10 Years

10 years.
10. years.

I type that with tears in my eyes. Just to imagine you at ten years old.
To imagine all the things -- the cartoons you loved, the homework you hated, the sound of your laughter.

10 years full of 'what could have been.'

It is a weird, gruesome thing -- to grieve only what you had hoped for, and nothing you ever knew.

I never knew you.

But I feel you as an ache in my bones. The kind that never goes away.
A feeling like something is missing. Something went awry. And you just have to live with it.

That last bit - living with it - that's the hardest part.

The only way I can, is to celebrate you. To share your story, over and over. To honor you.
To pour out all the love, for those I never knew.

So, for your 10th birthday, we got back on track. We just did it a little different.

We visited the hospital, like always. But your little brother helped to read the book this year.

We went to get our annual cupcakes. Your littlest brother loved that part. (He LOVES chocolate.)

But then, the new part.
Since the hospital where you were born has shut down the maternity ward, there are no babies there to give books to. And COVID restricted even visiting. So, the book project kind of went on hiatus until we could figure something out.
But, ten years -- we HAD to do something.

At first, we considered opening a free little library in our yard. But, there is one just down the block. And I thought, what if we scatter books all around our city? Leaving books that honor you all around town to spread happiness, joy, and education?

So that's what we did.

But in the middle of our adventure, the most kismet thing happened. I was giving your Dad directions to the next little library, "Then you'll turn right on Jasper."
A kind of silence happened right after I said it.
"Wait..." I said.
"Yeah..." your Dad said.

We knew we were on the right track.

Happy Birthday, my babies.

So, You Wanted Cake Pops For Your 8th Birthday?

I usually write these "birthday" blogs on the actual day. But I decided to just *be* yesterday.
To spend every minute I could with your little brothers -- celebrating you.

But I think it goes without saying that yesterday -- what would have been your 8th birthday -- was painful and beautiful.

Unfortunately, just like last year, many of our 'traditions' are still impossible/unsafe, but we did the best we could.

We still visited the hospital. And we still read Goodnight Moon. It was just outside in the cold...

And we went to buy your birthday cupcakes, and P got to go in with Dad this time.

But then the strangest thing happened.

P needed to go potty on the way home. So, we stopped at a Starbucks.
I tell your dad to go ahead and get me a matcha, but to use my rewards points. As always, P planned to get water too.
A few minutes later, P is at my window handing me my "green drink" .. but then he holds up a bag.
I'm immediately confused and curious -- what did they buy?

And then I hear your Dad say.. "The lady gave us two cake pops." 

He said it as if he was bewildered himself.
So, I wait for them to get situated in the car.

"What do you mean she gave you two cake pops?"
He replied, "When we were grabbing our drinks, the barista quickly handed the bag to P and said, "Here's two cake pops for you and your dad." I thought she said "K cups" at first and was even more confused, then I looked in the bag."
Me, still trying to process, "So you didn't buy them?"
"No. She just gave them to P out of nowhere," he said.

I glance in the bag. Two cake pops with pink frosting and white sprinkles.
And I'm starting to get emotional -- my eyes starting to blur and that anxious feeling in my stomach that feels somewhere between pain and butterflies.

Come on, Carol. You don't even believe in "signs." It's just a coincidence.

But it keeps tugging at me.

I just keep looking at them. 

I knew Starbucks had cake pops. I'd notice them on occasion in the display case. But I never looked at the flavors or paid them much attention.
I then say to Brad, "I'm 99% sure they aren't vegan, unfortunately."
But that 1% leads me to opening my phone to find them on the Starbucks website.

And there it is staring back at me. "Starbucks Birthday Cake Pop."
They gave P the "Birthday Cake" flavor.

So, I don't know.. little ones. What are the odds that on your birthday, we *happen* to stop at Starbucks, and your brother *happens* to need to go inside, and the barista *happens* to give us free food (I've never, ever had that happen before), and she *happens* to give us *two* cake pops, and they *happen* to be the Birthday Cake flavor?
What. Are. The. Odds?

I don't know. But I know you've always been good at beating them -- my babies that survived just to meet us.

But as I would have told you if you were still here, "We already got cupcakes, so we'll share these with someone else."

So there you go, spreading love for your birthday again.

We love you. We miss you.
Happy Birthday, Jasper & Bodhi 

You Would Be 7

Today, you would be 7. First graders.

And that is how we celebrated you..

Because of COVID, and restructuring of the hospital where you were born, our usual visit/donation was not really an option. Really, we knew for many months that this year would not be the same. But we did the best we could to keep your memory alive.

We started by making a donation to the school where you should be this year. They had coincidentally just started a "closet" at the school for students/families in need. So, we donated clothes, shoes, accessories.. that you would be wearing.

It hit me harder than expected when that clothing arrived on our doorstep. Most notably, a pink tie-dye sweatshirt.

It was so unlike anything your little brothers own, so it was unavoidably 'different.'

Different in a way that hurt. Different in a way that ached, as it reminded me what was missing.

I could hold it up and see my baby girl. How tall you would be. Imagining you picking out your outfit for school. It's like seeing someone through the fog. It's both clear and blurry as your brain fills in the blanks.

