Missing him...

I haven't been there in awhile.  Weeks honestly.  My son's 2nd birthday knocked the wind out of me.   A date on the calendar ripped at the scabs on my soul in ways I can't explain.   Every since my few visits around his birthday,  the pain had just been too horrific to visit the cemetery.

It's almost 2am and with all my might I'm resisting the urge to grab car keys and go.   I need to be close to him.  The feel of the grass on my cheek seems to be a distant memory.   Collapsing on the very earth he is buried beneath is the only action I experience that quantifies the sorrow my heart carries every single day.   It's my equivalent of checking on a sleeping child.  the difference being for 20 years every time I checked,  they were still alive.  I've lost that blind faith for the rest of my life.

I went to say to a friend that it's so nice to have everyone home tonight,  but the reality is that will never happen.   I will never have all of my kids home together.  It's a twisted road of words I'm  attempting to navigate.   How do I respect my son if I don't acknowledge his absence?

So tonight I'll stare at the ceiling for a little bit longer.   Tears burn my face in a way only endless tears do.  I miss him.   Yet somehow my heart will keep beating until morning.  Then I can honor him by loving his sisters and working my hardest to be an example of how we want the world to #doitforcj.

But tonight,   I miss him.

Missing some amazing things...

Holy heavens.  I am heavy hearted these past few weeks.   Must be the toddler birthday party I didn't get to celebrate.  A birthday cake never ordered.   Birthday kisses never delivered....

Often my best way to break my funk is to simply spill my guts.  So I've decided to simply list it all. All the crap that in missing out on that feels like the weight of the world on my shoulders.

I miss:

Thinking I knew what my future held for the next 18 years.

Sleep.

Having blind confidence in my body.

Being asked why I'm crying.

Exhaling.

Not knowing that an infant's casket resembles those white styrofoam coolers.

Thinking it would never happen to me.

Sleep.

Being confident that all was safe if you just make it to 26 weeks.

Not worrying about medication refills so that I can simply breathe every day.

A carefree look that I used to see in our daughters' eyes.

Being uncomfortable in a cemetery.

Anonymity in our church.

Sleep.

Simply answering the damn "how many kids to you have" question without stumbling.

Planning.

Loving my son in earthly form.

Being known for who I am,  not what I lost.

Talking to extended family without the awkward avoidance in their eyes.

Baby shopping.

Sitting in his perfectly simply nursery.

Sleep.

Washing tiny onsies.

Sewing nursing pads, burp rags,  and blankets until 3am.

Talking to my belly.

Allowing my husband to touch my belly.

Paying attention to signals like swollen ankles and treating my body with respect.

Feeling like I deserved respect.

Sleep.

Excitement.

People being happy for us.

Being happy for myself.

Guilt free chunks of time.

Daydreaming.

Praying with hope.

Sleep.

Sleep without screaming nightmares and phantom kicks. 

Sleep that leaves you refreshed,  comforted,  and ready to function.

I really miss sleep.

I opened the damn envelope....

Most angel parents have one.  It's the envelope that has the hardest things to look at.

For me,  it's from the funeral home.   A picture of my sweet little boy dressed in a beautiful ivory knit outfit with a matching bonnet.  His little feet tucked into teddy bear slippers his grandma picked out from his nursery while I laid in a hospital bed in exhausted hysterics.  My sweet little boy is in his casket.

We don't care for this picture.   His lips are forced shut and his face puffy and starting to discolor.  But it's the only picture I have that his hands are showing.   Beneath his sweet outfit,  I can imagine his perfect little baby shape.  A tiny bit of his hairline can be seen reminding me of the brief moment I pulled back his hospital hat to catch a glimpse of his dark hair.    It's painfully blunt.   The blanket overhanging the box edges that I pray were snugly tucked around him.

What a gift.   Our funeral director snapped the picture with his cell phone at the last moment knowing I would not be released from the hospital to see him in his last little bed.  He dressed,  cleaned,  and tucked my son in for me. That stranger got to spend more time with my son than the few brief minutes that the nurses allowed me.  I could be jealous,  but in reality I'm so very thankful.  I'm thankful such a caring individual was brought to us when we needed to be taken care of.

The funeral home also provided a baby book for us to fill out specifically for an angel.  Again,  a crazy blessing no average person would think of.  

I don't know why I dug that up today.  The toddler I adore who I babysit was being a horrific monster,  I found fleas on the kitten, my wallet is empty from one domestic disaster after another lately, and I had been battling a headache for a solid 10 hours. It was an absolutely crappy day. 

Yet I needed to see him.  That pain brought a bit of comfort.   He was here.   It wasn't just a dream. 

Tonight's sad ramblings have left me wiped out.   Maybe in a few hours when I get up,  my headache will have faded and my puffy eyes calmed down.   A girl can hope,  right?   Tonight it hurts to #doitforcj