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XXXii

Hi, Mom,

You died two years ago this morning. Valentine’s Day 2016. While you were dying, I was lying in bed, posting a photo of your two granddaughters to Instagram. I wrote about love in the ways I understood it at that time:
Celebrating love that brings a pig in the house in -17 degree weather, that shares brand new sticker books with younger siblings, that brings joy and anticipation despite searing pelvic floor discomfort, that shampoos away skunk spray, that tolerates Cheerio farts, that permits nachos for dinner (every once and awhile), and that looks like the stuff of everyday life but is what keeps this whole thing together. 

And while all of those sentiments are still true, through my grief, I have come to understand love in its darker, more complicated forms. I’ve been writing essay after essay about your death, my grief, and the love found in all the broken spaces. This one I feel ready to share. I dream of such an essay one day gracing the pages of “Modern Love.” But I’m not there yet. For now, these inadequate words will have to suffice as I continue to do the work and navigate life in The After.

I miss you. I hate this day and all that it represents, and yet, I feel a more deep and honest understanding of love in the wake of your death. I am a better person for it. What a cruel and stunning truth.

143 Your Ashley

A Literal Shitstorm

For my mother’s 65th birthday, our family gathered in Saratoga Springs, New York, home of her alma mater, Skidmore College. My father arrived with my mother after a lengthy car trip from their home on Cape Cod, and my elementary-school aged daughters greeted them with great enthusiasm.

“Can I hold Momar?,” inquired my Kindergartener. My father obliged, and my child proceeded to skip down the streets of Saratoga with her grandmother safely concealed in a small Rubbermaid container. I watched on with a mix of amusement and dread, envisioning the stumbles of my child and a stiff breeze as a recipe for disaster under these particular circumstances.  

“Don’t worry,” my father chuckled, recognizing the potential calamity, “there’s plenty more of her back at the house.”

My father is a scientist, and for him, practicality and efficiency reign supreme. Naturally, the kitchen tupperware was the most secure method of transport for my mother’s ashes. Dignified? Perhaps not. But certainly safe, and certainly amusing, though I could picture my mother’s heavy eye roll in response to being treated so casually. But I hadn’t been on the receiving end of such admonishments in over a year.

Admittedly, I can recall the mix of annoyance and humor that accompanied her reprimands, as our final conversation the evening prior to her death was of this nature.  We lived in Vermont, and the weather was predicted to fall below zero degrees. My mother, who was visiting the next day, called to insist we bring our household’s potbellied pig inside for the night. She didn’t want to find frozen pork in our barn. Potbellied pigs are Vietnamese, she reminded me, and couldn’t be expected to tolerate a harsh Vermont winter.

Despite this lighthearted conversation, my mother died hours later, suddenly, unexpectedly, in the arms of my father, her husband of 42 years, in their bed on Valentine’s Day morning.

When my father called to relay the news, my husband was elbow deep in pig shit, as Penelope Pig had had her morning constitutional all over our kitchen floor. And seeing as I was nine months pregnant at the time, he’d offered to handle the clean-up. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he muttered sarcastically moments before the phone began to ring.

The painful clichés of this entire experience do not escape me. A Valentine’s Day death in the arms of one’s soulmate. The loss of life on the brink of welcoming another. Our kitchen floor covered in animal feces as the universe dropped the most extreme load on our household.

This couldn’t possibly be real. It was all too contrived. Too movie-scripted in its staging. And yet, there I was, expeditiously unmothered.

Death from a theoretical perspective is serious in its contemplation. It is unknowable and inevitable and universal, which make it all the more complex.

The lived experience of grief is, of course, all these things. It is marked by a pain I can only equate to the deepest, most intense moments of labor. That visceral, unhinged agony that accompanies giving life and letting life go is fittingly synonymous, two realities I faced cruelly side by side. Grief is traumatic in all the somber, serious ways one anticipates.

And yet, the evening of my mother’s death, my husband and I found ourselves huddled over the bath tub scrubbing pig poop from the coats of our two large retrievers. In the hysteria following my father’s phone call, my husband had flung our swine’s droppings onto the back deck, and our dogs had gleefully rolled in the tempting excrement. As I hefted my 37 week pregnant body into the tub, and swore and pleaded and gagged in response to my dogs’ disgusting life choices, the heavy fog of shock and emotional turmoil briefly lifted.  James and I found ourselves in fits of uncontrollable laughter, a display of levity in the face of this calamitous day.

