I’m a little late rolling into June. My desire to blog more frequently is returning and there is a backlog of posts in my head full of summertime fun. Before I go there, I wanted to post something for those who sent so many caring notes and thoughts after I wrote about my miscarriage in March. I wrote this post two weeks ago. But I didn’t feel like sharing it….for some reason. And posting it now makes me feel like I’m officially ready for summer. Thanks for sticking with me!
It’s hard to believe. But June 1 makes three month since my miscarriage, which I shared about here and here. Each rolling over of a new month brings thoughts of what would have been. It’s summertime now, kids are out of school, and it’s not the summer I had planned for. But it’s here. The same way each new month comes and I can’t stop it.
It does get better, or at least the sting doesn’t feel so sharp. I still pains me that I’ll never meet that baby. I’ll never have that moment of watching my girls meet their new sibling, followed by the lifetime of moments they would have shared. And that experience will most likely be my last time being pregnant (I LOVE being pregnant). But I’m still here. Hugging my girls even tighter every day. Being sad that I won’t have another toddler entering the class that my now pre-school girl just outgrew. But being thankful I have a pre-schooler filling the footsteps of my middle girl, now on her way to first grade. Kids are going to grow older and I can’t stop that. On the flip side, if I could, I would keep having them forever – filling our home with the endless glee and love that flows from little ones.
Surrounded by big kids, I had a metaphorical return to snowy walk I shared about in March, that made feel like I was coming around to the other side of things. And now, starting to feel some understanding and acceptence about it all.
I had not been back down that nature walk since that snowy March morning. And on May 15 I found myself standing there with a school field trip, surrounded by big kids full of wonder and a natural curiosity for life. As we walked down the bridge that I last walked when it was covered in snow, I looked at the pond I last saw covered in ice. That day the kids took in all that was around them, lying on the walkways over the marshy pond picking up gooey pond weed. They walked all around the pond and I saw I saw a different view, full of flowers in bloom, surrounded by full-of-life big kids.
On that snowy day I saw a stairway that led nowhere, and seemed too daunting for me to climb.
Rounding around the back side of a path with the filed trip, a child asked if we could climb a steep narrow trail behind the pond. I followed. Then I found the trail led down the stairway that I thought went to nowhere, that still seemed to daunting too climb up.
I was the last one to make my way down, making sure the kids all went down safely in front of me. My daughter was directly in front of me. I shed a quiet tear on the way down. Then she just knew, to turn abound hold my hand and give a sweet little hug. I felt so grateful that day that my 8 year-old still wanted to hold my hand while on a school field trip with her friends.
Then I paused, looking at the map of the living species in the area, remembering the frozen blank feel it gave me the last time I looked at it covered in snow.
Now it was thawed and clear, as I was able to think a little more clearly about where I’ve been.
When I returned to the other side, this sign that held a profound moment for me in March, was barely visitable in all the green today.
I snapped my last quick photo, not wondering if anyone was curious as to why I was taking pictures. And I kept walking. Keeping up with the kids. Because as mom, that’s what we do. Follow our kids, even as they get older and older. Being there for them always. And in certain ways, they keep us going.
I’m glad things are getting easier. In the stages of grief I think acceptance should be modified to “reluctant acceptance” or “wistful acceptance” because that’s what it is.
Isn’t it funny how the tears just come? I silently cried my way through several symphony rehearsals this year (one with a guest conductor- poor guy had no idea what was going on, although I think someone clued him in after the first rehearsal.). People would ask if something new was going on with the baby, who is medically fragile, but most of the time it was simply my body releasing some of its stress and sadness sitting in the middle of all that sound.