Healing Words

Today, I'm pretty excited to share something with you.  I have been working on adding a page to the blog for the past few weeks.  Mostly, it's been just a jumbled mess in my head, but I finally got around to organizing it onto the computer.

Check out the "How to Journal through Grief" tab at the top of the page.  Let me know what you think.

Saturday Spotlight #15

Evidently, this photography project is not as easy as I thought.  It involves looking for images in unique locations, and I have not yet found all of my images.   So...another week without the last installment.   I'm working on it!

Meanwhile, yesterday's post got me thinking more about my honeymoon and how much fun it was.  So much fun, in fact, I wanted to share it with you.  So, I made a video on my Ipad with photos from our week in Kauai and I set it to the same song by Dave Matthews.  

Mike and I watched it together before I uploaded it and smiled.  That was a wonderful week.  A week full of newness and adventure.  A week when our lives were simple and carefree.  

Sometimes, we all need to take a moment to think about what makes us happy in this life.  We all need to take a moment to remember the good times we've had - because at the end of the day, that's really all there is.  Memories.   Here's one of mine.

Saturday Spotlight #14

The photography project I have been working on is not quite finished.  It's more difficult than I thought it would be.  I will keep working on it and, hopefully, can have it completed by next week.   However, here is the journal assignment that goes with it:

One Year From Today

When you lose your child, it's hard to think about the future because what you want and what you can have are two very separate things.  You feel like your future has been stolen from you.  Ripped from your hands as you cry out in anguish.  Darkness decends - a thick, black curtain that keeps the future hidden.   You cannot imagine a future other than the one you had planned.  Anything else seems unnatural and insufficient.  The farther you get from loss, the more translucent that curtain becomes.   You can see what is ahead, but you aren't always brave enough to take the steps to get there.  Eventually, the curtain disappears altogether, and you can begin your hesitant walk forward.   Right now, I am still waiting for that moment.  I can see the road ahead, but I am still uncertain about it.  I still have a hard time walking that path without my daughter.  But, I am an optimist.  I have battled too much darkness in my life to surrender to this one.   So, I look ahead with positive trepidation - a fairly accurate oxymoron.  

The journal assignment asked me to think about my life one day, week, month, and year from now.   I'm pretty good at living day to day - so I cannot imagine tomorrow being vastly different from right now.  Since the remnants of Tropical Storm Chantal is sweeping this way, I imagine it will be raining.  One week from now, I will probably have spent some time with some friends, seen some babies in stores, and continued to miss my little girl.   It's when we get to the one month from now that things start to change.

One month from now, I will have started work again.  There are too many emotions surrounding this to confine to this post.  Starting work deserves several blog posts, but I'll try to sum up here.   I am nervous.  In some ways, I am even terrified of starting work again.  If I could, I would just never go back.   I am working on that on many levels, and I am hoping that by the time August 7th rolls around, I'll be ready.  But, ready or not, here it comes.  I'll make the best of it because that is what I do.  Two months from now will probably be better.   Often, anticipation is greater than the actual event.

One year from now is what I really want to focus on here.  One year from now, my goal is to be a mother to a living, breathing, healthy second child.  One year from now, my goal is to be doing the things I should have been doing for the last four months.  I am a mother now, and I am doing the best I can with what I have - which is a blog and a memory - but it is not enough.   Kenley showed me what it means to be a mother.  She opened up a chasm inside of me, which is filled (impossibly) with both emptiness and infinite love.  I can't imagine a future where that love is never able to flow to a living baby.  One year from now, I will have finished another school year, which was most likely not as bad as I thought it would be, and I will be enjoying my summer in the way that I should be now.  I will be taking my second baby on walks around the neighborhood.  I will be changing diapers and cleaning up poop.  I will be exhausted and sticky and I will love every minute of it.  No doubt, I will still be missing Kenley.  I will miss her until the day I die.  But, as many of you know, a mother's love isn't diminished by more children.  It is expanded exponentially.   I will love her more.  I will love her little brother or sister, who will grow up knowing they were not the first light to illuminate their mother's heart.  Like candles in the dark, the light of my babies will flicker forever in my soul.  Now, to be clear, I am not currently pregnant, but August officially ends my six month waiting period to start trying, and that is what we are going to do.  If timing doesn't work out quite right for a few months, one year from now, I will at least be pregnant.  Hopefully, ready to pop and bring an end to a stressful pregnancy and a year and a half of eagerly waiting for what I so rightly deserve.  

It's hard to look at the future with anything other than uncertainty.  I know all too well that nothing goes as planned, even the things you plan so carefully. I am nervous to even write all of this down because....well...what if?   What if I can't get pregnant again?  What if I miscarry?  What if my next baby is another not-so-stealthy-ninja?   You can't pat my back and tell me everything is going to be alright because we both know that isn't always the case.  But, I have to stay focused on my goal and its positive aspects.  I chose to believe the future I plan will come true.  I can't allow myself to give in to the "what ifs".  