On the face of it, cleaning up poop in a bathtub while pregnant on the eve of your mother’s untimely death feels like an unnecessarily cruel reminder of life plowing unrelentingly ahead. And yet, the ability to still find humor in such a preposterous state of affairs, even on one’s darkest day, was deeply reassuring. To feel laughter, and that momentary reminder of the joy that makes the loss of life worth grieving, provided hope.

“Mom would be so appalled that instead of donning a dramatic black gown for the next year in a show of mourning, I’ll be covered in baby poop, spit up, and spoiled breastmilk, likely wearing a stained nursing bra and mesh underwear, ” I mused to my husband through a mix of laughter and grief-induced tears.

My mother was the kind of person who swooned over the story of her grandmother covering her grandfather’s grave in a blanket of fresh roses while wearing black for an entire year. While an elegant mourning dress would convey the seriousness and drama of death and the blanket of roses would certainly pay tribute to my mother’s passion for flowers, the five day old sweatpants and soiled t-shirt were a much more authentic display of the work of grief in the face of life moving unforgivingly forward. And my mother never wanted a grave, so the floral covering was a truly superfluous consideration.

I couldn’t fathom how I would mother without my own mother a phone call or car ride away for support and encouragement. I heard her loving voice reminding me this was all just a phase. This time would pass, and it wouldn’t feel so debilitating and all-consuming weeks, months, or years from now. She had said this when I was puddled on the floor of my bathroom, my oldest daughter wailing in the adjoining nursery at 6 weeks of age. I’d called her weeping I wasn’t cut out for parenting. She’d gently reassured me, “You can do this.”

While my love for her and grief over her death will never subside, I’m learning, a year into this process, that it evolves and shifts. The notion that time heals all things is utter bullshit. But time does allow for growth and adaption. Time permits balance and gentleness and forgiveness, with the world and oneself. And it has a way of stripping life down to its most essential parts.

Love presents itself in all of its messiest, purest, unfiltered forms in the aftermath of death. My son was born, three weeks to the day, following my mother’s passing. While I had had relatively uneventful, smooth deliveries with my two older children, my son’s labor was predictably fraught.  Fortunately, baby remained healthy and strong despite the upheaval of its incubator.

With the love and presence of my dearest family and friends, I made it to ten centimeters. With three strong, determined pushes, I brought my son into the world. He pooped on arrival, a fitting tribute to my mother and the trajectory of our story.

I held my newborn to my chest, the sticky meconium further binding us together in those final moments before my midwife cut the umbilical cord. My third birth, and yet for the first time, I envisioned my mother similarly cradling me during my first breaths. I beheld the fragility and power of new life, the sweet half strawberry nose of my mother atop my son’s face, the mystery and universality of it all. Grief ushered in an even deeper gratitude for this life, a grace and gentleness previously unknown. One of the many surprising gifts found in such heartbreak.

Shortly after his birth, I developed an infection that resulted in days of extremely high fever.  We couldn’t figure out the cause, and the postpartum realities combined with my grief were only further confusing the situation. As James ran through symptoms and potential causes over the phone once again with my doctor, I mumbled through a feverish haze, “I think I saw some white spots in my poop. Could that be something?” We were desperate for answers and some relief from the 104 degree reading on the thermometer. We scheduled an appointment for the next day, and I agreed to provide a stool sample.

That evening, when I had a bowel movement, I asked James to bring me gloves and a container. I lay down on the floor of the bathroom, the tiles cooling my feverish cheeks, and promptly fell asleep alongside the toilet bowl. When I awoke, James was once again elbow deep in shit, this time my own. As he went to transfer my excrement into household Rubbermaid, he inspected it closely, carefully considering  these white spots of which I spoke.

“Oh my God, Ashley. That is oatmeal. That is oatmeal from all the damn lactation cookies you’ve been eating.”

Apparently, we did not need to provide a stool sample. A sneaky case of mastitis was slow to show its most notable symptoms, but by the morning, I was on a heavy dose of antibiotics, and the dynamics of my marriage had forever changed.

I knew how much my husband loved me. I had experienced his caregiving and support in unmatched capacities over the course of that three weeks following my mother’s death. But I had no concept of the unwavering depths of his love until I witnessed him literally holding my own shit in his hands. In a month’s time, the death of my mother, the birth of my son, and the caregiving of my husband had tested my own capacities for love. And, more significantly, I had experienced the intensity and scope of how I was loved in return.

