I think about baby loss moms all the time. I think about infertile women, too. I think about them in the grocery store, a place that for months made me squirm and cry and rage. I have a beautiful little baby girl in my cart now, something that only weeks before, had I seen someone else with a baby girl in a cart, would have made me cringe. Other baby loss moms, infertile women, see me and feel a punch in their gut. They can’t see my loss and pain. I guess it just goes to show that you don’t know about the hardships of others just by looking at them.
I think a lot about baby loss moms when I blog. To go from writing almost solely about dealing with the loss of my precious daughter, to suddenly posting cute little baby feet photos and updates on sleep patterns and pediatrician visits, is such a switch. I suppose it’s something like when someone has their rainbow baby. I know it’s not easy to read. I know it’s best not even to look, at times. I’m sorry, truly, in the depths of my being, for the pain that looking at my blog has caused since the arrival of Jo Jo.
I love all of the baby loss moms I follow in the blogosphere. I remember their babies daily. I say their names. Hazel. Willow. Eliza. Avery. Clara. Luke. Finley. Zachary Cooper. Aisley. Margaret. Hudson. Anja. Georgina. Alexander. And so many more that I’m not thinking of at the moment… I picture each baby, perfect little features, growing into toddlers, playing together, reaching for their mommies. I miss them all, in a way. I want them all back.
I stare at my little Jo Jo, marveling at her beauty and sweetness. I know that somewhere out there is a mother who, by some miracle, tempted fate in every way, with drugs and alcohol and who knows what, and still had a healthy, living baby. She beat every single odd, while I, who played it completely safe, who longed to be awake with a crying baby, calming and cuddling her, could not. And that this mother, relinquishing the mothering role, still brought a precious child into my life, in a round about way. So we are connected, this stranger and I, even if she doesn’t know it. We are a certain kind of soul mate. With every day that goes by, I pray to keep Jo Jo. I pray to keep my daughter’s gift. I draw her close to me and breathe her baby smell, and think about how someone as unlucky as me could be so lucky as to be holding this motherless child right now. Two beings, Jo Jo and I, who needed each other in ways few people could understand.