One year from now, I will still be without Kenley.   I will still miss her and ache for her.  That will not change.   But, one year from now, I hope to be able to honor her with a sibling.   And to be the best damn mother of two I know I can be.

Gratitude

As part of the photography project I am participating in,  I have been assigned to write about what I am grateful for in my life right now.  I imagine the purpose of this is to get me focusing on the good things as opposed to the staggering emptiness of my loss.  This is something I try my hardest to do every single day, but it is often very difficult.  It is not easy to look at my life with anything other than distain.  Everything good that has happened since February has happened because Kenley died.  How can I be happy about something that is a direct result of my child's death?  How can I find fulfillment in joy that rises from such emptiness?  It's not easy, but I am trying.  So, so, hard.   So, here goes.  Things for which I am grateful (in no particular order):

My amazing support system of friends   
It's sad but true, nothing brings people together like tragedy.  When Kenley died, everyone pulled together like a drawstring bag, nestling in and holding tight.   I'm not just talking about the initial support of food, money, and condolences.   People I haven't heard from in years - decades even - pulled themselves back into my life to support me.   Friends who had lost touch made contact.  Not just, "Hey, I'm so sorry" contact, but "Hey, let's be the good friends we should have been all this time" contact.  I have rekindled real and true friendships with so many people, and I am so grateful for these wonderful souls who were so willing to hold me up even though we hadn't spoken in ages.  That is the mark of a true friend.  

I am also obviously grateful to those people who had strong footholds in my life before loss and have not allowed that grip to waver.  No one knows what to say to give comfort, but these people did not allow their loss of words to stop them from being there for me.  When their shoulder was soaking wet from my tears, they offered me their other one.  Words cannot do justice to the swelling of my heart that occurs because of these people.  

My family
I have never once doubted my parents' love for me.  Oh, there were moments in my childhood and teenage years when I was convinced they did things just to spite me - but beyond not being allowed to eat a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pie or staying out past midnight, deep down, I knew everything they did was because it was what was best for me.  They are the parents I want to be to my children one day.  I am grateful they have taught me the true role of a parent and have shown me the full extent of a parent's love.   
When Kenley died, I became a child once again.  Weak, scared, and completely unsure of where to go.  My parents were right there by my side to help put back together their broken little girl.  They still are.

My sister and I have really found a support in each other during this time as well.  Our trip to Boston recently is a great example of that.  I am truly grateful to have a sister with such a big heart - especially when my own seems so small.

My husband
I can't say it enough.  He is my other half.  Despite both of our flaws, despite how this journey has left us exhausted and broken, we are in this together.  In the four and a half years I have known him, the one and a half we have been married, and the four months we have been parents, I have never once doubted that he is the one for me.  From our first date to this morning when I woke up with him by my side, I knew.  I have always known.  Loss is hard.  Loss changes you.   But what hasn't changed, and what will not change, is our love for each other.  We understand each other when no one else does.  We cling to each other in this tornado.  While the world spins angrily and destructively around us, we find sanctuary in each other's arms.  I am grateful that I have him by my side, now and forever.  

Community Outreach
Volunteering with Cherishing the Journey has been healing for me in so many ways.  It has given me a purpose again.  I am grateful that charities like this exist to help grieving mothers remember their babies - and I am grateful to have found myself a part of their mission.  When I return to work in August, I realize that less of my efforts will be spent on this cause, but I will give all I have to give because it is important to others and it helps me give meaning to my loss.

My blog and new friends
Like the pole a tightrope walker carries to hold her balance, this blog is what keeps me careening over the edge of my own emotions.  It keeps me sane.  Without the ability to write it out, my feelings would kill me.  I would be locked inside a maze I couldn't navigate.  I am grateful for my ability to sort through this mess through my writing.   Because of my blog, I have been able to grieve appropriately.  I have been able to work through my grief in increments I can handle.  I am certain I wouldn't be as far as I am now without my writing.  

In addition to helping me sort my own grief and find my new path, my blog has put me in contact with many women wading through their own rivers of loss.  My blog has made me feel less alone in this fight.  I have met sisters in loss who are fighting with me.  I like to think we are helping each other figure out how to live again in the face of grief.  I am grateful for all of them.

I have also forged some very strong friendships in the wake of Kenley's death.  Friendships that wouldn't exist had our children lived.  So, in this way, these relationships are very bittersweet.  Some women I have met in person and some I only know through facebook, blog comments, or email, but each of these friendships are invaluable to me.  Some of them have recently discovered they are pregnant with their rainbow baby.  Some of them are still waiting for that moment, myself included.   Even though it is sorrow that brings us together, it is hope that will bring us through.

