I love you forever

When Oliver died we didn’t just lose a baby. We lost his first day of kindergarten. His first tooth. We lost his high school, college (and maybe more) graduations. We lost the family he might have someday had and the adult he would become. And for a few months, sitting in the dark in my bedroom, I mourned all of it. Not just the diapers I wouldn’t change and the milk that piled up in the freezer, but his entire future.

 

This morning I read a blogpost about the book “I Love You Forever” by Robert Munch. The article described how the book was written for his stillborn children and it suddenly made sense.

 

 

 

In the past, reading it, I always thought it was creepy that the mother broke into her adult son’s home. I’m fairly certain that is restraining order territory for most adults. I always thought it was written for children, just like his other books, which take things to an area of hyperbole that doesn’t make sense for adults.

 

Now I read that book as a loss parent, and I see it in a whole new way. The mother rocking a baby who she can’t hold. Who won’t ever try to flush a watch, or be a teenager, or have a family. Her rocking him like a baby makes perfect sense, because that is all he will ever be.

 

I love that for most families, that isn’t the message of the book at all. Most parents I think just respond to the poem.

 

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
as long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.”

 

It isn’t exclusive to babies who are lost. Any parent can identify with this love, and this feeling. I’m grateful today for this book, because it articulates something so hard to explain.

 

Dear Oliver:

“I’ll love you forever,
I’ll like you for always,
as long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.”

Love Mama

You don't have to tell me.

BabyCenter, you don't have to tell me.
I don't need to look at your description of what a baby looks like at 31 weeks. I know he has a perfect beautiful face. I know he is so big compared to that little speck, or poppy seed we saw on the first ultrasound, but still so small. I know he is long, and not very fat. That he has perfect little fingernails. Perfect tiny hands. Perfect tiny feet.

This week I don't need a description.
 I know what it feels like to hold a baby that size. I know that his skin is soft, and delicate. That there is just enough fat in his cheeks to make them perfect. That his little bum is so tiny. That his chin, and nose, and legs, and ears have already decided which side to take after.

You don't have to tell me about the kicks. That there will be more, and that I should be feeling them all the time. I'm aware of every second that the baby isnt kicking. The poor thing probably just wants to sleep, and here is me, drinking cold water and poking my belly, just so I can be sure.

From here out it is all new. I won't know next week, what to expect at 32 weeks. But anything is better than numb. And empty.

All the back pain and round ligament pain, and heartburn. The possible insulin shots, and stretch marks, and running (waddling) for the bathroom, all of it is so much infinitly better than chosing a funeral home. Choosing an urn. Saying goodbye.

Next week you can tell me. About how fat he is getting. and how he will continue to change. But this week, I don't need to read it. This week I know.