretty much all but the CVS brand had been recalled, so that’s what I bought.

So even before she went to bed on Saturday, I had considered giving her some Tylenol just because she’d been so fussy and I figured those molars were just bothering her. But I didn’t– she went down like usual, I think, but then roused a couple of times between then and when she woke up for good, just fussing. Ed and I talked about whether we should get her up and give her some Tylenol, but she went back to sleep on her own each time. But when she started screaming, I knew something else was wrong. I went into her room immediately and was relieved to find that the poor thing had finally just gotten her chubby, precious little leg stuck between the crib bars and she had woken up and couldn’t move. Every time I tried to extricate her, she would scream some more. So Ed came in and we turned the lights on. Poor Hudson was still wearing her winter pajamas– these were white fleece with blue snowflakes on them. We hadn’t gotten around to buying any summerweight ones, but figured we kept the house pretty cold and didn’t put any blankets in her crib, so she was probably fine. But the extra fleece did not make leg extraction any easier. Finally I realized that I just needed to straighten her angle a little bit and once I got her body more perpendicular to the bed, her leg slid right out. I changed her diaper– it was pretty loose stool, but nothing I worried about– and her little knee was fiery red. I could tell she had probably been stuck that way for a while and wondered if the first few times she had woken up, she was already stuck but just not awake enough to fuss much. So THEN I gave her some Tylenol, figuring her knee was probably pretty bruised and sore and I wanted to make it feel better. She curled up on my shoulder like she always did at bedtime and we sang our song (“Hark the Sound”)– I can’t remember if she giggled at the “Don’t Go to Dook” part– probably not, since she was so sleepy. But I put her back down and she went right on back to sleep. I did not realize that the next time she woke up would be the beginning of the end of her life.

About an hour later, she woke up crying again, and I couldn’t imagine that she’d gotten her leg stuck again. And I was right. Instead, she was absolutely burning up inside her jammies. She had never been a kid to run much fever, even with ear infections, but her little body was just radiating heat. I took her temp and it was about 101.5. Again, about as high as her temp had ever been, but still not a really high fever for a toddler. But given that I had just given her some Tylenol for another reason about an hour before, the fever still concerned me a good deal. I couldn’t give her anymore medicine for a while, so we just stripped her down and laid her in the bed with us and she went back to sleep. I can’t really remember the rest of that night (I remember the next night very well, still), but I know I gave her some more medicine as soon as I could– I never took her temp soon after giving her the Tylenol. Maybe I should have. But she seemed to perk up for a little bit each time, so it seemed like it was working. But she spent most of Mother’s Day pretty much stuck to me. We tried to get her to lay down for a nap or two since she’d been up so much, and she would lay down for a little bit, and then start to fuss, so I got her out of bed and just let her sleep on my chest while I watched TV. We spent a fair portion of that day like that– in retrospect, once we realized her illness would claim her life, I was so very grateful for those days of being so close to her. Somewhere around lunch time I took her temp again and it was up over 102. She was still eating and drinking, but that temp was pretty high to me, and her right eye looked ever-so- slightly swollen, more just a very, very slight droop actually, so I decided it was time to call the pediatrician. She didn’t call back for close to an hour, and I talked with her about Hudson’s symptoms. She asked questions, most importantly whether the fever was responding to the medicine– I said that even though I hadn’t kept taking Hudson’s temp after giving her the medicine, she did seem to perk some each time. She asked whether Hudson had any other symptoms, and the only thing I knew of was a very mild runny nose– but again, it was nothing compared to some colds/URIs Hudson had had in the past. Then there was her eye. The doctor asked questions about it, mostly whether there was any goop oozing out of it– Hudson had already had pink eye three times that year, so we knew what pink eye looked like. This was not it. The doctor said she didn’t think we needed to go to the ER– she said even if Hudson’s temperature was 104, we wouldn’t need to go to the ER as long as it was responding to medication.

Well, I remembered what she had said when later in the afternoon, Hudson’s fever spiked to 104. It was too early to give her any more Tylenol, but that temperature scared me to death. I called Jessica first to ask her what I should do and she wasn’t home, so I left a message. Then I called my sister– since she had raised nine kids, I figured she’d seen plenty of high fevers and would know what to do. She said that I should put Hudson into a lukewarm bath to cool her down, and that that’s what they’d probably do to her at the ER, or worse, they’d put her into a tub of ice. But she said I knew my own kid and if I thought we should go to the ER, then I should take her to the ER.