And with the strength of that love, we continue to make our way through grief. In death, love shows itself most boldly. In the Kindergartener skipping through the streets with her grandmother in Tupperware. With dogs covered in pig shit. In meconium-coated newborn toes. With a husband picking through his wife’s feces in a quest for answers. While it may not be terribly dignified or romantic, it is what makes death such a worthy, formidable adversary.We carry the light and the dark, the joy and the pain, as all humans do.

A year following my mother’s death, we approached her freshmen dormitory, now a residential apartment building. My father suggested that we scatter a few of my mother’s ashes over the gardens out front. “Momar can feed the flowers,” he told my daughters. “She would love that, because flowers were here favorite thing. Besides us, of course,” responded my Kindergartener. As residents strode in and out of the building, caught up in the rhythm of their daily lives, my family stood around an ordinary rose bush, and through tears, we smiled.

All this shit is compost for the future. And I’ll always see my mother in the flowers.

March 7, 2016

I. One year ago today, labor began in earnest. After three weeks of false starts and grief induced contractions, an ugly fall on some ice followed by a day spent monitored in L&D, contractions finally began to come regularly and powerfully. It was time to welcome this new life as I grappled with the loss of one of my most dear.

I remember a day at home, worrying and laboring in the quiet of my bedroom, the place that had become my sanctuary during the scariest moments of my grief. I watched “Song of the Sea” with my girls, rocking and breathing on a yoga ball. The mother whispers to her child, “Remember me in your stories and in your songs. Know that I will always love you, always.” Tears streamed down my face in recognition.

The house was full of anticipation and yearning. My father’s watchful eye. The strong, assertive kicks from within. We all craved the arrival of this baby as a distraction, a celebration, a reminder of joy. And yet, his very arrival signaled the fierce reality of time plowing relentlessly ahead. While a part of my heart is forever trapped in February 14, 2016, this baby would not allow me to wholly stay stuck.

James and I departed for the hospital earlier than we would have under normal circumstances. But my world was upside down and nothing felt normal. How could I welcome my child into a world without my mother? So we headed for the security and comfort of my midwives who were an integral piece of my survival team during that hideous three week purgatory. I needed their presence and reassurance. I could do this, even without my mother. I could do this. I would do this.

II. After my mother’s death, I spoke at length with my midwives and James about how we were going to get me through labor and delivery.

The deepest, darkest, hardest moments of my grief were akin to the deepest, darkest, hardest moments of labor. That visceral, uncontrollable pain I’d only ever experienced while giving life and letting life go. It was terrifying and utterly breathtaking in its magnitude. I worried about how I would manage in the face of the two slamming together at the height of labor.

We decided that an epidural upon arrival at the hospital would allow me to not be so focused on the physical pain. I could have as many friends and family and caregivers in the room with me as I needed to help distract from the emotional pain as I dilated to baby’s arrival. While I’d always been anxious about the thought of a needle in my spin, I agreed that given the circumstances, this was the best plan.

And so, shortly upon admission to L&D, the chief of anesthesiology administered the epidural.

III. My right side went numb quickly. I lay on my left to try to help the medicine distribute more evenly throughout both sides of my body. I did not like feeling so disembodied, so disconnected from what was happening inside me.

My doula and James tried to get me to focus on my breathing. I was okay. The numbness and tingling were normal.

We waited for my sister and dear friend to arrive.

It was 7pm. I was dilated to 4. My cervix had some work to do.

IV. I kept waving my arms in the air like a fool to reassure myself that I was indeed still connected and in control of my body. My right arm was feeling numb and that made me feel frantic and worried that something was not right.

Everyone reassured me that I was okay. I was doing great. So I threw my arms in the air and willed myself to believe them.

V. Kimmy arrived. She told me the girls were happily sleeping and my dad was curled up with his phone by his side.

Somehow the Universe would align such that she would be present for the birth of all three of my children.

VI. I told Kimmy that I did not like the epidural. Why was my whole body so numb and tingly? I was feeling scared.

The nurses checked everything. My vitals were normal. Baby’s vitals were normal. I was progressing well. We were doing great.

Breath, Ashley, breath.

VII. Kimmy, James and my doula settled into chairs across from me. We talked quietly as the sound of baby’s heartbeat pulsed in the background.

It had been two hours since I’d received the epidural, and I had dilated to 6. Things were moving along. Everyone was assembled.

I suddenly felt horribly nauseous and lightheaded. I called James over to my side.

VIII. I came to with the strong, urgent words of my midwife echoing in the room. “Ashley, I need you to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.” There was a sea of faces around me. James and Kimmy clutching my hand. An oxygen mask on my face. The stench of vomit in the air. My midwife’s hands inside of me. And nurses scurrying about.

