Another birthday has come to pass. And every year, I grasp for the words to explain how I feel.
This year was definitely different -- for so many reasons.
First, we decided to make the book donations a 'thing.' A non-profit 'thing.' And considering we didn't decide to really pursue it until autumn, and set a goal of collecting 50 books, I'm so humbled and thankful that we got to deliver 84 books today -- in your names.
Forming this charity has given me something to focus my grief into -- from drawing the logo, to brainstorming fundraising ideas, and establishing our 'mission.'
But at the same time, it means that losing you is on my mind nearly all the time. I think that's why this year, especially this last week, has been so hard. I spent days drowning in my grief, guilt, and what-ifs. Waking in the middle of the night to immediately feel like I just lost you. Every second of that day playing over and over. Unable to catch my breath. Other days it would sneak up. Breaking down in tears, randomly, while brushing my teeth or making lunch, because I just kept saying in my head, "I miss you. You should be here... I'm so sorry I didn't save you."
Your father didn't always know what to say when he would find in me in such despair, telling him that I knew it was my fault.. and that he should blame me. But every time I go through this, or close to it, I find my way out. Your father has helped many times over to talk me down, but the common thread each time is just remembering how much love you ignited in me. The depths of which I didn't know were possible. And you got me there within seconds of meeting you.
I know, that if I can love you that strongly.. and just keep loving you.. it will last. It will carry me. It will light a fire in me to do better and be better. That there will be enough for me to share with the world -- and it will multiply. The love you gave me, and uncovered in me, will grow.
People often tell me that I'm strong. But I'm not. Not exceptional. Not extraordinary. I get lost all the time.. I just focus on you to find my way back.
So, though the week was harder than I expected, today was much like last year. Bittersweet.
I had put all the books into a Radio Flyer wagon, and your father remarked, "I'm happy we have so many books that we need a wagon. But I also just imagine the kids riding around in it."
And that is the burden we bear. Always imagining how things could be different. Who you would be now. The lifetime we missed out on. An ache that never stops.
But we arrived to IU Methodist, and I felt a sense of calm. Dramatically different than these last few days.
Again, we were greeted by several staff members. And babies, they remembered you and your story. We talked about you even more, which as a mother, fuels me. I love every chance I get to mention your names.
And then we talked about the charity, and how we arrived at the name.. PB&J Books Project (for those that don't know, peanut butter and grape jelly accounts for the initials of all four of my children -- Paxton, Bodhi, Greyson, and Jasper).
We talked about who we wanted the books to go to. I explained that people suffering a loss, or imminent loss.. like we did.. were at the top of our list. I explained further, "That time with them was mostly a blur. I barely remember the things I said to them. And I think now how it would've helped to have something tangible like a book to read. Something I could take home, hold onto, and know.. these are the words I said to my babies. That I could read it any time I wanted to go back there."
Next on the list were NICU parents. They go through so much, and just long for normalcy and bonding -- sometimes when they're not able to even hold their children. Reading to them is a chance for calm and bonding.. despite any obstacles.
And then, anyone they felt it would benefit. Low income. Previous loss. Or just anyone that expressed interest in reading to their baby on day one.
After we handed over all the donations, they again offered for me to visit one of the rooms. This time, it wasn't the exact room I had delivered you in -- so it didn't hit me as strongly to the chest as last year. But the layout was identical. And it brought me back almost immediately to laying in that bed, waiting for you to arrive, while knowing you wouldn't stay.
But this time, I didn't cry. Maybe I was all cried out. Or maybe it was too hectic with both your little brothers in tow. Or maybe.. just maybe.. it was the same calm that came over me the very second you were born. A feeling that I knew I didn't have much time, so I just wanted to breathe it in. To never forget.
I sat with your brothers and read Goodnight Moon. Every Shilor in one place -- the only place you ever knew.
And as we left, I felt like I just had visited hallowed ground. I knew that as long as there was breath in my lungs, I would return here year after year, just to feel close to you.
So I will. Your father will. And when we can't, your brothers will.
This project will continue in your name, one way or another.
I owe you that.
To me, each and every book represents a piece of my love for you. Infinite and full of hope. Sending them all out into the world is the best way I know to be your mother. To help you live on and reach the world you didn't get to see -- and to help the world that didn't get the chance to see you.
We miss you.
Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises, everywhere.
Goodnight Jasper. Goodnight Bodhi.
- Your mother
If you are one of the parents that received a book, and you found your way here, please reach out. We would love to hear your story or see photos of you reading to your baby. You can find more on the book project on Instagram (@PBJBooksProject) and Facebook (www.facebooks.com/PBJBooksProject).