But in this case, it was my heart guessing who you would be today.

And it brought me to my knees. Right there on the kitchen floor, I just cried.. holding that pink sweatshirt. I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Grief is just like that.

That gnawing pain of what-ifs and could've beens.

But it is also a gift.. because it means I got to love someone (or two someones) that deeply.

And all I can do, year after year, is find a way to channel that love. 

You left, but it didn't.

So, a few kids in our community will have new jeans, new shoes, and new gloves.. because YOU were, and are, so loved.

After dropping off the clothes, we headed to your birth hospital.

I knew I wouldn't be going inside this year, and I went back and forth on if we should bother. But as the day got closer, the idea of not going was literally painful. It would keep me up at night. 

I knew I had to go. 

It is still the only place you knew -- the only place you breathed air into your lungs. And as long as I am able, I will go. 

Even if I have to sit outside. Even if it's cold and dreary.

I will go to remember you. 

I will go to read to you.

But I don't read because I think you can hear me. I read to remind myself I still have breath in my lungs. That I am a mother with a story to tell -- about that place, and the two people I met -- 7 years ago.

It is crystal clear when I am sitting there with you.

"Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere."

Happy birthday, my babies. 
Goodnight, Jasper and Bodhi.

You are loved.

Has It Been 6 Years?

Today would be your 6th birthday.

It's taking me awhile to move past the pain of that sentence. The sorrow of a life missed out on -- where we would be having a party today. Last night, I should have been making cupcakes and wrapping gifts. And I will forever wonder which flavor you would have wanted. What gifts would have been on your lists.

It always hurts more today.

But underneath, it's that same ache you can never really numb. The grief. The price I pay for loving you.

We visited your room -- LDR 16. Sometimes we get to go in. But sometimes it's occupied and we just get as close as the hallway.

Today, as we approached -- and I could see it was unoccupied -- my throat began to tighten. Our liaison actually asked how it feels when we see the room right as it was happening. I touched my neck in reflex as I said, "It hits me right away. Like it just happened."

I suppose that could be interpreted as a 'lump in my throat,' 'choking back tears,' or 'losing my breath.' But that's not it. It feels like my body is squeezing down all those raw bellows that I've kept in since the minute we lost you.

A curdling scream that wants to come out as I crawl.. and cry.. scratching at the floors until my nails bleed.. and ripping sheets from the bed. Searching for you, even when I know you're not there.

I can never fully explain what that feels like. The primal instinct for a mother to cry out for her young.

It never leaves.

We stood in your room, mostly unchanged over the years, and remembered. Remembered that day. Remembered you. Remembered saying goodbye.

We donated dozens of books in your honor. Always the highlight of this day. Knowing how many people come together and donate because YOU inspire them. Knowing how many parents will read to their children and create memories -- because you existed.

And I imagine you there. Every time one of these books gets read in a NICU. Or pulled from the shelf in the nursery. Or set on the coffee table before bed.

I see you everywhere. It is my solace.

And, as per tradition, we read to your little brothers in the lobby. One day, they'll understand why.

To those walking by, we were just a family of four having a moment. But it will always be six.

Then off to WB Pizza for the garlic bread you both seemed to love when I was pregnant. Your brothers both ate some today too.

But.. I still wish it was cupcakes.. with you.

Four Years

There are just minutes left in the day.. what should be your 4th birthday.

It's a strange feeling each year, as if at midnight, I have to say goodbye again.

Today.. we remembered you. We celebrated you. And, as always, we missed you.

Today.. we delivered so many books, kindly donated by family, friends, and strangers, to the place where you were born. The only place you ever knew.

Though we didn't get to take your brothers to the room this year, because of flu restrictions, your father and I got to go up alone. They specifically saved the exact room where you born, so we could have a moment there.

It is hallowed ground to me.

Walking into that room -- Labor & Delivery Room 16 -- is like entering the holiest of churches.. the most peaceful of monasteries.. the most beautiful of cemeteries.

Crossing that threshold takes my breath away every time. It is the air you so powerfully and unexpectedly breathed.

I want to crumble to my knees at the weight of it. But I feel like you're keeping me standing. Like you're holding me together. It is the same way you gave me strength when I had to say goodbye to you.

But make no mistake.. I cried for you today. Without your brothers in the room to distract my attention, the memories came like snapshots. Like a Polaroid spitting out images that would start blurry and then come into focus.

My chin would quiver and I couldn't stop it.

But I didn't crumble.

I took all those Polaroids and added them to album I visit every so often -- tucked safely away in my heart.

They won't get lost there.

So, happy birthday.
Goodnight.
And goodbye for now.

Thank you, as always, for making me a mother, first.. and a better person, second.
You changed me.
You changed the world.

And a thank you to the staff at IU Methodist that allowed us to come and make our donation, even on a Saturday and in the midst of a flu restriction. We are grateful they allow us to celebrate our babies every year.

And lastly, thank you to the donors. It wouldn't be possible to touch so many families, in the legacy of our children, without your help each and every year. <3

Three Years

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).