Gratitude is a difficult emotion to grasp when your fingers are stiffened by sadness and grief.  It is hard to find things to be thankful for when everything that happens in your life is a result of your loss.  But, I cling to all of these things with every part of me.   They are the lights in my darkness, and they help me find my way.  

Saturday Spotlight #13

This week's photography project was 100 Steps.   My assignment was to walk 100 steps from a starting point and take some pictures.  The point of this particular assignment is to get us out of the house at a time it may be difficult to do so.  Had I started this project in March, this would have been helpful.  When you are first fighting grief, the outside world is terrifying.  100 steps doesn't sound so bad.  It's doable.  While this summer has not been at all what I had planned or even wanted, it has taken me all across the country.    For my 100 Steps project, I picked a few starting points during my trip to Boston and I took pictures where I ended up.   (The journal assignment to accompany these photos was to write about what I am grateful for.  I decided to do that as a separate post.  It's entitled Gratitude and should be posted at the same time as this one.)

My sister is training to run her first marathon in October, so she was starstruck by the Boston Marathon course.  One of her goals for our time there was to walk up Heartbreak Hill.  So, we took the T to Boston College armed with our smartphones.  Using a clever mixture of Wikipedia, Google Maps, and some helpful locals, we were able to find the start of the hill, at mile marker 20 of the marathon's course - and three miles from our train stop.  I thought it fitting that my 100 steps begin at the bottom of a hill named after the moment someone's heart was broken.   I snapped a picture of Kenley's Boston K at the bottom of the hill and then began to walk as I counted to 100.

100 steps isn't really all that far.  It was just enough to get about four houses up the hill.   In the corner of the yard where we stopped, there was an old, gnarled tree stump.  It reminded me of the trees I pictured while writing this post.  The only difference is the trees in that post were looming over me and this one had been cut down to a stump.  A stump is a defeated tree.  To me, this stump meant more to me than just a tree that once was.  It was a symbol of my grief.  Cut down to size by all of my efforts to heal.   I used black and white for this picture for the obvious reasons of how sometimes the world seems gray and colorless, and no matter how hard I might work to chop this forest down, the stumps will always remain.  For the rest of my life, all of my victories will always be bittersweet.  

Across the sidewalk from the stump was a round traffic mirror attached to a tree.  There are so many different ways I could take this symbolism, but I have chosen to look at it like this: the mirror is a reflection of myself and how I have changed in this journey.   It reflects down to the bottom of Heartbreak Hill.   It shows me where I have been, the path I have taken to get here.  The reflection is distorted, like memories are distorted with grief and pain.   I can look in that mirror all I want.  I can focus in on where I have been and how much it hurts - or I can turn away and focus on the road ahead.  I choose to move forward.

I took a few other pictures at this location, but they weren't all that exciting.  I do, however, want to tell you about a few pictures I took several hundred steps later.  At the very top of Heartbreak Hill.  The trek down to the base from our train was rainy and gray.  The mugginess of the air rivaled Florida on it's worst days.  It was oppressive and heavy.  As we crossed the street to begin the 100 steps, the air started to clear a little bit.  The thick cloud cover began to break apart like a crumbling cookie, and a cool breeze managed to find its way through the sticky stillness.   Walking uphill somehow seemed easier than walking down in the first place.  The top of Heartbreak Hill is crowned by Boston College.  Obviously, I needed to get a picture of Kenley here, so I did.  

But, the remarkable part of this trek up the hill was the sky when I reached the top.   The clouds had parted.  The threatening storm dissipated.  The weight of air lightened.   At the top of the hill, directly above me, was this sky. 

A parting grief to make way for the sunlight of days to come.  I am not finished with this journey.  I have reluctantly realized I will never be.  Heartbreak Hill is here to stay.  So, I'll lace up my sneakers and pound that pavement. I will walk this path until the day I die.  The road may smooth a bit.  The clouds may drift away.  But, I will still be here.  Walking.  Fighting.  Living.  

Saturday Spotlight #12

                                 Light

I am in the second week of my photography course.  This week asked me to focus on light - in my pictures and in my life.  What does light mean to me?  My photos also were to focus around one object that means something to me.  A few weeks ago, an old friend was able to get me a ticket to Disney World and we went for the day.  While we were in EPCOT, we came across a collection of various colored owl figurines in Japan - much like those Lucky Cat figurines, where each color represents luck in a different aspect of life.  Red symbolized good fortune in heath and children.  Obviously, I needed that one.  So, my pictures this week contain that figurine in different lighting scenarios.  

      Flat Light  / Natural Light

There are days when my life seems gray and flat.  Where there aren't true shadows, but there isn't really any true color either.  I feel a blanket of dullness wrapped around me.  Not sharp, jagged pain or profuse bleeding of my soul - but a steady sense of sadness.   Heavy.  Unyielding.  All encompassing.  I search for joy in these days and I come up empty handed.  These are the days where I am the least productive.  These are the days where I can't write or paint or create at all.     

