Dear Kenley

Dear Kenley,

It's a new year. If you were here, you'd be 10 months old. We would have just celebrated your first Christmas. You'd be crawling around the house, maybe pulling yourself up to stand against the couch - no doubt scaring the pants off the dog. We would be a happy family of three, blissfully unaware of the tragedies that can befall us. But, that's another lifetime, Little Ninja. A universe where I cannot reach, no matter how hard I try. In this universe, I miss you every second of every day. There is not a moment where you are not on my mind or in my heart. But now, there is someone else in those places too. Now, there is your little sister, and I am trying so hard to balance my love for you both. But it's not easy.

When I first found out about Bean, I knew immediately this meant things would have to shift, and I wasn't sure how I was going to do it. I knew I would have to sort through your nursery and your clothes. I would have to decide what to keep sacred and what to use again. Over the last few months, I have been pulling an item or two at a time. A onesie. A stuffed owl. A blanket knitted with you in mind. I have tucked them away inside an old toy chest my uncle made me when I was little. I have slowly, slowly, slowly been removing you from your own room. Each time, I felt like I was stabbing myself in the heart. Each time, I felt like I was betraying you by hiding you away in a trunk. Yesterday was the coup de gras. Yesterday, I took the last remaining owls out of your room and we rearranged the furniture. With each push of the crib or twist of the dresser, I felt myself breaking for you again. And now, it's not your room anymore. It's Bean's. And I'm so sorry. Oh, baby girl, I'm so, so sorry. I'm sorry I can't keep it the same. I'm sorry I can't prepare for her without pushing you aside. I wish I could have you both, but I can't. I wish I could love you both without feeling guilty or torn. I suppose that will come with practice.

This morning, when I walked by the nursery, the changes were jarring. Really, it's just furniture in a different place, but it's a very obvious reminder that you are not here to use it. You will never be here. A room lovingly crafted for you will not be graced by your presence. Instead, we shift our lives and our hearts to make room for your sister. I am trying to get used to the new room because Bean will be here in a few months, and I need to associate that room with her - and not you. I need this room to be Bean's room. While I prepare for her, while I re-wash the clothes I'd first washed for you, while I reorganize the changing table that was supposed to be yours, I feel so divided. I am so happy to be carrying your sister in my belly, but I am still so devastated that you are gone. I feel like by getting ready for her arrival, I am somehow slapping you in the face. Like I am moving on and leaving you behind. But I'm not. I could never to that to you. You were my firstborn. You were the one who made me a mother. I will always love you. I will always think about you. But, it's so hard to be so conflicted all the time.

Your sister is just now starting to kick and twist. Every time she does, I smile because it reminds me she is still alive. And then, immediately, I remember your flips inside me. I remember our lazy Saturday mornings where you'd poke me and I'd poke you back. I loved those times. Being pregnant again so soon means that I remember the last time very clearly. I wear the same clothes. I even have leftover cocoa butter and Tums. Sometimes, I forget it's not you in there. I forget for a split second...and then it all rushes back in. This is another baby. Bean is not you. And when that makes me sad, I feel like I have betrayed Bean.

People have told me that many mothers struggle with their second child - figuring out how to make both children equal. They assure me that it's not that hard. But then, I really don't think the comparison is accurate. When a woman has two living children, those children are always visible to everyone. Each has a personality and a life to carve for themselves. You do not. You are not here to remind people that you matter, that you existed. That falls on me, and it's a pretty heavy load, but one I will gladly carry. People also tell me that when Bean gets here, I won't feel so conflicted. But, they are telling me how to walk in shoes they've never worn themselves. When your sister is here, it will be even more a reminder of the fact you are not, not less.

I want you to know that there is no amount of time that could ever pass that will make me love you less. I struggle with my preparations for Bean because my love for you is so great. I don't want to feel like loving her means I am not thinking about you too. This is so hard. I don't know how to handle it, but I am trying.

