On grief

Today is my mom's birthday. She would have been 70, but instead she is frozen in time, forever 65 as the rest of the world and I continue to age.

People may die, but grief does not. It comes at you in the most unexpected moments... Looking at your child and wishing for the 400th time that she could meet her. Driving down the road and flashing back to a fond memory. Remembering on mother's day to not remember to call her. Sitting down on a quiet afternoon and seeing her chair. Thoughts of her just bubble up, as do the tears, fresh as that crisp beautiful morning when I woke up motherless for the first time four years ago. Maybe the ache grows more dull with time. I can't tell yet. It's still there, cutting my heart when I am just going about my life, though perhaps less frequently with each passing year. But love doesn't die either, and impossibly seems to keep growing in the midst of loss.

My wise father suggested when she died to not mark that day; to choose another day to celebrate her life rather than to observe the day it slipped away. This was the first year I could allow that day to pass me by. Instead, today I spent a quiet day at home with my own girl, doing my best to follow my mother's example of kindness, patience, and gentle firmness.

Here's to you, Mom. Happy birthday.

Reflections of a six-month-old parent

I'm having a moment over here.

Part One: Last Night
It was a rough night, at least in the sense that I didn't get much sleep. My sweet little baby was reportedly a bit grumpy most of the day yesterday and took extra long naps. When I got home from work, she was sleeping. She woke up at 5:30 for about an hour and a half, then went back to sleep around 7. I almost thought/prayed/hoped it was a night-time sleep that would last extra extra long, because any other solution meant less sleep for Mama. (Selfless, I know.) She normally takes a short nap in the evening and then wants to go to bed around 11 or midnight so I knew something was off.

Well my beautiful girl woke up at 10pm. She was up for an hour, but was clearly very tired, so I decided to put her to bed. Swaddle, song, good night, lights out. We check on her for the next hour because she is occasionally singing, talking, fussing, and otherwise indicating that she is not asleep. All with her sleep cues in full force: droopy eyes, rubbing eyes, tired cry.

At close to midnight I check on her. It's been quiet for quite some time so I'm pretty sure she's asleep. No. She is completely broken out of the swaddle, on all fours, staring up at me as I enter the room. So I try again. Swaddle, song, another song, 30 minutes of singing with my hand on her hands inside the swaddle, keeping her still and calm. Usually this is a surefire way to get her to sleep. Not last night. She seems to become more and more awake. I'm ready to go to bed but I can see she is clearly not ready for sleeping. I turn up the light, set her free, and sit down on my bed next to her, and Papi came to join us. We were sitting around and chatting, and watching her play around in her co-sleeper. Next thing we know, she is crawling out of her bed into ours so she can come be closer to us.

Uh oh. Trouble. (Time for a new sleep solution!)

So she crawls around on our bed for a long while before I decide we are going to bed and she can play if she wants to, but I am not. Lights out and good night Luci. An hour or so later she finally falls asleep at my side and so do I. She wakes up a few hours later and I put her in her own bed. We both sleep peacefully well into the morning.

A few days ago, after her nap. Warning! Danger! Mobile baby!

Part Two: This Morning
This morning I was commiserating with a friend about our tricky nights and how it is so hard to know whether you are doing the right thing or not. We are so full of doubt, new parents, aren't we? Every thing that we do is seemingly shaping this little life and there are so many ways to go wrong. For example, sometimes I wonder if I am ruining Luciana's sleep schedule for the rest of her life by not putting her to bed in the early evening like most parents. I wonder if I am setting her up for a life of insomnia and if when she's 34 she'll have trouble falling asleep before 2am like I do. Even though my doctor assures me I am not and continues to encourage me to do whatever works best with my schedule and gets me the most sleep, I still think about it.

But really, deep down, we do know what to do. You listen to your baby and she tells you, and maybe it takes a little extra time because she can't articulate herself very well, but you keep listening and you both figure it out. Not that you give in to every whim and desire, but you listen to the message you are receiving and you respond as best as you know how. And you're both experimenting really - the baby is saying, what will they understand if I straighten my legs after using the potty? Will they know what I need if I suck on their arm? You are figuring out how the little person is communicating, and they are learning how you will respond to what they tell you.

This was my philosophy with Luci as a newborn. You're hungry? It's time to eat. Sleepy? Let's take a nap. Need to comfort nurse? I'm here for you. I thought about how I get to make my own schedule, so why wouldn't I allow her to guide me for hers? It worked really well for us and it has felt natural and right to stick with it for now. So I wasn't upset last night when Luciana was awake at the wrong time. I didn't try to impose my own schedule on her. When it was clear she wasn't ready to sleep, I didn't force it. I considered how to help her make a better schedule, sure. I thought about what might have gone wrong to put her timing off. I definitely planned to do things differently today. But mostly I just sat there watching her crawl around, marveling at her and soaking it all in.