These are the days when I feel truly stuck in my grief.  Bogged down by a feeling of nothingness, these are the days when my stare is empty and my mind is blank.  These are the days when I am truly just a shell.  Human on the outside, hollow on the inside.  Sometimes, I feel like these are the worst days.  Even when I am in my greatest anguish, at least I am feeling something.   These flat days of gray are the most frightening to me.  Where I haven't only lost my daughter, but also myself.  

                                                                 Backlight                                                                   

  I often feel pigeon-holed in my grief process.  I feel like some people think I should be in one place, when I am in another.  I feel trapped inside a cage I made myself.  That's what happens when you are so vocal with your journey - people start paying close attention to your steps - and often wonder why you are taking them.  The light in this picture is harsh and glaring.  Scrutinizing.  Part of the anxiety I am beginning to feel about going back to work is a result of feeling watched.  

There is a spotlight on me now:  Mother of  Loss.  I lost my baby.  I am grieving.  How am I dealing with it?  Can I do a good job handling my grief and teaching my class at the same time?   I dread the sad eyes of well-meaning people.  I dread having to say "I'm ok" when I'm really not.  Or "No, seriously, I'm ok", when I actually am.   I hate feeling like I have to explain myself all the time.  I wish I could just magically beam how I am directly into the brains of other people.  That would solve so many problems.                                                                                                      

    Shadow

When I took this picture, this entire branch was in direct sunlight.  The shadow is my arm and hand blocking the sun.  This picture is one of protection.   I am very protective of Kenely's memory.  I want to shield her from harsh words or misconceptions.  But, at the same time, I want to share her with the world.  That is a really hard balance to achieve.    I hear other mothers of loss talk about being reluctant to share pictures of their babies - to talk about their babies - and I totally get that.  
The world does not understand that babies die.  Our grief is often swept under the rug.  People get shifty when we talk about our children, or when we are visibly upset about our loss.  So, sometimes, we hold back.  We shield ourselves and our babies by staying silent because seeing someone cringe at our grief breaks our heart almost as much as the loss itself.  I try to be as honest as I can in this blog, but I will admit, you don't read everything.  There are some things I don't share because I just can't.  It's too much for me to process - and I fear if I write it down, it won't be taken the way I intend it to be.  So, I protect her and I protect myself from the harsh glare of a world that doesn't understand.

                                          

                                                                             Low Light

In this picture, the owl can barely be seen.  She is surrounded by blur and dark.  Even though there are patches of light near her, she is not in them. She is lost.  She sees the light, but isn't sure how to step into it.  And when she does, it is still too dim.  She still can't really see in the darkness.  
This picture is the best representation of where I am right now.  I am trying so hard to work through this tangled mess that my life has become.  With all honesty, I can say that I have never worked so hard at anything in my entire life.  This is the most difficult thing I have ever done, and I imagine it will be the most difficult thing I will ever do. 
It's hard to search for light when your life is so dark.   It's hard to accept that finding light and joy will not negate your feelings of loss.   I think so many people stay in the darkness because they feel that being happy again is betraying their child's memory.  How dare I be happy again?  How dare I try to find hope and joy and light?   The only way to show my love is to commit to suffer.   It's a huge hurdle to overcome, but I am trying my best.  I want to step into that light, while still remembering the dark.  I am working on honoring her memory through things that bring me joy.  I am trying to hold on to that joy for as long as I can.  For now, light is short lived.  I am in the dark a lot.  But, every day, I try again.  Every day, I reach for the light.   One day, I will hold on to it.  One day, it won't slip through my fingers.  


In my life, light means many things.  It is a spotlight for scrutiny, but it is also a feeling of hope and joy.  Like everything in life, it has more than one aspect.  Right now, my journey is walking that tightrope between light and shadow, publicity and privacy, hope and despair.  Like always, I do my best with what I have.  Day in.  Day out.  All day long.  

Saturday Spotlight #11

In scrolling through my newsfeed a few weeks ago, an interesting blog link caught my eye.   It was an online photography course directed to mothers of loss.  The woman who created it did so because when she lost her baby, she searched for some sort of outlet to help her explore her emotions.   She didn't find what she wanted, so she designed her own, and now she is sharing it with others.  You can find information about that here.  

Anyway, I am completing the first week.  This week focuses on self portraits.  I was to take a few pictures of myself that showed how I felt following my loss.   Then, I am to write a letter to my daughter explaining those emotions. I've written several letters to Kenley already - and I explain my emotions almost daily in my blog.  So, what I am going to do is to post these pictures in dedication to Kenley and write her a letter telling her (and you)  why I chose to take them.   

