Full Stop

It is fall. I know it because it is steadily cooler and the rain keeps coming.

I had to pick up smoking, again. I have to have a drink before bed so that I can sleep without my dead baby's image on loop. I spend too much time thinking that I can change the past.

Music piped directly to my brain is the only thing keeping me from slipping away during the day.

I used to love the fall. I loved the fake winter that Houston represents.

I used to love Halloween.

Soon she will be dead longer than she was alive.

Months of going through the motions of normal life doesn't have me prepared for this. It is crushing. It is grief, new and raw, as though I am stuck on December 13th for the rest of my life.

I went away for a weekend trip to Luling. It helped, for two weeks. I was hoping that the peace and ability to face myself would carry me on through the rest of the year. I was wrong.

Lately it feels like I am wrong all of the time. I try things, some new and some old, and they aren't doing what they are supposed to. I have unrealistic expectations.

My emotions are in chaos. I spent three hours petting the lock of hair I trimmed from her head on Mother's Day. We taped it in to my card last year. It was a stroke of genius, because I don't have anything of her, now. Her smell is gone from her toys. I know, I tried. I smelled every toy and blanket.

Perhaps grief is supposed to be this way. Maybe this is just part of it, the part where I can't help but be batshitcrazy with grief.

So, there are gaps. I don't write. I don't make phone calls. I don't want to spread this around. There is a time and a place for this kind of painful melodrama.

Balancing between stages - Where is my safety net?

After Mazzy died Adam and I had to change grocery stores. Right, or wrong, it was the choice that best helped us get through the day-to-day. It took us out of our comfort zone, but changing stores helped us become another face in the crowd. No one questioned where the baby was or gave us "Sorry" eyes.

It has been nearly ten months of shopping at a store that we hate. Yesterday Adam and I were walking down the aisles and he says, "I think we should try going back. Next week. Just to see if we can do it."

I was flabbergasted. I haven't been able to go back there, at all. I can't even look in the direction of the building, but Adam says that he has made quick stops. We are hoping that the people that recognized us would have quit, or changed shifts or something. We are stronger, more easily able to answer the questions without crying.

I am, quite frankly, scared out of my mind, but I do want to support Adam. He is ready, and that is important. We are healing at different levels. There are things that I can do that he can't, and apparently, this heading back to the store, is one of the things that he can do that I can't.

We had an experience last night that I am still processing. I guess that is what prompted Adam to come to his decision. Some guy that Adam knew "back in the old 'hood" bumped in to us. He was playing fast catch-up with Adam about his family and one of his questions was about kids. Why didn't we have any? Adam just glossed over and said that we didn't, but I felt weird. Are we supposed to lie? Like, is it more polite to tell people that we just never had a child? Am I supposed to spare their feelings? Or is that just Adam's choice and I don't have to do that? It was a mess, for me. I felt confused because I am proud of the child that I had. I want to smile and remember and be her mother, but I do understand that random people don't need the little punch. No one wants to hear that a baby has died.

I am considering writing a asshole version of a self-help book dealing with grief. Even if it is to get some of this anger off my chest. I think I am finally getting to a place where I am not scared of how I sound to other people. I am not worried about sparing them from my bad days. I am comfortable with the fact that my baby's death has changed me and that I miss her. My way isn't soft or sweet, it never has been. I am tired of everyone trying to push me in to a pastel frame of what grief should look like.

Human Cannonball

Sunday was a lot of things. It was one of the longer days in my recent memory. I got up early to have an outing at the park with friends and their family. I got to see Lena and John, two of my favorite kids, while we were there. In fact, I got to play with them on this playground in one of the nature reserves in the area.

Charlotte, the kids and I took a walk on the trails. I had forgotten my memory card for my camera, so there are no pictures, but it was fun. Beautiful. It was funny to watch young John rush ahead, focusing only on the end goal. Lena lagged behind, taking pictures of every vine and sign, like she wanted to remember everything. I floated in between, trying to spend time with both children. There is something about being around them that always makes me feel younger, more energized. I think I annoy Charlotte when I am like that because I am just as nerve-wracking as the kids. I talk too loud, I skip when I should walk, I talk to the trees, tell knock-knock jokes, the usual. I am starting to think that is part of me that will never change.

At any rate, after the walk we went pack to the pavilion. The kids wanted to check out the playground, so I went with them. It was fantastic! I ran from each part to the next. I climbed the ladders and swung from bars. I went down the slides every way that you could go down slides. Every part of the structure felt my feet and my hands. The entire park could hear our laughter and our shouting.

We decided to be pirates. We were under attack, from all sides! Captain John wanted more cannonballs! Go! Go! Go! Down the slides! One person after another. There were only three of us on the slides, but we were making a mighty noise.

I am not sure how long we played; shouting and running and climbing, but by the time we were done, we were all covered in sweat and smiles. Adam sat on the sidelines, watching us. He shouted encouragement and mocked me when I lost my breath and had to pause. We ran over to the swings to cool down. I flung myself in to the air until the wind dried my hair and calmed me down.

We ate lunch. We went back. We played until the other adults were packing things up and ushering us in to the cars. I haven't had that much fun in a long time. I was a human cannonball and I loved it.