So, I'm changing the name and URL of this blog. If you want to keep up with Ellie's (and my) adventures, please join us at Chronicles of the Teensy One, http://theteensyone.blogspot.com/.
See you there!
11 August 2010
AWOL
My camera has gone missing. This makes me very sad. Hopefully it'll return soon, so I won't have to write thousand-word descriptions of how ridiculously cute Ellie is when covered in peas.
In the meantime, here's one from the archives:
In the meantime, here's one from the archives:
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| Five days old |
08 August 2010
(still Abigail's birthday)
This morning I woke up and Eleanor was watching me, her little face a few inches from mine, her eyes full of hope and love and the expectation of how much fun we would have together today. I couldn't help but smile. I feel so lucky to have her. I am glad that I can at least appreciate what an incredible, amazing gift she is. It doesn't make me miss her sister any less, but it does help me to remember that the sun keeps rising and setting and there's a whole big life out there that I have to go and live. I may as well take as much joy as I can in it. Abigail's birthday
Two years ago, I was lying in a hospital bed, watching the John Adams HBO series and waiting for the Cytotec to kick in. The day before, I had been told that my daughter was dead, but now she needed to be born.
I didn't get much sleep that night. I was numb, in shock, trying to just keep focused on the next thing I needed to do to get through. There was no way out but through. I kept telling myself that.
Really, I didn't totally believe the doctor. Part of me, a desperate, completely illogical part of me, thought that when I finally gave birth to my daughter she would come out screaming after all, that it would prove to be a horrible mistake and everything would be fine and she would look into my eyes and I'd look into hers and we would be together.
But it didn't happen like that. When she finally slid out - all too easy, a silent, limp, five and a half pounds - I gasped for air, but she didn't. My husband cradled my head against his chest and said, "Don't look yet, honey." I didn't. I didn't want to know what they were doing to clean her up, my poor darling daughter, my firstborn child, my baby.
She was dead. Nothing will ever, ever bring her back. Even now, sometimes, I cannot believe it.
They cleaned her up and wrapped her up and put a little knitted hat on her. I guess they cleaned me up, too, I don't really remember what happened between when she was born and when she was put into my arms, a solid bundle, heavy, so still. I clutched her to me like if I loved her enough, her heart would start beating again. I tried to memorize her face, her too-white face, her beautiful lips, the shape of her nose.
She is ashes now.
I couldn't bear to give the ashes to the earth and sky. We hiked up one of the foothills after we collected her tiny, achingly small marble urn from the funeral home, but I couldn't stand to let her go. We just kept the urn in the backpack and carried it back down the mountain to our house. Abigail rests in peace on our mantel, with the little certificate they gave us with her footprints on it. That is all that I have left, that and her baby blanket that my mom's friend had crocheted - for a living baby, she'd thought, that was the plan - yes, and a few photographs that I can hardly bear to look at now.
After her birth, I looked at them all the time, dozens of times a day. I just remember waking every morning, clutching the baby blanket in my arms, and knowing, the moment I awoke, that I would have to live through another day without her.
The days got easier, slowly. Not because my grief subsided; it still rages under my surface, sometimes deep, sometimes close, threatening to burst. No, the days got easier as I began to learn to bury my grief, as I realized I could not survive in this world if I did not begin to turn away from it.
Grief is cruel; it is as harsh as can be; it flays you alive and raw. I felt like the walking wounded, scarred, handicapped. I carried my daughter's death like a twisted-sideways limp, only you had to know where to look in order to see it.
I still feel scarred, although like all scars, it's fading with time. I imagine it clearly: a long, thick welt twisting vertically through my soul, top to bottom.
I think if I hadn't had another child, my daughter who lived, that my grief would have destroyed me in the end. Every baby I saw was a reminder: my body had killed my child. I had conceived her, I had created her cell by cell, and then I killed her, and if I had just done one of a dozen things differently, she might be alive today. I could be preparing for a half-dozen two-year-olds coming over to the house and be wrapping presents while she sleeps soundly in the next room, her round little stomach rising and falling with each precious breath. I could have a cake all planned out, or cupcakes, even.
I never in a thousand years could've imagined she would die. It didn't even occur to me that it was possible. And for that, because of my ignorance, I thought I could wait until my next doctor's visit when I was worried she wasn't moving enough. And so, it is my fault she is dead. It is my own fault I never got to look in her eyes, or hear her voice. I will never get to hold my daughter in my arms again, but I will carry that guilt for the rest of my life.
Christ, how I miss her. I still hold her, fiercely, in my heart. I always will. It is the only place left where we can still be together.
I wrote a lot of poetry those first few weeks. Most of it is not fit to share, but these two are my favorites. If you're my friend, you may have already read them on my other blog.
Songs for Abigail: III
It’s rained every day since you died.
