Yesterday I managed to be the stay-at-home mom I always thought I would be. It only took me three plus years, but who's counting? We played, O crawled around like a nut, when he went down for a nap E and I baked bread and did a sticker project together, then we all went to the zoo with friends, we ate lunch, napped, I cleaned most of the house, made dinner, the boys got up, everyone ate dinner without a fuss, baths, bedtime, time with C. I baked cookies. Watched an episode of The Wire, which we just started. No one, not adults, kids, or any combination of the two, raised voices in frustration or even huffed.
Why can't every day be like that? Because for several moments in that day I actually felt like a normal person. Not someone who's inadequate, who's grieving, who's always playing catch-up with life.
I don't know what hit me today, but most of it was pretty good. Until it wasn't. I don't know if it's because I'm exactly 19 months away from the worts day of my life, which was, ironically, the best and only day I got to spend with Calla. I just found myself in the shower tonight sobbing, nearly screaming (except O and E were in bed so I held myself back). Why did she have to die? I just can't understand it, and somehow tonight in the shower it just came to me. She's always going to be dead. Forever. It doesn't seem fair, does it?
In spite of how much I love my boys.
In spite of how much I love my husband.
In spite of how much I love my life.
In spite of my abundance of relative good fortune.
In spite of all of this. I miss and want her so much. Somehow the memory of her birth, so painful, and primal, and awful, bubbled up to the surface of my brain tonight. And I wanted to scream for my little girl. Just like I did in that hospital room 19 months ago.
My little girl.
My little girl.