Dear Kenley, 

It's been four months since you left me, empty and broken.  The cloud of grief that surrounds me isn't as thick as it used to be.  I can see through the haze to the outside world, but I am still cloaked in sadness.  I still miss you more than anything I could imagine.  I know for certain I always will.   You were a part of me.  A part of my body, of my heart, and of my soul.   In some ways, you still are, but it is not nearly enough.  There are still some roads deep inside me that I still do not venture down.   There are still some dark places I have yet to bring light back to.  There are still moments where I have to calm the rising storm of sobs that swell within me.   No matter what I do or how I try to heal, I am still sad.  I still mourn for you, baby girl.  I still ache for you.  I still feel sometimes that I cannot live without you.  I still feel hollow inside.  A hollow shell filled only with the sloshing water of a million tears.   I tried to capture those feelings of sorrow in this picture.  

You're in this picture too, my little ninja.  A little owl I wear around my neck at all times.   You are always, always with me.  I just wish you were here in my arms instead of a tiny charm on a chain.   I wish you were in your nursery, laughing and squealing.   I'd even love you to be screaming and crying and pitching a fit.  I would gladly have you colicky at three a.m. just to have you here.  I hate that you are gone.  I never knew how much I could love until I felt you growing inside of me.  I never knew how much a heart could split open and spill out with such raw force.   Everyone has good days and bad days, but until I lost you, I could not have ever imagined just how terrible my days could get.   The person in this picture is a patchwork of missing pieces.  She is not whole, nor does she aspire to be.   She knows that she will never be whole again.   What she strives for instead is a life where the pieces that are left come together in some sort of working order.  She aspires to make change and do good in spite of the chasm left behind.  She aspires to be the person worthy of being your mother.  

When you died, I felt like my entire life derailed like a runaway train.  Screeching wheels, ripping metal.   The moment I found out you were gone, my world split into two.   One world where I live now - and one world where I could have lived with you.  I feel like I have been torn away from the life I was supposed to lead.  Carried away against my will, my arms stretched out before me - reaching and grabbing at you as you disappear from view.   Sometimes, mostly when I see other mothers with their babies, I think about that life we should have had.   The life where you showed that cord who was boss.  The life where I get to hold you and love you.   The life where your father has his little girl.   This next self portrait is of me in those quiet moments where I think about what was supposed to happen.   The glimpse of a life I so badly wanted - and is not mine to have.  

If you look closely, you can see the reflection of my fingers in the glass.  Those faint images represent the other me.  The me I can't be.  The me who doesn't exist because you are gone.  But the me I miss almost as much as I miss you.

Every life is nothing  more than a series of defining events.  Had you lived, you would have had several milestones.   Your first everything - from tooth to kiss.  You would have gone to college.  You might have gotten married and had children of your own.  Your mama was a late bloomer.  I didn't really have very many "oh my goodness, this is huge!" moments in my life for quite a while.   One of those moments was my wedding day.   The other was your baby shower.   On both of those days, I wore the same shoes.  I have never worn these shoes on any other day.   There's really no special significance to this.   I wore them on my wedding day because they were comfortable - and to your baby shower for the same reason.  Plus, they matched.   The initial reasons are not important.  But, now these shoes symbolize the start of something wonderful.   My marriage to your father - and becoming your mother.  Even though there is sadness woven through my motherhood, I still stand strong.   I am still your mother even though you are not here.  I still love you even though you are gone.  

I don't know what the future holds for me, baby girl.  I want to think that I am creating some sort of meaning for your death.  I want to think I am making myself a better person than I was.   I am trying so hard to hold myself together in spite of it all.   I have never tried harder at anything in my entire life.  Some days, I think I am doing a pretty good job.  Other days, it's all I can do to just get out of bed.   But know, that whatever happens in my life, however much I change or grow or learn - a few things will stay the same.  How much I love you.  How much I miss you.  And how much I think about you - every day.  

I'll love you forever.  I'll like you for always.  As long as I'm living...my baby you'll be.  

Love eternal, 
Mom

Saturday Spotlight #5

Oh yay!   I have been wanting to tell you about this project for a very long time, but I had to wait until it was finished since part of it was a gift for a few family members.  You may be familiar with Molly Bears or a Heart to Hold.  Both of these organizations help grieving families by providing a tangible object to hold in your arms, weighted to weigh the same amount as your child.  This is an invaluable service.   At the beginning especially, my arms physically ached for her.   I didn't know what to do with them.  They felt empty and useless.   A friend of mine told me about Molly Bears and I looked into it.  At the time, it seemed like a very complicated process to obtain one and I didn't have the energy for it, so I just kept going.   About a month ago, I stumbled upon a fellow blogger's site who had received a heart from a Heart to Hold, and it got me thinking again about this concept.   I really needed something in my arms.   Not as a replacement baby, but as a way to find my inner calm - and a way to bring some resemblance of closure to my aching arms.   I have never been one for stuffed animals past the age of eleven.  I didn't really get excited about bears or stuffed hearts, but I wanted something.   I thought to myself, "What means something to me?"   Of course, the obvious answer was...owls.   I thought - what if I made myself a weighted owl?   Yeah, that would be awesome!   I congratulated myself on my genius, only to quickly realize my plan had a major flaw in it.   I don't know a sewing machine from a hole in the ground.  Fortunately for me, I have a few dear friends who do!  One quick text message was all it took for my friend Chrissy to hop on board.

