Pen poised over the page, I scroll up through hundreds of messages. I'm searching for one I sent a while ago, letting Pat know that Hope's molars finally broke through her swollen gums. I consider inventing numbers for the line. Then I find it, and I record the date- five months prior- on the space next to the dental diagram.
I used to practice the same delayed memory-keeping methodology with a daily journal. Given to me shortly after Eva's passing, I finally began writing in the 'A Thought a Day' journal when Hope was about 16 months old.
August 8, 2016
'I love giving you butterfly kisses! You hold your face right next to mine- temple to temple- and giggle when my lashes flutter to 'kiss' you.'
In the blink of an eye, my rainbow baby had become my rainbow toddler, and I wanted to capture each small adventure, silly saying, and spontaneous snuggle. By November, though, I was trying to recover an entire October of lapsed journaling by writing memories on lines to fill the pages, and by spring, several months' blank spaces remained just that. Guilt fills those spaces, as they are moments that have passed without proper storage.
Articles will tell me that my children don't need carefully-kept baby books and well-organized pictures; they just need me. I believe that is essentially true. But when memories are what you're left with for your first child, the value of life recorded becomes immeasurable.
I remember the dark brown urns. With their curved rims and oppressive sheen, they sat on display and urged me to keep looking; we needed something young and delicate for our pretty girl. The service counselor noted on our form that we declined a decorative urn and brought out several guest books for us to peruse.
"Now you may not want a guestbook for the service," he said. "That's entirely up to you. Often, not many people come to a baby's funeral."
People showed up to Eva's funeral in the hundreds: surrounding us in the pews, sitting in the choir loft, and standing along aisles and back walls. We'd gotten everything ready in a couple of days. We had our parents' tribute typed up for our Pastor to read. We displayed Eva's large, framed picture at the front of the sanctuary. We brought her blanket- not the one I'd wanted to stay with her, but another that she'd been given- and 'Eva's Bear' to display, too. We set up the three large poster boards on which we'd pasted pictures of her so people could get a glimpse of the curious, tenacious, and vibrant little person we are honored to call our daughter.
And we had the 'guest book.' The service counselor was wrong about the number of guests at Eva's funeral. He just didn't know our friends and family. Or our Eva. He was right about the guest book, though; I didn't want one of the formal, gold-paged choices, with the shimmering cattails on the front.
"Let's use her baby book," I said to Pat as we sat at the round table in the mortuary's display room.
In the indescribably dark months following Eva's passing, my life was dedicated to keeping her memory alive. I posted a picture and caption to Facebook at least each week. I attended support group each month. I wore her picture button to functions. I said her name as often as I could. I began planning her walk. I needed those around me to always see Eva and see me as a mom- Eva's mom- even though her baby book held loving sympathies and wishes from her friends and family and not the milestones and moments we should have been able to experience and record.
Some times, when I'm driving during the day, my memory takes me back to December 19, 2013. I crossed Pacific Street as I drove my husband's SUV following Eva's first well-child check, which had gone so well. I could hear her right behind me. Our heads were close; mine against the driver's headrest and hers cradled in her infant carrier right behind me. I delighted in the sounds she made, her little squeaks and sighs. I absorbed her presence in the car with me as I did the sun shining through the windows; it warmed me, and I smiled, thinking, I'm a mom driving my baby. With the high-risk pregnancy and NICU days behind us, I felt so thankful for this new normalcy and the healthy baby girl in my care.
I have never recorded this moment prior to now. The image just existed in my memory. A drive across Pacific, or the click of the infant carrier into its base, or a coo from the backseat as I'm driving will conjure that precious time with Eva.
Similarly, a westbound drive along Dodge- right before the traffic light on 84th - and an always-intentional glance upward triggers memories. I can see stark lights and grey curtains and heavy machinery with my eyes. With my heart, I can see feathery eyelashes on plump cheeks and delicate fingers on white sheets and my arms holding a courageous, tiny fighter.
Those memories- of our week in the pediatric intensive care unit- are still easy to bring to the surface, but they don't constantly live there any more. One mother and writer wisely identifies this as the change a bereaved parent experiences over some years; 'you are never the same. At first, we are different because of our raw sadness. But over time, the sadness moves from our skin into our bones. It becomes less visible, but no less who we are. It changes into a wisdom, one we’d give up in a heartbeat to have our child back.'
Life with Eva continues, and as we live with the devastating loss of more time in her physical presence, the pain seeps its way from the surface down deep into my bones. While we can't keep the memories I'd love to be building with Eva in her baby book, we find her presence in other moments.
September 11, 2016
'We went on a ferry ride to Kingston, WA. Fun to ride with you and hear/see you point out all the 'boat's! I see us spinning around on open green grass, face to gleeful face with the sun shining all around you.'
As we blessedly build more memories with our growing family, we delight in our heaven-sent gifts.
I didn't know, as we spun around in the sunshine and sea mist of the Puget Sound, that we'd been given another gift: a sweet, sweet surprise who'd just started growing in the belly that had grown his big sisters.
My son rests by me now while I write. As I clumsily attempt to organize thoughts, convey appreciation, and keep such cherished memories, the sweet sounds of newborn breathing fill my ears and heart. He makes me smile. He makes me cry: in utmost awe, love, and gratitude for lives entrusted to us and the time we've been given with each of these blessings.
As I feel the sweet breath and warmth of my newborn infant cradled into my neck, and as I laugh at the silly antics of my spunky two-year-old, I can understand- to some degree- when people say 'don't grow up!' to their small children. After all, we know this time is fleeting and so much joy is to be found in this season with our little ones. We want to stop time, I suppose: to absorb the love and keep the innocence and record the beauty of these precious lives.
But the pain in my bones reminds me what to not grow up looks like, so I could never utter my own 'don't grow up...' because that is the last thing I want- my pain, my fear.
So maybe rather than 'don't grow up' we should be saying 'grow up slowly,' so we can have the absolute privilege of watching our children grow at a pace that doesn't have the hurried frenzy our society seems to propagate.
Grow up slowly... reach those milestones. make new friends. enjoy every second of this life. have so so so many years. grow old with joy. make countless happy memories. I'll do my best to jot some of them down, filling the pages of my son's and daughter's baby books with their special moments and my limitless love for them.
And since I can't possibly write down all of our memories... let me soak them in.