I’m too tired. I can tell it will get better. Some days will be hard. Some will be okay. Maybe, just maybe, tonight I will sleep before 2am. Maybe I won’t wake with excruciating cramps at 4am. Maybe I’ll be able to dress myself without feeling like my chest is caving in as I survey the maternity clothes and my shrinking belly. I’m suddenly not pregnant, but can’t come close to fitting into my regular clothes. And the shirt I loved while pregnant – my go-to, absolute favorite – I now loathe.
This morning, Little Bear (4 yo) said, “I had a dream about the baby.” I asked him what it was about, but his reply was, “I don’t want to tell you.”
At dinner tonight, we told Little Bear that we are going to bury the baby and that we gave him a name: Julian Skye. We said we will say a few words and that we might want to draw him a picture or make a card. Sweet Pea told him I put a shell into his little box for the ocean he’ll never see. She teared up a bit. Little Bear nodded, eating spoonfuls of brown rice. He said he wouldn’t make the baby a card but that he would make the baby a drawing.
Little Bear wanted to know where the baby was at this very minute, while we were having dinner. We told him that he is in his little box. He really wanted to know where the box is located but we wouldn’t tell him. Young children share the oddest bits of information at inopportune times and I imagined him talking about his ‘dead baby in the freezer’ in front of my parents or at the lunch table at school. I’m grateful that Sweet Pea and I are in agreement about this.
A bit later, Little Bear pointed left – “Is the box this way? Or this way (pointing right)?” He is a very determined little boy. He wants to know, and while I can’t blame him, we aren’t telling. At least not at this moment.