I have absolutely no memory of the two minutes prior to that moment. As James relayed the story later, I had gone unconscious shortly after calling him over, and seized and vomited. My midwife had come flying in the room assuming I had dilated to 10 and baby’s imminent arrival had caused me to faint. I was still at 6cm, and despite passing out, baby’s vitals had stayed steady during the whole episode.
I was in a panic. How could I have no memory of what had just happened? How had my sister handled that moment on the heels of my mother’s sudden death? Why had it happened?

I wanted the baby out. I did not want to die. I hated the epidural. I wanted my mother. Everything felt completely out of control and overwhelming.

As I whispered over and over, “I don’t want to die. I just want my mom. I don’t want to die like her,” the nurses cleaned me up and tried to get me to relax and breath into the oxygen mask.

The anesthesiologist returned and was not happy that this had happened. He either wanted the baby out or the epidural off. He couldn’t explain what had just happened so thought it best to stop it.

And this is where I applaud and champion midwife care because Amy, my midwife who had held me every single day of my grief, coaching me to this very moment, stood by my side and said to the anesthesiologist and me, “Ashley has had a lot going on. She just needed to check out for a moment. I will be by her side every moment for the rest of this labor, and if it happens again, baby comes out and epidural is done. But I think her mind just needed a break. She’s back. And baby is doing awesome.” And with that, the anesthesiologist left. And I got my very numb feet back under me.

IX. Turns out, a panic attack can do quite a number on a person in the throes of labor and grief.

I’m so grateful I had a skilled, experienced ally and advocate by my side caring for me and my baby in that moment. I am forever indebted for the thoughtful, informed, sensitive care that I received from my midwives during that three weeks and the weeks following. I could not overstate their import.

X. Only minutes after that episode, I’m smiling. I can’t believe I was smiling, but this is where my gratitude for my amazing friend and talented photographer Kate comes into play. Her images of that evening and these moments are a concrete reminder of my own strength and the resilience of the human spirit.

XI. And with the arrival of my dear friend Geraldine, the last of my birth team had arrived. And with that scary moment behind me, and my anxiety subsiding, we settled in for the final hours of waiting.

XII. This is love. This is support. This is how you keep going.

XIII. This is where hashtagsquadgoals feels appropriate. These humans, these unbelievable humans, who held me in my grief and laughed with me in my joy, they are who dragged me through that purgatory and out the other side. They are my family.

XIV. Since I didn’t like the continued numbness from the epidural, there was a rotating crew of “feet rockers” whose job it was to simply keep their leg pressed against the bottom of my foot and allow me to rock them back and forth. It was grounding. And comforting. And kept me connected to my body and that moment to avoid further anxiety or panic.

XV. Interestingly, despite not feeling any pain from the contractions, I instinctively lifted the oxygen mask to my face any time I was experiencing one. I wouldn’t know it at the time, but then the monitors would confirm that I was indeed mid-contraction. So while I was less connected to what was happening inside my body than I was for my previous two births, this was a small reminder that I was still very much present with my body and baby.

XVI. For a few hours, I was able to settle in to the scene I’d imagined when I thought about this baby’s birth. Talking. Laughing. Contentedly anticipating the arrival of my child with those I love.

XVII. And then, shortly after 1am, I hit 10cm. With three strong, determined pushes, I brought my son in to the world.

He pooped on arrival, so we were both coated in a sticky, black goo.

He arrived sunny side up, like his eldest sister, and so made a squished face appearance to those present.

James announced he was a boy, and with that he was placed on my chest.

XVIII. Hello, sweet baby. Welcome, Sanderling.

XIX. I cannot adequately capture the range of emotions I experienced in those first moments with this boy. The relief. The gratitude. The love. The sorrow. The joy. The beauty. The exhaustion. The exultation.

He brought a part of me back to myself.

XX. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, “and I know she is too.”

XXI. The “I fucking did it” face

XXII. “He has mom’s nose.”

XXIII. Team Sanderling.

XXIV. And like that, we were parents of three.

XXV. Father and son.

XXVI. Meconium toes. Strawberry blonde hair. 9lbs of squish.

XXVII. Born March 7, 2016 at 1:11am. 9lbs 1oz. 20 inches long.

XXVIII. Healthy. Safe. Here. That is all I had been wanting. It was all I needed in that moment. My anchor in the storm.

XXIX. “He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.” Happy Birth Day, my sweet boy. We are so glad you’re here.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

That’s how I’ve felt about this space since my last post in early July.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

There has been so much. So much change. So much transition. So many moving parts these past six months that, recently, the thought of attempting to capture them here has felt daunting, not therapeutic. Overwhelming, instead of celebratory.

