Random thoughts on a Tuesday.

I had breakfast with Sarah (Ezra's mommy) this weekend. She is absolutely delightful. There is something so comforting about meeting these amazing babylost women in real life, watching them talk about their babies, seeing their expressions, and getting real hugs. This weekend, as we walked in the city, and ate at one of those very busy brunch places, I had this profoundly silent moment. Here we were. Sitting in a booth talking. I wondered if anyone else in the diner noticed us and wondered what we were talking about. I certainly thought, "I bet no one else in this place is talking about the death of their children." We look like normal girlfriends talking over a couple of egg white omelets. And we certainly feel like old friends. Some things just need not be explained, though we met only twenty minutes earlier, and yet, we were getting to know each others' mannerisms, humor, patterns of speech. Sometimes it is disconcerting to connect with someone, and not know exactly how they pronounce the word "water". (In Philly, this is not a given.) Yet, meeting with Sarah really felt like the opposite of real life--the real life that I am terrified of entering on a day to day basis.

In real life, you hear your friend's deepest, hardest, most heartbreaking moments after years of knowing them.
In real life, you expect to laugh, and it is unexpected to cry.
In real life, you don't feel completely protective, maternal, loving and unconditional about the person you have just met.
In real life, you simply expect to carry your grief inside your heart where you are certain you are going to explode.

Being with Sarah was comforting, kind, gentle, and much needed. Thank you, Sarah. I love your fantasy of having an entire social life of babylost women. Yes! I imagine it would involve some wine, some plate throwing, some crying, some laughing and everything true.

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I know my playground sounds like an awful place. I think it is like most playgrounds in small towns. Sam read my blog and said, "Yeah, I hate the geese too."

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I light a candle everyday for Lucy. It started early, when Sam's brother and sister in law sent me the best package from Earth Mama Baby Angel. In it was a warming heart for my post-birth uterine contractions, a package of seeds, called Seeds of Hope for Lucy's garden, a votive candle, and a container of No More Milk tea. It was so incredibly thoughtful. As I sat there with my breasts bound, and recovering from birth, I lit the candle next to the Buddhas. Lucia means light, and just having a little flame flickering feels warmer in the room to me. At different times, we have lit a second candle for my father in law Harry, and for others we want to think of that day or night. I have done a bunch of research about St. Lucy, which is its own post one day, and the rituals of light surrounding her. On our little shelf with Lucy's candle sits a Buddha my friend brought back from Thailand. It is small. When my nephew Max was a year old or so, we found the Buddha decapitated. I suspect that Max bit his head off and spit it on the floor, much like some toddler Godzilla. I never got upset about that, especially at the time. It made me laugh until my sides hurt actually, because you can see the little teeth mark on the Buddha. It just seemed like an apt reminder of the impermanence of life. And so, instead of superglueing his head back on, I leave it next to him. His head is never too far from his body. There is some wisdom in this, but I am just not sure what it is yet.