Catching Up

As the title of my blog suggests, I am currently enjoying a double nap time. And, you just know that now I've typed it, someone will wake up. Which explains a bit of the hiatus I've taken. You see, the boys have a bit of an aversion to sleep. So when they actually do sleep? I need to get things done. Which means this here writing hole gets neglected.

I sit here in disbelief that it's springtime again. Maybe it's because our winter was so unbelievably, weirdly mild. Usually by the beginning of April I start getting a little overly cabin-feverish, but really we've been out and about for weeks. (Oh, and next winter? We are so effed.) But mostly I can't believe it's been two years since I found out I was pregnant with O, still freshly grieving Calla's death. It seems like it was yesterday, and last century, too. I watch the leaves peek out from the tree branches and smell the air and feel the half-brittleness of the wind and can remember, vividly, being emotionally obliterated and scared shitless. Sometimes just the sight of a daffodil sends shivers down my spine.

I am so grateful for that little sleeping soul upstairs, and for the one asleep over there on the couch. I am still in disbelief that Calla died, but sometimes even more so that E and O are alive.

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I have a friend who this winter, had two babies, twin boys, very very early. And without going into the nitty gritty, one of the babies died recently. And I just sobbed for a week. When she let everyone know, all I could do was fall to the ground and weep. Which made me feel like I was overreacting--like it was more about me. But shit, you know? How can you not, right? I am devastated for her, and can't think of a thing to do, even though I've lived through a brand of this hell myself.

E watched me cry, and wondered. So it got us talking about where exactly my friend's baby is, why it is so sad. I told him he was in the stars, like Calla. And now, at lunch almost every day, E asks where they baby is, and why he is in the stars, and tells me he misses him. And Calla. And I tell him I do too. And then I wonder if three-and-a-half-almost-four is too young for these things, but then I think, I am too young for these things, too.

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Life right now is nearly how I'd imagined it would be before Calla died. Chasing around two little ones, having fun but getting irritated when I haven't had enough to eat or sleep. But I catch myself, hear that almost Pollyannaish voice in my head saying, "Yes, but they're here. Be happy for that."

I have a difficult time when I find myself getting annoyed, or, heavens forbid, yelling. Yep. I sometimes yell. I do not enjoy every second of every day. And this sometimes makes me feel like a failure. As though I've learned nothing. As though I'm taking my relative good fortune for granted. What kind of mother with a dead kid gets annoyed with the children she has?

Being happy all the time, I've come to finally accept, is not possible. It is okay to be annoyed that I'm reheating my coffee for the third time; that despite bribing using all the positive reinforcement known to man my child still routinely wakes me at 5AM (no, not the baby) and I get grumpy--these things are not happy things. The fact that these boys are here, alive, breathing, hearts beating--for this I am so eternally grateful.

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So during the time it took me to write this--not long, obvs--O woke up screaming. But with a little finagling and another go-round with the sleep sheep he's back to sleep. Which means, since I've put that in writing, he'll be up again in about four minutes. I'll try not to be away for so long.