Remembering Seth...

I wrote this two years ago, on what would have been Seth's 10th birthday.

I am sharing it today, remebering his 12th birthday.

I am grateful that I had him in my life.  I am grateful I do not cry everyday anymore.  I am grateful I can smil when I think about him.  I am grateful for the two amazing children I live with and love every day that share his DNA.   I am grateful I can talk to others and hopefully help.  I am grateful for love.



AN ELITE MEMBERSHIP

I am a woman. That alone is enough to keep half the people out of the sub-set. I am also a mother, so a smaller group still. But then there is an "elite" group to which I belong, whose membership comes with every wish that I did not belong to it at all. It is the group of mothers who have immediate and unaltering knowledge that babies die. Their babies. My baby. Not the news report kind of dying, with a deep sigh at the loss. But the world-has-just-come-to-an-end-and-I-am-at-the-center kind of dying. Dead, before they took a breath. Still. Quiet.

My son Seth would have been ten years old today, February 8, 2011. All the positive thoughts of love and energy, and sadness that grandparents feel, and the wishes of the people I hold dear raining on me with the softness of a summer shower quiets my breath, and stills my heart. I feel it. All that goodness that lives in my life. I get that others feel sadness today, too. They all get to remember the excitement of a new baby, the tingling you get when you know someone you love is pregnant and hopeful, and all of the potential, each with their own kind of pain and loss when all that is suddenly pulled out from under them, like a rug. More like a trap door really, because there is a kind of free fall first, before they hit the bottom. For those in that "potential" group, the tumble is quick, the hit is hard, and there are others who also fell waiting to help you up.

Then there is my elite membership. The one I get by myself. The one that says I know he lived. I felt the little hiccup flutters, and the need to pee. I heard his heartbeat on a little staticy machine. I felt the kicks in the middle of the night, and voiced my annoyance at not being able to sleep, secretly thrilled that this little being picked me to be his mother. I would have plenty of time to get back at him later, with homework, and timeouts, and embarrassing pictures of him naked in the bathtub to show to his girlfriend right before the prom. He would play baseball, and love Barbie clothes, since truthfully, I call him HE now, but then I did not know for sure his gender. It did not matter. I would dress him in red and feed him graham crackers and build blanket forts and read him Harry Potter and Winnie the Pooh. He would know how to change the oil in the car. He would like neon colored band-aids. He could be tricked into drinking his milk if I gave it to him in a cup with a swirly straw, because everything tastes better through a swirly straw. He would like fish sticks.

I talked to him quietly, this baby in my belly. He could already make me cry with my ache to hold him, meet him, start the second phase of our existence together when my voice did not sound underwater to him, and his kicks would be playful under the fluffy white blanket I already had in the crib in the freshly-painted nursery.

Today, I will pick up Seth's brother and sister from school early, and we will go get balloons. Ten of them. We will take Sharpie markers and write love notes on each one while we sit in the car. We will drive to the beach, and release them all at once, and sit, with our toes in the sand and watch them drift away until we can't see them anymore. We will play at the beach, write wave wishes in the sand with an old piece of driftwood, and laugh. We will go get icecream. Four dishes. One for each of us, and one for us to share that would have been Seth's. We will argue about what kinds of toppings Seth would have liked, Haysten thinking that he needed more cookie dough, Mariah thinking he needed more candy, me, just wanting the whipped cream. We will laugh at that, too. We will have invited their dad to come with us, celebrate his son's life. He won't, but we have learned to let that go like the balloons.

I am part of an elite group. At the ten year mark, I still want my membership revoked.

Hand cramps and thought jewelry

What do normal people think about?

I mean, here I am having a conversation with myself about what to write down.  Do I write it in pencil or pen? Do I skip straight to the computer? If I do write it in pencil, do I erase or scratch out so if I needed the thought again later I would still have it, right there, all written down for me already?  And when writing in long hand instead of typing what kind of paper do I use? Do I even have any lined paper? Yes.  Get some from your ten-year-old’s notebook.  Don’t tell her you went into her room.  Wow, the room is messy.  Walk away, walk away.