Since I last posted, we’ve found new homes for Penelope Pig and our flock of chickens, as part of a much larger picture to simplify our lives and conflicting demands of time and energy.

We’ve spent a full week of summer vacation on Cape Cod without my mother. It was filled with beach lounging, ocean swimming, bridge jumping, corn on the cob eating, movie watching, sand castle building, sand island playing, and sunset boat cruising. So much time in the water and sun. With family. And there was so much joy and memory making, and yet everything is diminished by her absence. Forever, diminished.

We packed up and sold Cartwheel Farm. A decision not easily made, but solidified when we found buyers in under 72 hours of listing. In the name of simplicity and convenience, we needed to let go of our dear farmette. We had to say goodbye to the place where I buried my sweet Ursa, where I last saw and held my mother, the last home in which she ever knew me living

We weathered a week of homelessness in sending the dogs and girls off to my in-laws, while James, Sanderling and I relied on the hospitality of friends, and mentally prepped for our move into our new home.

We moved into our little village, walking distance to school and work and daycare, and most significantly, loved ones, our support network. Upon filling our 1875 Colonial with all of our worldly possessions, James and the girls boarded a boat to Bermuda with their Bermudian great-grandmother and Sanderling and I flew over and met them island-side. A tropical, gorgeous, breathtaking break from our chaotic reality back home.

Sander became a teething, squawky five month old. Courtland turned into a Kindergarten-ready five year old. We marked six months of life without my mother’s.

And now, I sit here typing with breast pumps attached to my chest as I attempt to physically and mentally and emotionally prepare for Sander’s introduction to daycare tomorrow morning. The first of my children to be sent to full time daycare before age one, and a symbolic demarcation of all that has changed in such a short period of time. From the beginning, he has been my anchor, and the thought of being apart from him for an extended period makes my gut turn with nausea. I’m not sure how to weather a day without him by my side, providing perspective and comfort and presence. It is a necessary step in my grief as we prepare for my return to work in September, but for now, I feel raw and exposed and unsettled. I know that he will be fine, social butterfly that he is. It is me about whom I’m concerned.

Last night, I had my first visceral, ugly, hysterical outburst of grief in months. I screamed and sobbed and moaned, “I don’t want to do this any more. Please, I just don’t want to do this anymore.”

And by that I mean, I don’t want to exist in a world without my mother another day, another second. I want this grief to be over. I want this hurt to stop. I want this world without her to no longer be my reality.

Well, I don’t care about life insurance at the moment, but it actually helped us a lot in spite of everything. My mother always told me that the average costs of life insurance is super low and that one day that would help me. now that she is no longer at last I understand her. I love her from a distance and I respect her for teaching me to lead my life.

The foreverness of it undoes me. Trying to make sense of forever, to wrap my head around that, is so physically devastating that my whole body aches and yearns and mourns. I need my mom. I just need my mom.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

I was called to return to this space thanks to a beautiful, loving email sent by a fellow member of the Dead Parent Club (one of the shittiest clubs to join). It was a reminder that these words can be helpful, not just for me, but for others who are navigating a similar devastating forever.

I may not want to do this anymore, but I can. And I will.

Preschool Graduation

Courtland graduated from preschool two weeks ago, and it was as adorable and as heartwarming as one expects such things to be. She wore the dress that Sunny wore to her preschool graduation, a gift from my mother. They sang songs, including a tune in Spanish, as they’ve been taking weekly lessons from a classmate’s mother all year. Courtland, ever our performer, was so very enthusiastic about the chance to sing for a crowd.

Our little bear is all ready for Kindergarten!

^^Her siblings dressed in their finest for the occasion.^^

Sander Smiles

When he smiles, I smile. When I smile, he smiles. And it is the best possible therapy on a rainy grey Sunday.

