Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Different


There's a video we took the night before Celeste. Kemi is pushing Evie around in the base of her stroller without the seat on and she's laughing. I'm videotaping it and laughing too. And every time I watch that video I think I'll never sound like that again.


I realized recently how forever changed I am since losing Celeste. I "date" everything as before Celeste or after Celeste.  It is the touchstone that everything falls around.  Things that go through my head: "Our trip to Nashville...when was that...? After Celeste." "That meeting with that one parent...that was the week before Celeste."

Everyone I encounter on a daily basis knows about Celeste. But it won't always be that way. Every time I hire a new employee, or I meet a new mom at a birthday party, I am reminded. I always think, If I get to be friends with this person, I might have to say it out loud.

And how do you say it?



I was given a gift card to my favorite store (Anthropologie!) recently. I went in to finally, finally buy some post-pregnancy new clothes. The damn scale may not read the numbers I want it to read, but I badly needed something that I felt good in and that didn't look like pajamas.  Getting dressed for church every week was leaving me nearly in tears and I was desperate to get a pair of jeans I could get my booty in.

A really nice sales girl approached me, and asked if she could help me find jeans. I blurted out "I'm looking for pretty much ANYTHING I feel good in. I need some post-baby clothes." And of course she followed with "how old is your baby?"

Crap. I failed to realize that that would lead to a conversation about my baby, not my booty.

And that's when I completely looked like a freak. "Uh, uh, well, she's, um...17 months." Awkward silence. I can't lie for anything. And then, "My baby died."

I don't know what to say to those types of questions. I still can't do it. When someone admires Evie at Target and asks if she's my only child.  I have no idea what to say.  And, if we're blessed enough to have another child, I know it will become doubly hard. How often do you get asked "Is this your first?" "Well no", I'll have to say. It's my third.

Some moms tell. Some moms of babies in Heaven say so. They say that they have one in their arms, and one in Heaven. But I can't do it. And it's not because I don't want to remember Celeste and bring honor to her life.  It's because I'm not ready to see the sad look in their eyes.


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