Ellery and Olivia

So often when I post on this blog, I do it as the mother of a preschooler, the mama of a funny baby, a crafter, baker, stay-at-home-mom, play group coordinator, teacher. I seldom post outright as the other very essential part of who I am, the proud and grieving mama of two precious babies held for too short a time. The survivor of six brutal years of infertility and false hopes and miscarriage. Being Ellery and Olivia's mom, in particular, broke all of who I was and created who I am now all in the same moment, one hour and fifteen minutes that encompassed pushing and hearing a tiny cry, watching a little heart beating and holding their darling tiny selves for their last breaths. They are the ocean carrying each of the other identities in and out with their tide. Sometimes just one piece of driftwood comes in, sometimes three--just the baker, maybe, and then the crafter and and teacher and play group organizer, but my identity as a mother is the force beneath it all, and I became a mother (and a complicated one, at that) when those two little lives came to me. You hear people talk of motherhood as transformative, but I wonder to what extent for mothers in the world of living babies. Would it have been just as transformative if I hadn't been so devastatingly recreated at the same time? I can't ever know.

On some days like today those little girls are so present. Today they were at every turn.

In the questions of my three-year-old, continually trying to make sense of her role as big sister to Ellis and little sister to something so difficult to understand. "Were you sad when Ellery and Olivia died, mama? And then you were happy that two more sisters came? Why can't I send them something? Can we all die together when it's time, you and Ma and Ellis and me?"

In the precious cuddliness of my youngest, such a strong reminder of what we missed before but at the same time so oddly familiar, as though those sisters had come home after all and that all the delicious routines of having a baby had been happening here in repeated cycles for the last four years. But routine is never routine because of those first girls. Our lives are filled with much-appreciated delight in the smallest of moments.

There was an email from a friend out-of-touch, reaching out on the fifth anniversary of her babies' birth and death. Because as the years go by, more people forget or remain silent on the important days. More people are in your life who never knew the days to begin with. And the other mamas who have lost children are the keepers of the flame, even if we have to remind each other that yes, I did need you to say my baby's name today. Yes, I did ache for someone else to remember. When Ellery and Olivia died one of the most sincere and touching gifts given to me was a letter from a teaching colleague. In the letter she told me the story of being present at the birth and death of a friend's baby boy. She admitted to me that in all the many years since that day, she had never mentioned him to her friend again, for fear of upsetting her. And after Ellery and Olivia died and I sent out a sort of plea to my coworkers to stop being silent, she called her friend, and she asked about that little boy, called him by name. It still makes me weep, thinking about that phone call. I still feel humbled that my daughters' lives made that moment happen, and I feel so proud of my coworker for picking up the phone.

I read a favorite blog of mine today, a crafty one, filled with the ambitious and righteous plans of an excited first-time mama. Nothing else can seem as maddening and naive to a mama who has lost babies or been through infertility as the certainty with which a first-time mother who got pregnant easily talks about the future. I practically had to tie my fingers together to stop myself from commenting. You mean if your baby comes home, not when. Make all the plans you like, but sometimes babies die. You might change your mind about an epidural if you're trying to conserve your energy for the only ten minutes you'll ever have with your child. Your birth plan might not seem so important then. You of course cannot really say these things to a first-time mother without looking like a monster. You almost can't think them without feeling like one. But there it is. That's one of the things that happens to you--you have to learn to bite your tongue around the optimistic mamas-to-be.

There was a phone call from a newer friend today, too, so hopefully, nervously and unexpectedly pregnant after multiple losses. Some people say that all babies are equally precious, but it isn't true. There are a lot of beautiful birds in the world, colorful and tuneful and fantastic to watch. Miracles all, yes, certainly. But a phoenix? How often do you witness not just a miracle, but a miracle born of ashes rising in flight? Babies after loss are spectacular in that way, and I am so hoping this summer brings another to this very deserving mama.

There was the book I just finished. Tore through like water after a desert trek, in fact. I longed for this book four years ago. I would have handed it out to everyone I knew. I still might. If you want to understand a little of what it is like to survive the death of your baby, or to be asked "is this your first?" around every turn when it isn't your first, or if you want to know what to do for someone experiencing the loss of a child, here is where you should turn. It is devoid of the talk of angels and footprints in the sand and all the other things that, for me, were more isolating than comforting. It is beautiful and heartbreaking and full of truth. I do not know how she managed to describe things that are so difficult to describe, nor to tell something so painful both compellingly and artfully, but she did. You can read an excerpt here.

Through that book, this website. Which for me was a bit like being at a party where you know no one and feel completely out of your element, then opening a door to find all of your closest friends gathered around a fireplace with a mug of hot tea and a cupcake waiting for you. Oh, how I wish you had been there during the first few agonizing hours of this party, but I am so happy to know you are there now.

And so my first, fleeting daughters, although your little sisters fill so many days with their glorious clamor, today was yours. Today I write as your mama, wholly and thankfully for all you have brought to me. I am still learning from you. And I miss you.