Monday, August 29, 2011

Confessions of a crazy woman

If life had progressed the way that it does in the majority of cases, this little babe would be turning 10 years old today.

10 years ago today I had my waters broken and things progressed fast. So fast that her heart started having decelerations and I was threatened with a c-section. But before we had time to mess with that, she was ready to come out, and she flew out in a couple of easy pushes, and in an instant I was everything I had dreamed of being since I had been a 2 year old cutie playing with my dolls and toy ironing board. I was somebody's whole world, and she was mine.

That imprints on your heart and it's permanent. Peach and I spent 10 weeks together reinforcing our bond. Indelibly carving the shape of her onto my innermost parts. It's not undoable.

So here's where I start with the crazy woman part. Most of you will read this and think, wow, that's messed up. But those of you who have experienced loss will (hopefully) totally understand. These are the secrets of grieving mothers.

I still hold out hope that she'll come back to me. See, I told you it's crazy. I know in my head she's not coming back, and I know that in fact I'll go to her someday. But on a physical, earthly level. My human body, it doesn't know she's gone, and it still longs to be maternal to her. Part of me is always open to a ten year old girl (or whatever age she'd be at the time) knocking on my door and saying, "there was a mix up, I didn't actually die, and now I'm home". My arms remain warm and prepared for the huge hug I'll need to give to make up for lost time.

My body still throws up an error when I do a headcount of my kids to make sure everyone is buckled in their car seats and the number comes up correct, yet there's one missing. It sends my whole feedback system off its loop.

Sometimes I hear a little girl voice call out, "Mummy?" and it doesn't sound like Kaya or Lana or Zoe, and for a split second, I think it must be her. For a split second, my body begins loading that huge-make-up-time hug into my arms, and then my brain informs my body that the hug will not be required, she's not here and won't ever be. Which causes an aching. A physical, very real aching.

When strangers ask how many kids I have, I have to stand and count them. Because my innate reaction is to say 6. But my head knows that's not right, so I get back an error message. I look stupid to the stranger while I deal with my confusion and I count my kids then provide my response to the question. Which usually puts a quick end to the discussion. Because they conclude that I'm a bit of a crazy woman. And I guess they're right.