After I drew out a basic design, we took a trip to Hobby Lobby to select fabrics.  I found a sweet swirling pattern for the back and wings.   We used blue for the face and a sage green for the belly and the sides.   We scoured the racks for just the right buttons to use for eyes.   Once we had the materials we needed, we headed back to her house to get to work.  We weighed out 5 pounds of rice - which conveniently, comes in 5 pound bags - and shimmied it around in a ziplock to check its thickness so we could be sure to make the owl body big enough.   I cut the design I drew into pieces and then traced those onto the fabric.  This involved a great deal of tedious and repetitive actions - lining things up, pinning them, cutting carefully - none of which I am very good at.   I tell people all the time, I'm artsy but not crafty.  Even though it wasn't my forte, it was soothing to me and very healing to work on this project.  

In one afternoon, we had cut out all of the pieces for three owls.   One for me, one for my mom, and one for my sister.   My sister, living in Virginia, did not get down to see me until Kenley had already been taken to the funeral home.  So, she never got to hold her.   I wanted to make her an owl specifically so that she'd be able to have that experience in some way.   
Over the next few days, Chrissy sewed the pieces together.  I sewed on the button eyes and a tree charm on the bottom of each owl. 
  

        

Then it was time to stuff.  I didn't want a floppy bean bag owl, so we had to figure out a way to keep the rice from sliding around inside.   Chrissy decided to sew several long bags of rice to stuff inside and give it structure.  We divided the rice between the bags.  The bags along the back were stuffed full of rice and the ones in the front were a little looser to add softness

 We padded the sides and ears with batting and then slid the bags in. We sewed up the bottom of the owls and then we were done.  So, after about three weeks of working on and off, we had three owls that weighed 5 pounds 1 1/2 ounces.  I mailed one off to my sister and will give my mom hers the next time we get together.   Mine sits on top of Kenley's Memory Box, next to a picture of her feet.   

I love my owl.   It is something of substance I can hold in my arms when I am missing my little girl.  So, that's what I have been up to these last few weeks.    

Saturday Spotlight #4

Ok...so I am still currently working on my Saturday Spotlight project.  I thought I'd be finished by now, but I ran into some slight scheduling and logistical problems.   And, I can't really tell you much about it because it's a present for some family members - and I know they are reading this.  But, let's just say it involves some beautifully coordinated fabric, six really cool looking buttons, and a whole lot of love!   I am hoping that next Saturday, everything will be finished and in the mail - and I can spill the beans.

In the meantime, I am still baking and inputting recipes into my cookbook.   This week's baking endeavor was Cream Soda Cupcakes with Browned Butter Frosting.  Sometime this weekend, I plan on baking lemon cupcakes and probably some blueberry muffins. (I might even try out this recipe I found on Pinterest.)  The plan is to go through all the recipes that involve buttermilk since I still have half a gallon in my refrigerator.  It's all about using your resources wisely, people!

Cupcakes are music to my stomach!

International Bereaved Mother's Day

Today is International Bereaved Mother's Day.   You can read more about this day by clicking here.  

You have probably already seen "Kenley Around the World", and you may have even contributed a picture.  A few weeks ago, I signed up for a Mother's Day Name Event where I create children's names and take a picture to send to their mothers.  In return, I will receive pictures of Kenley's name.   All mothers participating have until the end of May to submit their pictures. 

At first, I wasn't sure how I wanted to complete these names, but I knew I wanted them to be meaningful.   I had the idea to use helium balloons since balloons are significant to me and symbolize Kenley's free and independent spirit.  I talked my wonderful photographer friend Jeanee into helping me out in her studio. All I had to do was bake her a batch of Kahlua brownies.  What a deal!    Creating these pictures presented many problems, but the two of us together were great problem solvers!    They kept twisting and turning and running into each other, causing pictures of names with missing letters. After a great deal of brain storming and even more maneuvering, we finally got it right. We rigged up a base and tied the balloons to them.  Then, we took a tiny piece of tape and stuck each balloon to the next to keep them from moving too much.   I added a pink balloon to the bunch to symbolize my little ninja.  The results were wonderful.