All this while wondering why I am bothering to search.  I have nothing to write anyway.  Seems the only time I try to write lately is when everything gets all glued together in a giant jumble just needing to be sorted out. Like a tangle of necklaces at the bottom of the jewelry box.  The whole mass of chains, where no matter which strand I start with, I eventually follow the lead to a huge knot, all wrapped and snared with other strands, that I don’t have any clue where it is going.

My thoughts are like that today, and consequently, so is my writing.  Forgive me now, and know that I sincerely hope there is a some kind of conclusion to this madness, but sorta doubt it.  You are forewarned to stop reading now.  Do people really think like this?  Damn, we are all doomed.

I have been thinking a lot lately about a man I ran into the other day. I have known him since we were about 8, and we played baseball together growing up.  He wrote his phone number on my glove one time back then.  Years after, his then-girlfriend saw the phone number on my glove and she hit me.  I beat the crap out of her before finding out why she had punched me in the first place.  She got suspended for starting a fight, and I used the phone number on the glove to call the boy and tell him his girlfriend was retarded. (Yes, not politically correct, but I was 12, sue me)  They stayed a couple about another week if I remember, some junior high record I am sure, before they broke up forever and he and I were allowed to be friends again.  We kissed each other once, the Christmas we were both 17. I still remember how it tasted.

If he were to read this blog now, he would know it was him I was thinking and writing about in these wandering thoughts immediately.  At least I think he would.  Maybe not though, and since he probably will never see it, I could probably get away with admitting that in that tangled hot mess of thoughts have been lots about him.  Him dressed.  Him naked. Him at the beach, in my bed, flying a plane.  It is one of my current favorite thoughts actually.

And while I have been thinking about him in various, um, scenarios, I have also been thinking about remodeling my bathroom. A really awesome orange color on one wall with the rest a crisp white.  Sorta retro-modern.  Heated stone floors.

But that thought gives way to thoughts about a good friend.  Worried about him as work stress (involving having to deal with a suicide) makes for people he barely knows relying on him for more than his fair share.  I miss seeing him smile. And my thoughts become angry because I know there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

I think about my kids a lot.  My daughter is competing in the spelling bee, thinks her hair is weird, and is concerned she will not make any friends in middle school.  It is only 8 months away.  She is already counting it down.  I worry that she is missing the joy of fifth grade in the process.

Back to the boy for minute.  I really liked his moustache and goatee. And the salt and pepper color on his temples. And that he drinks coffee.

My son has been sleeping a bunch.  A combo of illness and a growth-spurt that put him in bed at 6:30 last night.  I think he is going to be tall.  Damn, I think I will have to buy him some more shoes.

Surprisingly, my ex hasn’t been hovering constantly (or much at all actually) in my thoughts.   I would think he would get some more air time considering he is about to begin divorce proceedings from his third wife, and un-amazingly they are both blaming me and my kids for their breakup But I am already bored with his drama so the thought usually go away pretty quickly.  He got a paragraph, whoo hoo.

Other thoughts in the cue:  Sesquesestration is a really long word for meaning I might be without a job for 22 days this year.  No work, no pay.

I think I could supplement my income by being a writer.  Note to self, start finding freelance work. Second note to self, start submitting manuscripts.

I like the taste of greenish bananas but I hate peeling them.  I bet my son could invent something so I wouldn’t have to do that.

Tight jeans look really good on fit 46-year-old men. Especially ones I have had a crush on for 30 plus years.

I really should have typed this to begin with.  My hand is cramping.  My thoughts are wandering.  Did I learn cursive in the fourth grade?  I really should take a refresher course.

I just looked up.  It is dark outside.  Does that happen that fast every day?  When was the last time I watched a sunset?

Maybe normal people do think this stuff and I am the only one crazy enough to write it in a public blog.  Not much coherent thought today, but I warned you. .  Not much coherent thought today, but I warned you. Normal is overrated. You feel more put together now, right? My job is done.