It makes me think about my mom and how she assured me that I'd know what to do as a mom without her. And I don't think she said this, but I heard it this morning in my heart: it's because the baby will tell you. She knows what she needs. She will tell you. Just listen to her.

Perhaps those of you who are seasoned parents are pitying me right now. Maybe you know that I am setting myself up for a horrible next six months. Maybe you worry I won't discipline my child enough. Maybe I myself will look back on this moment and regret everything. Maybe not.

For now, this is how we parent. We're listening, Luciana.

Three years

Yesterday marked three years since my mother's death. It was just another day. I woke up late, snuggled with the baby, worked around the house, did some work projects, visited a friend, shoveled some snow, and attended a rehearsal. All without a tear shed, but with her always at the back of my mind.

Grief doesn't really ever go away. It just goes deeper. It now feels normal that we don't talk every day. I no longer pick up my phone absentmindedly to call her. I don't cry every day or even many days. I don't even necessarily think about her actively every day.

But she is still marked as a favorite on my phone (I could never bear to remove her). Sometimes I look at Luciana and see her. I remember how she encouraged me when I was about to get married. I reflect on how she supported me equally as a violinist and as not-a-violinist during a dark time. I think about her last days as I watch my friend go through those same last days with a parent. I feel those familiar pangs of loss when I hear of others losing their moms. I get sad when I think about how Luci has very little family to love her, especially since my mom was so good at loving. I grieve when I think about how she'll never get to hold Luci, to know her. She's always somehow on my mind.

During my pregnancy I thought a lot about my mom. My pregnancy was a hard time for me, physically and emotionally. There was a particular day where I was really missing her. I couldn't sleep. I cried all night. I wanted to talk to her. I was mad she wasn't available to me. I needed her. I felt lost.

Then I realized what a gift it was to have been loved so well as to have such a void in my life. I felt peace. And it struck me that it was now my turn to love a child so much that they will sometimes feel completely lost without me when I'm gone.

So here's to my mom: let me be half as good as you were.

Write me a book

I used to keep a blog. (I wouldn't say I was good at it.) It is sadly lost forever now. In it, I chronicled my life from January 2007 until June 2008, mostly for an audience of one: my mother. During that time I spent seven months in Argentina, met my husband, brought him to the US, and married him. It was also during that time that my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. She died in March 2010.

(Here I pause, because almost three years later, that sentence still brings surprisingly ready tears to my eyes.)

We had the blessing of spending lots of time with her those last few years. She would come stay with us for a month at a time and we loved sharing our newlywed life with her. When we drove her back and forth from PA she would stay awake with me and tell me her stories. Stories I'd never heard before. Stories that my forgetful mind has since wiped away, leaving only the warm memory of those precious times. I cherished finding my mom in story mode and hearing beautiful nuggets about her life, my childhood, and her dreams. Her nostalgic happiness was so beautiful.

My mom was a great baby-lover and as a foster mom took care of dozens of other people's babies. She was my go-to expert when I had struggles in my baby-sitting jobs. She knew everything and always had the best advice.

When my mom first told me her cancer had metastasized in August 2007, I looked at Roman (we had just started dating) with a huge lump in my throat and told him that I needed to get married and have babies immediately. (No pressure, new boyfriend.) The hardest part of her dying was knowing that I would maybe one day become a mom without her help. It seemed impossible to reconcile and it was what made me most angry at death and most jealous of my siblings. After all, some of their children were teenagers. Their children had had a grandmother. They lived with her. They knew her. They fought with her. They loved her. My children were still stars in the sky.

As we grew nearer to the reality of her death, I got bold. I started begging. Mom, write me a book. You have to write down everything you know about raising a child. I need your advice. Please write it down. Anything, something. I need all that is in your head down on paper to help me through it. Please do it. Write me a book.

It was selfish of me. Childish. She was too sick. Too tired. Too in her own moment of her own reflections at the end of her own life.

Through my pregnancy I thought of my mom a lot. I despaired again about having a baby without her help. But all of a sudden just now I remembered what her response was of my request: You'll know what to do. You'll be a good mom. You won't need a book. Love your baby.

I have a terrible memory. My sister is constantly telling me stories about growing up that I just can't remember. I want to live my life so richly that I have too many wonderful memories to keep stored away. I want to savor every moment of my life, but I'm afraid I'll have no stories to tell at the end. So maybe if I am faithful to this blog, maybe one day I'll again have an audience of one. The one I'm watching sleep in my arms as I type this.

Mom, write me a book.

This is page one.