I will remember the decision I made next for the rest of my life, even though I know, based on what we learned later, it’s 99% likely that had we gone to the ER on Sunday afternoon, they would have sent us home and we’d have ended up right back where we did the next day, anyway. Except having been sent home once, I guess it’s possible I would have been reluctant to even go back on Monday, although at that point, we were worried about Hudson refusing to eat or drink and were mostly trying to get some fluids in her.

So instead of going to the ER, I drew a lukewarm bath. Hudson generally loves the bath, so I figured this was probably a good plan. She wasn’t crazy about the colder water, but she got used to it and eventually started playing and splashing like she usually would. While she was in the bath, Jessica called and we talked a bit– she told me (I think my sister had said this, too) that if we had some Motrin, we could alternate the Tylenol and the Motrin on a shorter timeframe, every three hours, rather than 4-6 for Tylenol and 6-8 for Motrin. She also said that the fact that Hudson’s eye was slightly swollen made her even more comfortable that this was some kind of infection in her sinuses or ear/nose/throat, because kids often get associated eye infections with those.

We didn’t have any Motrin, so as soon as Hudson was out of the bath, we took a walk to CVS with her in the stroller and Bess alongside. Hudson loved to be outside– she had just learned that word in the last week– and had a ball identifying and pointing to all the new words she was learning– airplane, helicopter, rock, car, bus, truck, ant, bee, flower... so many words. So she enjoyed the walk– she seemed in much better spirits. We had no idea it was the last walk we’d ever take with her. Though we are never given the chance to do this when someone we love dies suddenly, I wish I’d appreciated it more, remembered every moment, every word she said, everything she pointed to. We bought some Motrin, again the non-recalled CVS brand, and headed back home. I gave her a dose and within a short time, her temp was all the way down to 100.4. She ate a big meal– I think we had taco salad that night, so she was scarfing the rice and meat and avocado. With such a big appetite and her temp back down so low, I figured we’d turned a corner and were heading back into well-baby territory. She went to sleep easily, which was no wonder after her ordeal the night before. Ed and I both breathed a little easier.

Except that at 11 that night, she woke up again. Her fever was back up to 102, so we dosed her and kept her in the bed with us for a bit. She perked up immediately, to the point that she was sitting up in the bed trying to chat with us. It was almost midnight at this point and we all needed our sleep, so I went and put her back down in the crib. She went right to sleep without a problem. But she was up again at 2. Fever was back up to 102. We dosed her again with the alternate medicine, her fever went down a touch, and we put her back down. At 3 she woke again, with the fever raring back up to 103. Since I had just given her the fever medicine at 2, I couldn’t give her anymore. We brought her in the bed with us and turned the light on– every time I touched her, she screamed. We figured she was just exhausted and tired of being messed with– one or the other of us had had our hand on her forehead and cheeks pretty much constantly for about 24 hours. She had had enough of it, so we thought. I thought again about going to the ER, but at this point, it was 3 in the morning, and the doctor’s office would open 4 hours later. I figured if I could get the fever back down somehow, then we could wait it out. It’s another decision I’ll question for as long as I live– although all indications appear that they still would not have made much of the illness at 4AM on Monday morning, I will still never be able to know that for sure, or whether starting the course of IV antibiotics 12 hours earlier would have saved her life. This knowledge, or lack of it, nearly cripples me sometimes. Even though I know it is not my fault, I still wish I could just rewind and do it differently, just to see if it could have made a difference, and we could have returned to our old, amazing life with our amazing little girl. Although I imagine not a day will go by for as long as I live that I don’t think about this, I can only hope that one day, I will be able to let go of it. I know there is no point, but it is still hard not to consider.

So I put her back into the lukewarm bath– she protested at first, and each time I cupped some cool water and splashed it over her, but she was generally nonresponsive, and just leaned her head over onto my shoulder with her eyes closed as if to say, “Mommy, I just want to go to sleep.” I asked her if she wanted any of her toys, and she said, “No” to each one. That’s the point at which I really wish I had listened to my mommy instinct– I knew that something was very wrong, but I just didn’t know what. Kids run high fevers all the time, I knew, but my kid usually didn’t. Why, why didn’t I listen?