Moving you out of the nursery was the hardest thing I've done in a while, but it had to be done. Even if Bean weren't on her way, it would have become a necessary event to face eventually. But, turning that room into hers does not change where you belong in my heart. As she grows, she will know who you were. She will know that it was you who first shaped me into a mom. It was you who prepared me to be the best mother for her. It is your life, and your death, that has made me who I am. I will forever be grateful for you and for the brief time we had together.

You are not here, and I can't change that. All I can do is move forward - with your father by my side, your sister in my belly, and you in my heart. Whatever I need to do to get ready for her arrival, and then her life, please know I do it all not in spite of you but because of you. I love you now and forever, and I miss you just as much. You are not forgotten. You never will be.

Love,

Mom

 

On New Year's Eve, I took your sister to see your tree. This is a picture of the two of you.

 

 

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Ringing in the New Year

So, it's New Year's Eve.   The last day of the worst year in my life.  I cannot even begin to tell you how relieved I feel to have made it to this day - or how much I am looking forward to that midnight ball drop.  For some reason, the switching from 2013 to 2014 is symbolic to me.  Like stepping out from a dark tunnel into the bright light of morning.  Almost a cleansing of sorts.  The muck and grime of the last year will be washed away, flowing from me in dark, winding rivers.   Not to forget, but to break free.  I feel like I am breaking the chains that 2013 had shackled to my ankles.  Chains of guilt and hopelessness, of despair and fear, of regret and broken promises.  Chains that bound me and kept me down.  Chains that prevented me from finding my way back to the light.  

I'll never, ever break free of my love for my daughter...and of course, I wouldn't want to.  Moving on from 2013 does not mean I leave her behind.  I will carry her with me for as long as I live, nestled inside my heart like a bird inside a nest.  I will always ache for her.  There will always be a piece of me missing.  Always.   As I watch her sister grow, I will wish she were here too.  Every day and for the rest of my life.   What I want to leave behind is not my memory, but my pain.   Not my love, but my fear.   As much as I hate this year with the fire of a thousand suns, I have to admit that it has taught me many things.    Here are 13 things I learned in 2013.

1.  I became a mother in July 2012.  February 2013 did not take that away from me - it just changed my perception of what a mother is.

2.  My heart is bigger and wider than I ever knew it possible to be.  It is full of more emotions than have names.  

3.  It is possible to break over and over and over again without dying.

4. Strength is something everyone has, it is just not always recognized as such.  Those showing true strength just think of it as survival.  No one person is stronger than another.  We all have the ability to survive, but it is our choice to do so.

5.  My friends and family come from the best stock on planet Earth - and I wouldn't have come nearly as far as I have without them.  My husband and I are definitely not perfect, but we are perfect for each other.

6.  Loss colors everything in your life, and your view on everything changes.  Forever.  

7.  A mother's love is not only eternal, but is unbreakable beyond imagination.  It stretches across universes - a grasping hand always reaching for her children.  If you want to fight to the death, make a negative comment to a woman about her child.

8.  People don't always know what to do with someone else's pain.  Even though giving them the benefit of the doubt gets old and often exhausting, it's the right thing to do.  Continue to educate the clueless with how to handle grief with care in hopes that through inadvertently hurting you, they will be better prepared for the next person who needs support.   

9. In contrast, sometimes, some people aren't worth the fight.  Sometimes, it's time for them to leave your life to make room for the ones who deserve to stay.  And that's okay.   Holding onto the tail of a bird who desperately wants to fly away will only bring you bloody scratches.  Let them go.

10.  When it rains, it pours.  And pours.  And pours.  And pours.  When you are soaked to the bone and drying off seems impossible, learn how to live dripping wet.  It won't be easy, but the sun will peek through those clouds one day.  Hang on - and keep your head held high.

11.  I am a better person because I am her mother.  I am a better person because she died.  That's a really hard sentence to write because it hurts to admit it, but it is true.  Obviously, I would never have chosen this path.  Obviously, I would much rather have her in my arms today, a happy, bouncy ten month old.   But losing her has forced me to find parts of myself I didn't know existed.  I am a fighter.  I am a warrior.  I am a badass.  I am hardened and softened at the same time.   I wish she were here, but I am proud of the person I have become in the face of her death.

