Amazing Grace

For months now, I've been trying to find the meaning of the word "grace." Not in the sense of someone who moves elegantly, but in the "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound" sense.

I saw a wall hanging in a store that said something like "Grace is when God gives us what we don't deserve and doesn't give us what we do deserve." That, of course, just made me plain ol' angry. Really? God gave me what I deserve when he let my daughter leave me at the age of 29 months?

This to me is right up there with people who believe that good acts are truly the only path to salvation, "good acts" generally meaning attending church regularly and trying to convince others to believe exactly as you do. Anyone who knows me (or has read this blog) knows that I'm not Christian, I'm not strictly anything, and at this point I'm not really sure what I believe.

Oddly enough, I've been singing Amazing Grace to my daughter pretty often lately. I find it soothing, and it somehow seems appropriate to sing to her before I lay her down for the night. I sang it to her earlier tonight, in fact. And then I sat down and started looking for the definition of grace.

When I was helping her get into her pajamas, I had a sudden memory of her older sister, could see her face, her whole self as though she was the one I was changing. The memory was so clear, the sadness and grief hit me like I was being stabbed in the heart. And then I read to my daughter, turned off the lights, and held her against me to sing to her.

She started singing. Mind you, the only words my daughter says are hi, Mama, and Dada, so when she sings it's more of a humming. She's been singing her babysong since she was about 6 months old. She used to do it often, but lately it's a rarity. Tonight, she sang and sang and sang, a whole concert of baby song. And I actually smiled. Then I thanked her (aloud) and sang Amazing Grace to her.

When I tried to find a good explanation of grace, I found many references to the idea of good works and salvation. But the ideas that made the most sense to do have to do with the idea of grace as a gift from God. A gift that like any other, can be accepted or rejected. But it is what it is--going to church doesn't make it a bigger gift, it only can perhaps make you more aware of it. What grace is meant to do (according to what I read) is help you through the acts of free will and circumstance which are out of your (and God's) control (because I still believe God doesn't will or control everything). And in receiving this gift, you try to live a life of conscience, of a conscious awareness and effort to do good.

My understanding of all this is still a bit foggy. I guess really, my baby sang to me, and while she sang, the first thing that crossed my mind was, "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound," and that drove me to try to understand it. I'm still trying, and I like this path better than the others I went down a while ago.

Still sensitive

I know I haven't posted in quite a while. It's not that I haven't had anything to say but rather that everything is churning around in my head and heart again. I cried every day for 2 weeks starting on my daughter's birthday. Then I got to a point where I felt like if I kept falling apart I'd never be able to pull myself together. That's not good for me or the baby I'm now 10 weeks along with.

Yup, that's right, a new baby is on the way. We were "trying" but it was a bit of a surprise because it happened in a month when I was gone for quite a while. This baby is due towards the end of July. I didn't find out the gender the first two times, but this time I think I need to know, to prepare either way.

It's been so hard, the emotions I have anyway coupled with the hormonal turmoil of being pregnant. I actually feel much better than I did in the first trimester of my other two pregnancies--less moody, not quite so exhausted or hungry, and still able to do everything pretty well (I never get morning sickness). But seeing pictures of my daughter lately has been really hard. And I keep imagining how it will be when this baby is born. There are pictures of me in the hospital last time, sitting in my bed with my firstborn, who had come to meet her new sister. I picture doing all that again, but with two different children, and I feel absolutely ill. There should be three children in all the pictures starting after mid-July of 2011, but there just won't be.

I went to see the latest Harry Potter movie the other day. Towards the end, a character is killed. I've read all the books and knew that would happen, but somehow I just couldn't stand to watch Harry holding this character in his arms as life slowly fell away. It brought back so many memories of trying to save and then saying goodbye to my daughter. I was crying and crying at the end. We sat in the theater for a while, then went out to the car and I broke down again.

As always, I somehow pulled myself together by thinking about my strong, feisty toddler who has demanded my mental and physical presence throughout everything. My husband I both have lots of pictures of her on our cell phones, and we shared those and talked about her.

I feel almost as though I have to think and talk about my firstborn less to get through this pregnancy. But when I do, I feel worse. Maybe I just have to accept that this is going to be hard, that I can't control the hormones any more than any other emotions, and that I might again be very sensitive for a while. I knew this would be tough. I didn't quite realize how, though.

