I have so much I could say to G, in these last hours of Mother's Day. But I feel as though this entire blog is a love letter to my first born, to the one who taught me how to be a mama, the one who keeps me going in the waves of loss-caused depression. I love him so much I feel as though my heart could burst. When I lost second-baby, some of my early thoughts to God were "If you take Grayson too, I'll never forgive you."
Because I couldn't. G is the reason I don't linger in bed, the reason I head downstairs instead of showering first, so I can see his little face grinning at me between the bars of his crib. His smile is my strength, and his laughter lessens the knot that constantly sits in my chest. When I hold his hand, I feel like those smooth, soft fingers are tugging me onward.
Whenever he wants comfort, I hold him close and think, yes, this is my purpose.
Losing second-baby meant that I lost a lot of myself. My bits of future and family, my confidence, my innocence that had never touched grief. I large part of me never wants to fill those holes because I'm too afraid of losing the only connection to second-baby that I still have. As soon as I move on, I have to admit that baby is dead. As soon as I move on, I no longer have that part of baby inside of me, the grief that weighs me down but constantly reminds me of the life that's gone.
And I never, ever want to forget that life. I don't want to forget the grief of losing baby. I'm the mama to two children, one downstairs asleep in his crib and one whose body was incinerated with countless other babies and body parts but whose soul lives on in my heart and in heaven, waiting for me to get there.
I want both of my children to only and always know love from me. No matter that I have to put on my parental hat whenever he gets into trouble. No matter if I could never hold him or her in my arms. I want there to be only love in my actions and in my life toward them. I want them to always, at least, know that I loved them.
I guess, in that, there is my love letter.