12.  Life isn't fair.  Life has a sinister way of kicking you when you're down by continually shoving other people's happiness in your face.  It's hard to be happy for someone who has what you so desperately want.   It's hard to hurry up and wait.  But, letting go of resentment towards people who are smiling when you can't is like letting go of a lead weight as you flounder in the ocean.  It frees you to float away from unnecessary struggle - and lets you focus on swimming back to shore.   

13.  Kenley Evelyn Wood is my first great accomplishment.  She is more than my daughter.  She is my heart and soul.   I am the mother of star dust, connected to the universe with a tether of light and love.   Her DNA still courses through my veins, and will continue to do so as long as I live.  Nothing can sever me from her.  Not time.  Not space.  Not death.  She will live through me and in the hearts of the people who love her.   2013 stole her life and her body, but it didn't take who she was.   It never will.
  
So, goodbye 2013.  I can't say I'll miss you.   I look to the new year with hopeful eyes and an open heart - and I wish all of you the same.

Bah Humbug

I can't even begin to tell you how much I am dreading Christmas.  If I could skip over the day completely - the week even - I would do it in an instant.  I don't want it to come without her.   I don't want to wake up in the morning to a still silent house.  I don't want to have to face another childless holiday, especially this one.   

This one is the big one.  It's the first big event almost every mom immediately imagines when she is pregnant.  We picture the outfit we will shop for our baby to wear - both on the actual day of Christmas and for any pictures we might take beforehand.   We picture putting up the tree with the various "Baby's First Christmas" ornaments we have either been given or purchased ourselves.  We picture relatives coming from afar to ooh and ahh over our beautiful baby.  Maybe we are even hosting the day at our house for the first time because the baby is here and it's easier than lugging everything all over town.  We imagine how our baby's eyes will light up as we hold her close to the tree, carefully brushing her fingertips over the branches.  We imagine sitting her on our lap on Christmas morning and helping her rip open the brightly wrapped presents that have been lovingly bought for her.  We picture the laughter and the smiles, the eyes shimmering with joy, the music, the light, the family.  We construct this day in its perfection while our baby is still forming her fingers and toes inside us.  

When you are pregnant, everything your baby has yet to do is still bright and shiny inside your mind.  When your baby dies, everything goes dark.   Like Ebeneezer Scrooge's Christmas that is yet to come, fog rolls in, the lights go out, and nothing is what it was supposed to be.  Only, I don't get to wake up on Christmas morning with a second chance.  Kenley will not suddenly be alive in her crib. My Ghost of Christmas Future has come and gone without leaving me a reprieve.  My baby is gone.  There will be no Baby's First Christmas.  Not for her.  I hope Bean will get one, but there are no guarantees in life.  And there's still another year to go before that happens.

This Christmas will be hard.  I will wake up like I have every day for the last ten months to a house without my child. I will hear her absence echoing in the silence.  I won't get her dressed in an adorable dress and tights.  There will be no shiny black shoes to snap onto her wiggling feet.  No presents to open.  No new toys to play with.   There will be only an empty crib and a living room without a Christmas tree.   There will be a broken promise and a weary soul.  

As I write this, a tiny sliver of hope squirms slightly below my belly button.  A little ray of light the size of a sweet potato quietly reminds me that not all is lost - that maybe, just maybe, next Christmas will be different.  While Kenley will always be missing, I hope Bean will be here.  But, now, instead of thinking of a future with bright, shining lights, I hope with a softness that cannot be helped.  A quiet pleading.  Please.  Please.  Please don't take this one away from me too.  Please let me have this one.  Please.  Please.  Please.  

But, she's not here yet.  I still have a long way to go, and all I really have is right now.  Right now, Kenley is gone and Bean is still growing.  Right now, I do not have a baby in my arms.  Right now, life is hard and uncertain and Christmas is still coming.  The first of many I will face without her, but hopefully the last I will face with empty arms.