There's nothing like a baby. Just smelling my girl's hair still brings a sense of instant peace.

Happy Birthday to my girl

She would have been 4 years old today. I refuse to be sad. I miss her, wish she was here, am angered that she will never get any older. But today, I will celebrate that she was born, that she was in my life, and that I will always remember my girl.

Why is the second year after losing someone harder? My explanation--the every day is easier if you choose to live it. I looked outside myself and once the fog cleared, found reasons to keep going. Now I can get myself going without always needing someone (e.g. my crying, hungry baby) to get me started. The big events--her birthday, death anniversary, etc. still smack me in the face though. On those days, I can't distract myself enough. It's NOT just another day, it is (or should be) a special, happy day and it's just not.

Today, I want to remember my girl. So here are 10 things I'd like you to know about her.

1. She loved thunderstorms. The thunder itself was her favorite, but she also loved rain and lightning.
2. She loved all animals, but dogs most of all. And they seemed to love her too.
3. She loved food. She wasn't a big meat eater (I thought she'd be vegetarian someday, like me) but otherwise she just loved to eat.
4. She was super-flexible. Her nanny videotaped her doing the "leg trick," in which she would sit in a chair and put both legs straight up with her feet near her ears.
5. She knew 3 languages--English, ASL, and a dialect my grandmother taught me. And she would translate for anyone who didn't understand the language she was using at the time.
6. She was good at sharing. I never once hear her say "mine" and if another child wanted the toy she was playing with, she would just hand it over and move on to something else.
7. She would make meals in her play kitchen, serve them to us, and then blow on them to cool the food before she'd let us eat.
8. She'd recently discovered apple and blueberry crisp ("trisp") and it was her favorite dessert.
9. When I was pregnant with her sister and not walking around much, she would pick things up off the floor for me, make sure I had my pillow when I sat at the dining table, and sit beside me on the sofa looking at magazines.
10. Red was her color. Her nursery was red, and she looked beautiful in red.

I wear red today in her memory. I'm tearing up writing this, because I miss her. I'm having a "somebody tell me what to do day" and fortunately a friend called at 8:30 this morning and already took care of that.

Miss you, love you, my big girl.

Second Birthday

I've heard from some people that the first year after losing a loved one is the hardest. All those "firsts" you go through--the first birthday without her, first Halloween, first death anniversary. I made it through those. It's been over 18 months since my daughter's death, so I've made it through two of some things.

Her birthday is on Monday. She would have been four years old.

All week, I've been looking forward to getting the DVD of the movie Eclipse, to curling up on the sofa under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn and relaxing with my husband after a long November. But thinking about this last night, I remembered that I had planned to start movie nights with my daughter when she turned three. We'd never really let her watch TV until she was over 2, and even then she was never all that interested. But a movie night, my girl sitting on the sofa with me and her dad, I thought that was something she would enjoy. The first movie I planned to show her was Mulan, because I think of that as one of the more...feminist Disney movies.

She never saw it. We never had a movie night. Thinking about that got me started thinking about all the other things she hasn't done.

Lately, I've been worrying about my toddler trying to get out of her crib. She's never actually tried, because it's just not her nature and also she slept in a sleepsack until she was around 15 or 16 months old. My older daughter climbed out of her crib at 15 months and again at 20 months. That was one of the reasons we moved her into a bed a couple of months after she turned 2. In my mind, that is one of the reasons she is no longer with us.

I don't know what to do about her birthday. Because it's on a Monday, I'm not really planning anything on that day. Knowing how I feel now though, we may end up having to go to dinner just to distract me. Friends have offered to be here on that day, or whenever we want. But I just can't even figure out this year what I want to do.

I don't want to observe it, because she's not here. She's not getting any older. She won't be here to blow out a candle, see the balloons, or open presents. I can't do nothing though. I have to acknowledge and celebrate the day she came into the world, as I always tell others they should do on the birthday of someone they love.

The conflict and confusion I feel is tearing me apart. I'm exhausted from the events of the past month, year, year and a half. Right now, I'm just hoping I can once again hang on by my fingernails and make it through the day.