Resilience

When you spend your days tethered to a nursing and/or napping newborn, you wind up taking a heck of a lot of selfies to capture all that delicious squish.
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I’m definitely feeling sadder this week than I’ve felt since my mom’s death 10 weeks ago. The shock has worn off. The baby is safely and healthfully here. I’ve weathered her memorial and our birthdays. And now, I’m settling into a routine. And processing a normalcy without her. And that has peeled back a new layer of grief.So I spend mornings lying in bed nursing and snuggling. I go to yoga class. I see my therapist. I take my medications (that I started shortly before Sander was born preempting the postpartum depression my midwives knew was coming given the devastating circumstances). Learn about the best CBD flower and Freshbros’ full spectrum cbd distillate and how it can help you with your depression and anxiety on this site. I go on long hikes with the dogs. I meet friends for coffee and laughter. I cry. I read extra stories to the girls at night. I write. I hold James close. I watch trashy TV. I stick my face in the sunshine and use again my favorite cbd products from budpop.com to help me keep relaxed. I delight in baby smiles. I document. I remember. I love.

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We don’t talk honestly or openly about loss in our society. The vulnerability and permanence, instability and unknowing make us wary and scared. But I must be candid to survive it. And I must do all these other things in the name of self care and thus being a stronger parent to my children, partner to my husband, and loving friend and family member.

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Birth and death are the most universal elements of humanity, and we can be carried and supported and elevated by the candor and experience of others as we each find our way through these deeply personal, complex life moments. Thank you to all those that have been brave and shared their truth with me. The human spirit is far more resilient than I ever imagined.

Sanderling // Four Weeks

Today, Sanderling is four weeks old. And I could write a tome about the onslaught of time, and how quickly his newborn stage has flown, but instead I’m going to curl right back up on the couch with my baby pressed against my chest, inhaling all that infant sweetness, and living in the moment with him, because that is the best way for me to enjoy and remember.

I have really and truly found myself settling in to moments and finding peace in the way time moves with a newborn. We accomplish so little by every day standards, and yet our days are full of so much. So much love, and bonding, and connection, and learning. And I am grateful for every second in the face of my grief. I’ve spent less time recording it, and more time being present for it.

One day I’ll write his birth story. Or share our pictures from Easter. Or write more about my mother and my grief and our life in The After. But maybe I won’t. And that’s okay, too. I’m willing gentleness on myself, as it is what I need most of all.

In these photos, Sander is wearing a French outfit from my babyhood. I wish my mother could have seen this little “mouton” in what she chose for her own babies 30 years ago. I wish for so many things, but am finding comfort in what I do have in the face of all those unfulfilled wishes.

Sanderling // Three Weeks

Sweet Sanderling is already three weeks old. And here he is right before waking up in what James and I have dubbed the “co-waker.” He’d been snoozing for a long period, and I needed to nurse, so we turned to our co-sleeper to rouse him (for whatever reason, he seems to wake up immediately upon being placed in it). Which means, this child has spent all of his sleeping hours pressed up against another person and it’s as much for us as it is for him. Such comfort and healing comes from the peace of a sleeping newborn. And this household needs as much of that as we can get.

The co-sleeper has proved to be a handy side table slash method of waking the baby. It is guaranteed to disturb his slumber upon laying him in it. And thus provide adorable staging for scenes such as this.

He is more wakeful now that he’s hit three weeks, and as grunty as ever, demanding nursing or a diaper change with the bleats akin to a baby goat. His sleep has also been more restless, so James and I are feeling particularly zombie-esque. But we know how temporary this time is and know we can survive it. And mostly, we’re all just enjoying how dang sweet and endearing this little love is.

My Three Children

It’s the first holiday weekend without my mother, and we had had plans to be with her on Easter Sunday. Instead, we’re in VT, weathering mud season, and trying to be as low key and low expectations as possible to get me through the weekend. I had a visit from my oldest friend from childhood and her daughters on Friday, and then a visit from my mom’s best friend from childhood on Saturday. It was good, but hard, to be surrounded by people who knew her so well and loved her so much. She meant so much to so many, and while it is so lovely to be reminded of that, it is also so devastating to be reminded of how much we all lost.

The next two months are filled with milestones/holidays/birthdays that are going to be a doozy to confront. I’m trying to face them one at a time. Napping, sunshine, and laughter with my kids are some of the best antidotes (but I’ve got a team of medical professionals helping as well, because I can’t possibly take care of my children if I’m not taking care of myself).

Snuggles with Sander

Everyone wants in on the infant snugs.

We are clearly not enjoying this baby enough… our little grunty babe. He has the most ridiculous grunt that is unlike any noise his big sisters made as infants. And it is hysterical, and endearing, and so deep and low and ridiculous. Usually it comes when he is first waking up, or right before a monster poop. And it is unique to our Sander (at least in the Cart family).

Oh we are just so stupidly in love with this little one. All of us.