There are many aspects of life after infant loss that most people will never fully understand. Invisible little pangs triggered by things no one else would ever notice, or joyful moments that make us smile as we remember our babies. This is one of the hardest parts of being a loss mom - a piece of our family is invisible, but not gone. We don’t get to share school photos or tell stories about the newest milestone our child met, but we still want their lives and their continued role in our family to be recognized and validated. We get to share so little, so when someone shows a true interest in our children, it is everything. For those of you who genuinely love the angel baby in your life, and who are as interested in them as in any living child’s triumphs, thank you.
I have been humbled and moved to realize just how many people genuinely want to know what life in a family like ours is like. We cannot hope to understand that which we know nothing about, so one of my duties as Reed’s mother is to help educate those who have not been here themselves, but want to empathize. For those people, here is a story of a moment that would normally be invisible to the outside world. This is the kind of moment that is easy to hide, for fear of judgement or pity. But it is also a moment that helps illustrate what life is like for our family, and many like ours (though, of course, every grief is different and not everyone grieves their children in the same way as we do. And for the record - that’s okay).
Last night it snowed. We woke up to at least 8 inches on the ground, fluffy fresh white snow glittering in the morning sunlight. Big snows like this make me miss Reed in a different way. I long for all the lost memories of a snowy childhood - watching him discover that magic for the first time, toddling around in snow almost taller than him, building snowmen and then coming inside to cuddle with a warm cup of hot chocolate.
The way I have learned to deal with these days, when the memories we won’t have are around every corner, is to simply build new traditions. Now, when big snows fall, I like to bake. I imagine in another version of our story, there is a cold little boy playing outside in the snow with his father and his dogs. I imagine him coming inside, cheeks rosy red, and sitting at the counter impatiently while the cookies finish baking. I imagine creating these special memories together, and so...I do my best to create them anyway.
Today, that is what felt right to me. This afternoon, as the sun slowly melted the piles of snow in the yard, I baked cookies. The recipe came from Jasper’s mummy, who discovered it in a book with her son’s name on it. I was excited, because it allowed me to connect not only with my son on this snowy day, but with his best friend. After all, in that other version of our story, isn’t that how it would be? Little boys being crazy in the snow while their mommies bake them goodies? Better yet, they are called Optimist Cookies, which appropriately captures the mood I am in when I do things like this for Reed. Contrary to what you may think, baking in an empty kitchen with my son’s picture on the counter is not a sad moment for me. It is a joyful one, because it is something I never before understood was possible. In my life, this is how I share something special with my child. How I set time aside to do something that makes me think of only him.
So while it may seem crazy to some to prop his bear up in the chair while I mix the dough, or to bring his picture into the kitchen while the cookies bake, it is no longer crazy to me. I don’t do it because I think he is there, or because I am in denial. I do it because these are times when he comes to the forefront of my mind, times when he once again becomes the only thing in my world. I do it to include him in our family traditions. I do it because in those moments, they are the only tangible markers I have of a little boy who is always on my heart. I do it because sometimes, having him in my heart simply isn’t enough.
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