We kept her in the bed with us after that– the fever did come down, but I think it was back up to 102.7 by 6AM or so. I waited until 7 on the nose to call the pediatrician and she said we could come in at 8. So we got Hudson dressed and tried to feed her breakfast. She took two bites of yogurt and refused anything else. We went to the pediatrician’s office and our poor girl was just not herself. She barely made a fuss when the nurse came in, although she did cry at least a little bit. When the doctor came in, her first comment was “She is SICK,” because little Hudson was laid out in my arms with her head all the way back and was not bothering to sit herself up or get more comfortable. The doctor looked her over, looked in her ears, which were perfect (this startled me– I had been hoping all of this would be linked to an ear infection and we could get out of there), the whole nine yards, and nothing.

My account stops Monday morning, halfway through the pediatrician visit. After I had gotten that far, I remember posting on Facebook something like this: “Mandy is finally writing. And it is even more painful than I thought it would be.” It was so horribly painful because writing down every moment of that weekend only highlighted each and every opportunity where I could have made a different choice that might, just might, have saved Hudson’s life. It’s not just about the decision not to go to the ER at 4AM. It’s also about why I didn’t take her to the ER when the fever first spiked to 104 on Sunday. Or why I didn’t at least call the pediatrician back and ask what to do. Why, when the fever spiked up a degree and a half only an hour after I gave her medicine, I didn’t at least call the pediatrician and ask what to do. Maybe she’d have said to get our asses to the ER. Or why, if I didn’t call the pediatrician, I didn’t at least look in my “Portable Pediatrician” book, where the section about fever says plain as day that the fever is not the concern—it’s what’s causing the fever that you should really be worried about.

I have never shared the above with anyone. I’m not even sure Ed knows I ever wrote it. I saved in its own separate document and I have only read it twice, once some time ago and once again today. When I first wrote on the blog last summer about these fateful decisions, I didn’t give this kind of play-by-play. I hit the highlights, and everyone told me that they would have done the same thing I had. And I just kept thinking, “Well, they just don’t know the whole story. They don’t know all the different places where I could have, SHOULD have, made a different choice. If they really knew the whole thing, they would be wondering what in the hell was I thinking.” Maybe so. Maybe not.

But I’m not writing this to have you all reassure me again that I did everything I could do. Really, I’m not. I know now that no amount of that is ever going to make this go away entirely. And believe me, it has gotten better—I am not plagued by this in the same way as I used to be. It’s just that sometimes certain things trigger it (like vaccinations or hearing about high fevers) and I have no choice but to go through it all again. Jess tells me that she does the same thing with her mom’s illness and death—sometimes she just has to let herself go back through every moment, every phone call, every decision point, again. Even though it can never change the outcome, I think telling the story over and over is just part of a process I have to go through, part and parcel of the grief.

It sucks. I can’t even describe how much it sucks. But I have accepted that it is just part of the process. A process whose purpose is to help me one day accept that no matter what I do, there are some things I will be unable to prevent.

No matter how hard I try or how much I wish, I can’t vaccinate Jackson against the entire world. Oh, that such a vaccine existed.

Brother and Sister

Some photos of my babies looking so much alike.  What a gift.

How I wish I could have photos of them together.  

Jackson at Two Months

I remember thinking when Hudson was this little that clichés are clichés because they are true: they just grow so fast at this age. Jackson is two months old today, and it’s unbelievable how much he is growing and changing right before our very eyes. At his one-month checkup, he weighed 11 pounds and 14 ounces—this is 5 more ounces than Hudson weighed at her TWO-month checkup. Granted, he had a one-pound head start on her at birth, but there is no doubt that he is growing at a much faster clip than she did. Just from a rough guess based on our scale here at home, he probably weighs about 14 pounds and change now, so he may have slowed down just a tiny bit from the pound-a-week rate he was growing at before, but not by much. Already, much like his big sister, he seems to much prefer standing with his weight on his legs to sitting down—anytime he is in the bouncy seat, I see him planting his feet at the bottom and stretching out his legs like he is standing up. His hair is too cute and most of the time, it stands up on his head like a little faux-hawk. His poor little face is suffering from a little bit of yucky acne, but only around his mouth and chin—he is a bit of a messy eater and is also a master of gastrointestinal pyrotechnics, so a lot of milk hangs out around his mouth, even though we try to clean his face regularly. I hate for anything to mar his beautiful little face.