Before you scroll down to the pictures, let me tell you why they are so important to us.  A mother of loss only had a very small amount of time with her baby.  Some may have had no time whatsoever.  We have little or no memories of our child alive outside of our body.  While other children's growth and change can be captured on film, ours cannot.  We cannot celebrate birthdays.  We cannot send them off to their first day of school.  We cannot take them to the mall because they've outgrown most of their clothes - for the third time this month.  These name pictures are our way of keeping our baby's memory alive.   They are our way of having more than just the precious few photos the hospital may have taken before our baby was whisked away forever.  They are our way of watching our child grow and be a part of the world - the world beyond us and our own small circle.   They are our way to remember our babies and to make sure that other people remember them too.  After all, we are proud moms just like any other.   We want our children to be known.   We want people to recognize their worth and importance.  We want the world to know that we had a baby and they were wonderful!  We aren't "almost" mothers.  We aren't "used to be" mothers.  We aren't "maybe next time" mothers.  We are mothers.  All of us.  All the time.  The only difference between our child and yours is that you can hold your child in your arms and we hold ours only in our heart.    It's a good thing our hearts are big enough for such an enormous love.

Please take a moment to scroll through these pictures.   Read the names.  Remember these precious children.  Honor their strong as steel mothers by recognizing them for who they are.  Today and for always.

Megan's daughter

Danielle's son

Catherine's son

Kelly's son

Shauna's daughter

Katy's daughter

Crystal's daughter

Harmony's son

Jaimee's daughter

Naomi's son

Cassie's son

Colleen's son

Leah's daughter

My little ninja.  Always and forever.

  

Supermom

This is a paper daisy chain created to countdown the days to a family's Disney vacation.  I found it on Pinterest.

A few months ago, if I saw something like this, I would immediately think, "Oh, Geez!  No normal mom has time for that!   I would never put forth that much effort on something so silly!"  And I wholeheartedly believed that.   I knew I'd be a fantastic mother who would love her children with every breath. But I'd be the mother who's sink was full of dirty dishes, who's floors were covered in children's toys, and who's bed always needed making.   I'd be the mother who would get out the fingerpaint and then forget to put it away until the cat knocked it onto the floor.  I'd be the mother who baked cupcakes with her kids and not for them, and then sat with them on the couch to eat, covered in sprinkles and frosting.   My house would never be immaculate.   My kids' clothes would rarely match because - really - who cares?  I wouldn't make coordinating magazine holders out of cereal boxes and contact paper.  I wouldn't stamp my own greeting cards. And I wouldn't create a daisy chain counting down to a vacation.   Nothing about my motherhood would even remotely resemble Martha Stewart.   It's not me.   I'm messy and disorganized.   I'm spontaneous and excitable.  I'm artsy, but not crafty.  The thought of making something like the picture above fills me with a twitchy irritation.  So much repetition.  So many pointless details.  It makes me squirmy.
But, I would trade everything I am for another chance.   I would be whatever mother you want me to be if I could have my Kenley back.   In a fraction of a heartbeat, I would transform myself into Donna Reid if it meant I could start over.   I'd make every bed with hospital corners with quarter-bouncing abilities.  I'd prepare a five course meal every night, and then scrub every dish till they shined - and then I'd scrub them some more.   I'd put curlers in my hair and stockings on my legs.  I'd scrub every inch of my house with a toothbrush every day.  I'd organize and label everything in my closet, alphabetize my pantry, and create a "craft room" so I could make daisy chains for any event my children could anticipate. I won't ever sleep again, I don't care.   I'd do anything.  I think it's a fair trade.  Everything I am for everything she could be.  I just want her back.   I wasn't ready to let her go - and I know I can do a good job.  I can!  Please...just give her back to me.

Saturday Spotlight #2

The second installment in my Saturday Spotlight series is something I've been holding onto for a while, waiting for the right type of post.  These Saturday posts are just the right venue to showcase my projects without taking away from the rest of the blog.

I've finished another art project.   This one took me a few weeks, mainly due to acquiring materials and then drying time.   I have a great friend who is artsy-fartsy like me and we have been getting together every now and then to make things.   It's been wonderful not only to spend time with her, but also to  put my energy into making something meaningful.

The first session together, I texturized a square canvas.   I wasn't really sure how I wanted to do it because I really had no idea what I was creating at that time.  I just glopped on the Fredrix gel all over the canvas, making twirls and swirls and jagged lines with the white goop.   It was super fun!  Eventually, I settled into a pattern I liked.  After drying it with a hairdryer - and short circuiting the lighting to her studio a few times - it was ready for paint.   I used a watered down golden glaze and with some mahogany colored streaks of acrylic paint.   So, then, my canvas looked like the section of a tree.  Well, a gold tree.

I really had no idea where I was going from there.  I have found that artists do one of two things - either create their vision or envision their creation.  I'm the latter type.   Mostly because if I actually have a vision to begin with, it is almost always something else entirely when it is finished.  I take it as it comes.   So, for about two weeks, this "tree" canvas sat in my house while I figured out what I was going to do with it.

