If Only They Knew.

The other day, while waiting for the bell to ring to let students go to their next classes, a conversation between students caught me in my tracks.  I stopped entering grades into the gradebook, my ears perked up, and my breath hitched.  My heart was racing, and I felt like I was going to vomit. 
I stayed calm and professional, of course, but everything in me wanted to just run out of the room.

"Yeah, I guess I'm the older twin.  I mean I was born eight minutes before my brother.  So I don't know, I guess you can call that older, but we're basically the same age."

Other students respond to that, but I can't hear them.  Then he says,

"We were a MONTH early!"

When no one seems particularly impressed, he goes on, "I had jaundice too, which is where your skin is all yellow and they have to put lights on you."

Another student pipes in, as if to show him up,

"Well, when I was born, my umbilical cord was wound tightly around my neck.  Like, a bunch of times.  I was purple, and I wasn't moving or even breathing!  Isn't that craaaazy?"

More responses that I can't hear, as I'm feeling dizzy at this point.

Then she says, "Yeah, they even put me in the stupid kid classes when I started school, because they thought I was going to be slow from not getting enough oxygen.  But I never needed them."

Someone responds, "Uhhhh, no kidding, Ms. Straight A's!"

Laughter ensues.

I'm dying inside.

Mother's Day

Very emotional on Mother's Day holding this little guy who came into being (unbeknownst to us) last Mother's Day. So overwhelmed with joy and gratitude that he made it here safely, that I could hold him in my arms this Mother's Day, that my gorgeous girl Evelyn is such a great big sister to him, and that his big brother Elias will forever hold such a special place in all of our hearts.

International Bereaved Mothers Day 2013

For those of you who aren't on my FB page, I wanted to be sure to pop in here to wish you a day full of reflection and hope on this Bereaved Mothers Day.

It's exactly the space I'm in - one of reflection and hope.
Looking back at my post on this holiday two years ago, I just can't believe how different I feel today.  I can't quite explain it.  It might be what I've heard some people call "integration".  I no longer feel the need to defend myself at every turn for loving and remembering my first born son.  He will always be my forever baby, my son, my reason to look forward to heaven.  I will always love him, always miss him, and that's just the way it is.  He's part of me.  Forever.  And there's comfort in that.

I'm glad I took the time two years ago to write that post, to flesh out my feelings on the "holiday" that Carly Marie started.  It is a necessary one.  It stands in such stark contrast to the commercialized bubble gummy Hallmark holiday of Mothers Day, which undeniably recognizes a very different kind of parenting.  Not the "delicate parenting" I describe in the aforementioned post.

And I still love this poem so much, written by the lovely Angie, my friend and fellow BLM, in honor of this sacred holiday.

I stumbled upon an article today and found this quote that I felt really resonated:
"The good news is that healthy grieving does result, at the time right for each of us, in an experience of integration. We take stock and say: I am changed by our loss, and I have changed my life as a result of my loss. And we are not shriveled permanently like a dry stick because of our loss. We can feel alive again…probably wiser, maybe quieter, certainly full of gratitude and a desire to contribute from what we have been through.
And all in good time."

~Elizabeth Harper, Ph.D