It’s been another wonderful month with our boy. We took Jackson for his first trip to the National Mall, where he saw ducks for the first time. Then his Grandma and Grandpa came to visit and we ventured out to the National Harbor, where he saw Peeps for the first time. We think he was slightly more enthralled with the Peeps this go round, because they are much more colorful, but give him a few more months and I’m sure the scales will tip the other way. We also took him to Lake Artemesia in Maryland, where we saw some turtles gnawing on lilypads in the water.

Eating and sleeping are still adventures. He is a champion nurser, but he tends to gorge, so he eats really fast and hungrily, often choking and spluttering, and frequently gulping down air bubbles that I can hear on the way down. I usually burp him two or three times during a feeding, and every time I turn him upright, I close my eyes and hold my breath—I know there will be spit-up, and it’s always just a question of how much. We go through burp cloths and outfits (for us both) like water around here. The grunting and writhing during sleep does seem to have settled down at least a little bit, but at this point, he’s already acclimated to sleeping in his crib, so it seems silly to bring him back into our room only to move him back to the crib in another month or two. But I do still miss having him sleep close to me.

He is getting more and more stubborn about going to sleep, but I keep having to remind myself that he is only 2 months old—he’s got plenty of time still to learn to fall asleep on his own. But we still work on it. Usually for naps, I swaddle him and bounce him gently on the exercise ball until his eyes get heavy. About half the time, I can then lay him down in the crib with the pacifier and he’ll nod on off to sleep. The other half the time, I have to go back in two or three or four times and put the pacifier back in (this is why I HATE pacifiers, but both my kids have had major sucking reflexes and had no trouble going back and forth from the pacifier to the breast—I only hope that we’re as lucky with Jackson as we were with Hudson and are able to get rid of the darn thing by 5 months or so). Lately, he has finally begun to notice when we leave the room and has started to follow us with his eyes as we do, so that complicates things. A few times a week, he still naps on my belly after he’s finished eating, and I get to stare at his sweet little sleeping face for an hour or so. His nighttime sleep seems to be headed in a good direction. He usually sleeps for a solid six hours from about 8PM until around 2AM. On a few good nights, he’s slept a straight ten hours. We’re getting ready to start a “dream feed” with him, where we give him a bottle of breast milk in his sleep right before we go to bed to see if that can tide him over until morning on a regular basis.

Just like Hudson, his baby fussiness seemed to peak right around six weeks and then he really turned a corner. Now he spends most of his days happily staring at my face, the toys hanging from his bouncy seat, the colorful sea animals on his activity mat, or the ceiling fan. He fusses only when hungry or tired, and we can finally easily distinguish between the two cries. His favorite spot is the changing table. He loves to look at our faces, and particularly loves when we razz at him. He’s razzed back at us a few times, but not on purpose. We sing a lot: “The Wheels on the Bus,” “Heads, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” “If You’re Happy and You Know It,” and pattycake—all songs that require a lot of movement, so we do a lot of clapping, rolling and throwing our cake in the pan, rowing our boat, and opening and closing the bus doors. We sing a lot of other stuff, too, everything from showtunes to Prince to Coldplay. Every day when Ed gets home around 6, he dances around the kitchen with Jackson in his arms, staring raptly up into his face—it is so very precious to watch.

He is smiling more and more. He has even laughed a few times, but not regularly yet. His breath quickens whenever he gets excited. We spend a lot of time talking back and forth to each other—I respond to every smiley “Aaaoooooo!” of his with my own “Aaaoooooo!” and lots of other words and noises. He is already a big fan of peek-a-boo, too.

The car seat is still hit or miss—he has not yet fully learned that it is indeed a happy place for dreamy sleeping, not a torture chamber for endless screaming. But he is coming around, especially now that he notices the Very Hungry Caterpillar hanging from the handle and the big mirror in front of him where a little baby mimics his every move.  I am sure it won’t be long before the car seat becomes our napping fail-safe, just like it was for Hudson—if all else failed, we could always get her to nap in the car.

It’s never easy, as every month that passes is yet one month farther away from the time Hudson was with us. But it amazes me how much Jackson manages both to be his own unique little person and also to help us keep Hudson so close in such special ways. I can only hope that I am doing all I can to help him feel unconditionally loved for just who he is, by me, by his daddy, and by his big sister.

Jackson at One Month