Then, I knew.  I scanned a picture of Kenley's feet and "antiqued" it in a photoshop type application.   I printed a 5 x 7 photo and cut the feet out carefully.   I also had a black and white photo of Mike and I walking on the Cocoa Village pier, so I carefully cut us out of that picture.   For years, I had ideas to use tissue paper to create a mosaic of sorts on my kitchen table with modge podge.   That never came to fruition, but as a result of that intention, I have collected copious amounts of tissue paper.  I layered the tissue paper along the bottom of the canvas to create a "ground" for Mike and I to walk on.  In the air, I created a pink tissue paper balloon.  I placed Kenley's feet inside the balloon and then connected it to us with a loop of twine.  At our wedding, we used antiqued keys as seat assignments, so I strung one of those keys through the twine as a symbol of our bond together as it connects to Kenley.   Although I didn't know where I was going with any of this project, I am still pretty pleased with how it turned out.   It's hanging in my living room.

  

Obviously, there is also an owl there!

A Picture Worth A Million Words

When I first discovered I was pregnant, I knew I wanted a unique way to chronicle my growing belly.   Everyone takes those pictures with signs next to them (13 weeks!  14 weeks!).  While I think those are super cute, I wanted something different than what everyone else did.  (shocker, right?)  One of my friends saw something somewhere that involved tracing your profile on a canvas and then painting it later.   Right away, I knew that was perfect for me.   While I am not Picasso or Rembrandt, I do like to paint and make art when I can.   I also happened to have a three foot by two foot canvas that would be just right for the project.

We started before I really started to show, and then we traced my torso every few weeks - pretty much when we knew there'd be enough growth to show change.  There was absolutely no method to our madness, so each time we pulled out the canvas, we had to remember where I stood, how high we held it, how far back against my arm it was supposed to be.   It drove Mike crazy.  Finally, he just took the eraser of the pencil and drew a line across the canvas where my belly button was.  That way, he knew where to line things up.   Each time we completed a line, it was so exciting to step back and see how big I was getting.  Watching my stomach grow made me look to the future with joyous anticipation.   Each new tracing meant I was just that much closer to meeting my baby.  To being a mother.   The last time we traced my belly was February 22, the Friday before the Monday that marked end of my life untouched by grief.   I knew it would probably be the last time we traced, but I thought it would be because she'd arrive before we had a chance to do it again.   Little did I know that in a matter of days, my bright and sunny world would plummet into the shadows.

When I was in the hospital, my friends took some of the more emotional objects out of my house for when I was more ready to handle them.   My belly canvas was one of them.   The other day, something inside of me needed it.  I needed to paint those layers.   My journey to motherhood was abruptly halted and left unfinished.  Her nursery is empty.  Her clothes are unworn.   I needed to close the aching gap by giving a purpose to something of hers.  I needed to finish my painting.   I asked Mike to get it for me, and within a day it was back in my house.   At first, it was painful to look at.   Haphazard pencil sketches marking my growing joy.  My stolen joy.

I propped it on my easel upright, so it looked just as I would have if I were standing.   It didn't seem right to me that way.   How should I paint it?  What should I do with it?   I had no idea - I just knew I had to do something.  Annoyed with myself, I walked away for a little bit and plopped myself down on the couch.   I don't know how long it was before the idea came to me, but as soon as it did, I was on a mission.   I strode back onto the porch, grabbed the empty canvas, and turned it on its side - so that my traced belly looked like I was laying down, my stomach pointing upward.   I got down to business.   With drying time, it took me about 4 days to finish.  Mostly because I didn't want to smudge one layer by painting another one too soon - and oil paint takes forever to dry.   As I painted, the shadows around my heart lifted.  Each brush stroke was a remembrance of Kenley.   Each piece of the painting symbolized a different part of who she is.  She will not be forgotten.  She will not be pushed aside.   Her place in my heart is permanent.  As I painted, I felt joy again.  I was happy.   I would step back from what I was doing - and I would smile.  I would think about my baby - and I would smile!   Oh, I also cried, make no mistake about that.  My hands were covered in paint, my cheeks covered in tears, and my heart covered in love.  It was a greatly needed release.  Here's the finished product.  

Again, I'm no master artist, but I'm still pretty pleased with how it turned out.   I turned the belly tracings into hills.  On top of those growing hills, is Kenley's tree.   Perched in her tree is a white owl, and above her tree is her pink balloon, floating high and free.    You might not be able to see the words I etched around the hill line.  They are "As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be"

Kenley grew in me.  She lived in me.  I nurtured her and supported her, just like the hills in the painting support and nurture the tree.  She will always be a part of me.  No matter what changes life brings me in the future, Kenley will always be with me.   And that makes me smile.