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.

The Easiest Choice

When you're about to get married, everyone tells you, "Marriage is hard work."

Four years ago, today, I was staying in a hotel room all by myself, with eager butterflies in my stomach.. wondering how our big day would go, how he was feeling, and desperately missing him.

These years have flown by, and I have to say "hard work" has not been my experience. We've been through some of the most difficult things a couple can go through -- that parents can go through. Life has been so hard in recent months. The kind of "hard" that steals your breath, keeps you awake at night, and changes you at your core. But the marriage was never hard, or even 'work.' Being married to this man is probably the easiest thing I've ever done.

Every day, the choice to love my husband is the easiest decision I make. So simple that it feels like a reflex.

Have we argued? Sure. About the best way to paint a room or what to have for dinner. Our "fights" last less than 10 minutes. And I can't recall a single time that I've left the house or gone to bed angry. And for us, that hasn't been difficult to accomplish. It's just who we are together.

What it comes down to is this. When you have a husband like mine.. who supports you, never doubts you, and will practically do anything to make you smile.. it's not hard to love him. It's nearly impossible not to.

To my husband,

This has undoubtedly been the most trying year of our lives. You have seen me at my absolute lowest -- too weak to move, and moments when I can barely breathe. You were the only thing that got me through those times. You never tried to stay on the fray of it -- supportive from the outside. You walked into the despair with me, and carried me out. Over and over again.

I will never be able to express how profoundly I felt the depth of your love during this journey.

On our wedding day, I told you, "I choose you. Every second.. of every day." And now that you've held our twins, and lovingly spoken to my 'baby bump' -- to our unborn son, it has never been so easy to choose you.

And just as I ended my vows, I say this again to you, "I'm not standing here to tell you how much I love you today.. I'm here to tell you how much I'll love you tomorrow... and to promise you all of my tomorrows."

It doesn't feel like four years have passed since our wedding day, but at the same time, it feels like I've known you -- like I've loved you -- forever. <3