Gone but not forgotten

It's really bittersweet to watch the children play - when they don't know I'm observing - and witness them remembering their baby brother, George, who died just over two months ago during my labour.

I sometimes wonder if the children bring him up in conversation for my benefit; if I'm conditioning them to somehow discuss their little brother. I worry, as only a mother can, that I'm forcing them to think of their dead baby brother more than they otherwise would as I grieve. I also worry they might not talk about him for fear of making me cry. I want talking about baby George to be normal, but it's really difficult right now because I'm so overwrought as the loss of this long-expected baby is hitting me as the shock of his death wears off. And so I worry that I am sad too often, or that if I'm not letting them see my tears that I'm hiding reality from them. It's exhausting.

The four of them frequently leave an empty chair beside them as they play or at meal or snack times, "because there are really five of us and maybe angel George can come and sit with us." They sit in the sunroom of our new house, where I pictured so many times sitting to nurse our new baby, and they speculate which books he'd have enjoyed reading with them. They include him in drawings of our family. And this afternoon, as they had the very best time playing first in a big box and then ripping it up with the help of our 10-month-old Old English Sheepdog puppy, Albert, they wondered if George would have laughed at the dog's antics. And if Albert would have given the baby slurpy kisses or if baby George would have been used to Albert's bark.

Oh, what might have been breaks my heart. At least what is still includes our angel baby.

Grammar more important than behaviour?

I keep catching myself in questionable child behaviour correction. I just did it again. This is getting to be a real problem for me. Focus, Mumma. Focus.

We have built a fort in the playroom and there are many different types of allies and adversaries at war here now. It starts out fun but of course sometimes certain soldiers or knights are unimpressed with other warrior types.

Máire points at Morris, who has just knocked apart the fortress with glee, and says with a terrible frown, "Him is a poopy pants."

And do I scold her for calling names? No.

Mumma says without any further thought, "No, honey. HE is a poopy pants."

Good grammar is essential to proper insults. Is that my message????

Crazy days

Grief. I think I am coping and then it sneaks up and sends me in a tailspin.

The children are doing well. They speak of baby George often, and they're comfortable to sidle up to me for a cuddle and to ask a question. Is he cold? No. Is he happy in heaven? I'm sure he is. Do you think he wishes he were here with us? Absolutely I think he'd have loved to have played with all of you, but I know he'll be happy waiting in heaven for us.

They set out an extra little lawn chair for him on the back deck of our new house. They call it George's chair and I overheard the boys wondering if their angel brother would sit there and watch them play.

Packing and moving has been bittersweet. I think of the times we came to see the house during the buying process and after, when the couple who lived here invited us to come and have another look around when the real estate deal was done. I would waddle in, rubbing my big belly, and imagine us all moving in, but here we are and the new little one is not in my arms as I'd pictured.

I'd pack and cry just thinking of how I'd thought I'd be crazy busy with the baby in a sling. Instead I was crazy busy but looking at his ashes on the shelf. I didn't bring him into the house in a carseat or snuggled in that newborn loveliness against my chest. I carried in the cold container that holds his earthly remains.

I try to be happy for my husband and the children. I really do. But I'm a post-partum mother with no baby, just grief and emptiness. Canada Day was a struggle. I found myself watching other mothers with big pregnant tummies or newborns and feeling so angry. I'm not jealous of their happiness, just devastated that our baby boy was born not breathing. Why did my baby die during labour? Why us? Am I being punished in some way?

Strangers asking me how many children we have or if we're "done" is enough to set me sobbing.

A friend sent me this post to another grieving mother's inspired way of describing her journey through bereavement as a Grief Dance. There is no way I could possibly say it better. It's up and down, happy and sad, a mix of any number of emotions at any given time. I just wish I didn't have to learn the steps to it:

http://thespohrsaremultiplying.com/2009/06/grief-dance/