Mother's Day 2017

This is my fifth mother's day.
This is my fifth mother's day without my son.
This is my fifth mother's day without my son who made me a mother.

How do you celebrate that? How do you honour your own motherhood when the one who made you a mum is dead and gone?

This is also my third mother's day. My third mother's day with my living child. My heart, my soul, my entire reason for living.

It is such a confusing, contradictory day. I am so happy to have my living child who calls me "mum mum" every day. I am so devastated that the one who made me a mum will never call me, ever.

My family is always missing a special piece. Until my sweet heart is old enough to fully do her own cards, hubby always writes "💜 c & e"... How am I going to feel when she picks out her own card and signs her own name?

He made me a mum. And nothing, not even death, can take that away.

Bereaved Mother's Day

This is a stupid day. A stupid "holiday". Stupid recognition. I don't want to "celebrate" it. I just want to be a normal mother. I don't want to be a bereaved mother. I hate it. I did not want to particpate in this year's theme. Putting your hand on your heart, showing the world where you carry your dead child. But how could I not? How do I skip a chance to talk about my son? To show the world that he is still important to me, that he still has my heart.

I hate today. And I hate that my son is dead. But he is dead. And this day can celebrate the fact that I am not, despite wishing I was. I survived the worst. I can live for the best.

Ethan will always be in my heart. My forever love.

4th Birthday

And so what should be my son's 4th birthday passes by quietly and I somehow survive it. Just like I survive every other single day without him. We didn't really do anything special this year. We went to the cottage for some R&R, visited with some great friends and had some cake.

Years ago we got lots of messages of love on Ethan's birthdays. We still got a lot but not nearly as many as we used it.  It feels fitting.  The lessened amount of messages.  Him not being here is part of our daily lives. Some days hurt far more than others. But it is our norm. All day. Every day. And we don't talk about him with other people as much.

It still hurts. We still miss him all the time. And wonder how he would be. What would he like? Would he be funny? Shy? A good brother to Chlo?

This whole babyloss thing sucks. Ho hum

Mommy Guilt

So many times we hear about mommy guilt. How we, as mothers, feel like we are failing our children for usually the most ridiculous reasons from a logical standpoint.

Mommy guilt does not go away when you child dies. In fact, sometimes the death of your child exemplifies that guilt.

I went to the viewing of my friend's father who recently passed. Never even mind the obvious triggers - another post for another day. The funeral room was covered in flowers. Covered. I have never seen so many flowers in my life. This man was very loved and so many people are sad.

Likewise, my child was loved by so many. Everyone was looking forward to meeting him or her (we didn't know).

And then he died.

And as you do in life, we made the conscious decision not to invite anyone to his funeral. Not to provide the funeral details to anyone. We felt like it was the best thing for him. We wanted to protect him and that was our choice as parents.

But he was dead.

Staring at all of these flowers really got to me. So many people loved this man. So many people showed their love. We didn't give Ethan that. We kept him to ourselves. I even barely let anyone else hold him. There were only 3 bouquets of flowers at the funeral home - 2 from my parents and one from my husband's work.

Did we do the wrong thing? Did he deserve better? Does he deserve better? Should we have let people, in the least, send flowers?

Logically, I don't even like flowers. But logic doesn't rule. I had a something along the lines of a mini panic attack. I am one of the lucky ones who has found an amazing friend with a similar history. Like an alcoholic calling their sponsor, I called her right away and she was able to talk me off the ledge.

Mommy guilt. It gets you even when your child is dead.

Triggers

On my way to a fun xmas baking day, I reach over to grab some comfy pants and there they are. The pants that I wore to the hospital on my way to have my first baby. The baby who would finally fulfill my life long dream of becoming a mother. I have already tucked the shirt I wore away in my memory box. That shirt is sacred. But those pants.

I was so happy. So very happy. I don't even know if there is a word that can describe the joy I felt. I was finally going to meet my baby that I spent every second of the past 41 weeks and 4 days with. The little one who was going to make my life complete. Perfect.

And then he died.

He died.

My baby died.

And no one knows why.

So I stare at these comfy pants. So full of broken dreams. And I am right back in the moment. So happy. So excited.

And then he died.

And then part of me died. And a part of me dies again, every single day. Because these little triggers don't happen once and a while. They happen daily - sometimes multiple times. A song, a smell, a shirt, another happily oblivious pregnant mum. I often say with friends that it is an awful burden to bear. But that burden also keeps him alive.

He did make me a mum. He was my firstborn. He will always be my son. Just not how I wanted. Because he died.

Personality

I'm staring at a picture of Ethan at my desk and I can't help but wonder what he would have been like. What his personality would be like. Would he be calm and kind like his daddy? Or a little out there and crazy like his mommy?

Why didn't he even get the chance to turn into his own little person?

Wave of Light 2015

Today is International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day and I just feel rage. I am so angry that Ethan died. I am so angry that countless other babies have died. When I posted my pic to Instagram, there were over 17,000 posts with the hashtag #waveoflight. SEVENTEEN THOUSAND.

So here is my picture of our candles being "lit" (they are LED). And you can sort of make out Ethan's hand and foot prints.  And if you look really closely, you will see a crocheted football hat that has an ugly plastic box inside that houses the remains of my first born, my son. My gorgeous bum chinned, dark haired, soft skinned, handsome, sweet precious boy.

How do we live in a world where this happens so much. And why is relatively nothing being done about it? I don't want to donate my money to cancer research or the heart & stroke, I want to donate money to research into how babies die. Why do some have cord accidents and live? Why do some swallow meconium and die? How do we not know why Ethan died?

Fuck.