I did not go running this morning. Not out of laziness, the beckon of warm covers; no aches or pains; no winter weather . . . OK, it was really cold, but that wasn't the reason either. I was afraid of the dark.
Not really the dark, but what could happen to lil ole me out there in the early pre-dawn cold, all by my lonesome. When did I turn into such a wimp!?
Maybe wimp is too strong a word, or maybe it's the wrong word all together. I keep thinking of the potential dangers; the drunk drivers weaving their way home after Buffalo's (previously-loved-by-me-now-loathed-by-me) 4AM closing times (You read that right. 4 in the morning. Oof.); the assailants and rapists lurking behind trees and parked cars; the rats who could run right at my feet out of a garbage can . . . OK, that one actually did happen the other morning. At least I wasn't alone, though.
I have to stay alive these days. I have to be whole and accounted for. It's a strange shift, going from fearless about what could happen to me (NOT ME! NEVER! They'll find out who's hardcore . . . ) to realistic and actually fearful. The things we do for love.
I ran later this morning, in the full cold sunshine.
After I went back to sleep before 6AM (well, I might as well, yes?) I had the most terrible dream. I can't remember how it started, but it ended with Baby O being lost, or possibly kidnapped. I was screaming his name, frantically looking around some apartment I was in. I woke up in a sweat, to the sounds of C getting E and O out of bed. E climbed into bed with me to hide and wake me up. I exhaled.
E has been sick this week. A child who has been sick only a handful of times in his short life, who has never thrown up (knock on wood), we spent most of Wednesday parked in his "nest" in front of the television.
O has spent the past week drooling, chewing maniacally on his fist. We're awaiting tooth #1. I'm aware that this child is not yet 5 months old.
These are the small scary things. The small scary things that I welcome in place of the bigger, much more scary things out there.
I realize I've been a bit of a blog slacker lately. For those of you who might be interested in reading, I am sorry. But even though it's been quiet around here, I'm not leaving. My words are firmly planted here. In the weeks and months after Calla died, blogs kept me alive. I read the stories, I desperately searched for life "after." I lived vicariously through other mama's subsequent pregnancies, starving for good news and hope. I devoured each morsel of time, how it went, how it goes. I needed to know how to move forward. Heck, I still do.
It always made me a little sad to see blogs close up shop when the new arrivals came home safely. I understand, understood, but I craved the "after." I wanted to know how life would go on, good bad and hideous.
And so here I'm staying, in case someone wants to know how we are going on. Because life does go on, like it or not. My baby's death does not get better, or easier to accept, but it's a part of me, a part of our family's history. We will love and miss her forever.