As if the world weeps with us
and the clouds could swaddle our grief.
An empty place in the world
echoes with your absence
the space where you should be, and aren’t.
I can almost feel on my pinky finger
where your grip should curl, and surprise me
with its strength. But your hand lies motionless.
It is hard to believe our hearts can keep beating
when yours is silent forever.
That was not the miracle I expected from your birth.
Songs for Abigail: VI
Still the bells and muffle the drums;
with solemn step the parents come.
With weeping hearts and lowered eyes
they curse the day that Abigail died.
Let the trees shed their leaves in the summer field
Let the autumn harvest refuse to yield
Let the birds fold their wings and forsake the sky
The world must be broken, that Abigail could die.
Tell the mourners in a somber throng
To quiet their cries and swallow their song
Let the silence beg the question why,
of all that is possible, Abigail should die.
Stop the waves on the ocean’s shore
Stop the seasons’ changes evermore
Stop the sun in its eternal sky
Let the world mourn that Abigail has died.
I didn't get much sleep that night. I was numb, in shock, trying to just keep focused on the next thing I needed to do to get through. There was no way out but through. I kept telling myself that.
Really, I didn't totally believe the doctor. Part of me, a desperate, completely illogical part of me, thought that when I finally gave birth to my daughter she would come out screaming after all, that it would prove to be a horrible mistake and everything would be fine and she would look into my eyes and I'd look into hers and we would be together.
But it didn't happen like that. When she finally slid out - all too easy, a silent, limp, five and a half pounds - I gasped for air, but she didn't. My husband cradled my head against his chest and said, "Don't look yet, honey." I didn't. I didn't want to know what they were doing to clean her up, my poor darling daughter, my firstborn child, my baby.
She was dead. Nothing will ever, ever bring her back. Even now, sometimes, I cannot believe it.
They cleaned her up and wrapped her up and put a little knitted hat on her. I guess they cleaned me up, too, I don't really remember what happened between when she was born and when she was put into my arms, a solid bundle, heavy, so still. I clutched her to me like if I loved her enough, her heart would start beating again. I tried to memorize her face, her too-white face, her beautiful lips, the shape of her nose.
She is ashes now.
I couldn't bear to give the ashes to the earth and sky. We hiked up one of the foothills after we collected her tiny, achingly small marble urn from the funeral home, but I couldn't stand to let her go. We just kept the urn in the backpack and carried it back down the mountain to our house. Abigail rests in peace on our mantel, with the little certificate they gave us with her footprints on it. That is all that I have left, that and her baby blanket that my mom's friend had crocheted - for a living baby, she'd thought, that was the plan - yes, and a few photographs that I can hardly bear to look at now.
After her birth, I looked at them all the time, dozens of times a day. I just remember waking every morning, clutching the baby blanket in my arms, and knowing, the moment I awoke, that I would have to live through another day without her.
The days got easier, slowly. Not because my grief subsided; it still rages under my surface, sometimes deep, sometimes close, threatening to burst. No, the days got easier as I began to learn to bury my grief, as I realized I could not survive in this world if I did not begin to turn away from it.
Grief is cruel; it is as harsh as can be; it flays you alive and raw. I felt like the walking wounded, scarred, handicapped. I carried my daughter's death like a twisted-sideways limp, only you had to know where to look in order to see it.
I still feel scarred, although like all scars, it's fading with time. I imagine it clearly: a long, thick welt twisting vertically through my soul, top to bottom.
I think if I hadn't had another child, my daughter who lived, that my grief would have destroyed me in the end. Every baby I saw was a reminder: my body had killed my child. I had conceived her, I had created her cell by cell, and then I killed her, and if I had just done one of a dozen things differently, she might be alive today. I could be preparing for a half-dozen two-year-olds coming over to the house and be wrapping presents while she sleeps soundly in the next room, her round little stomach rising and falling with each precious breath. I could have a cake all planned out, or cupcakes, even.
I never in a thousand years could've imagined she would die. It didn't even occur to me that it was possible. And for that, because of my ignorance, I thought I could wait until my next doctor's visit when I was worried she wasn't moving enough. And so, it is my fault she is dead. It is my own fault I never got to look in her eyes, or hear her voice. I will never get to hold my daughter in my arms again, but I will carry that guilt for the rest of my life.
Christ, how I miss her. I still hold her, fiercely, in my heart. I always will. It is the only place left where we can still be together.
I wrote a lot of poetry those first few weeks. Most of it is not fit to share, but these two are my favorites. If you're my friend, you may have already read them on my other blog.
Songs for Abigail: III
It’s rained every day since you died.
As if the world weeps with us
and the clouds could swaddle our grief.
An empty place in the world
echoes with your absence
the space where you should be, and aren’t.
I can almost feel on my pinky finger
where your grip should curl, and surprise me
with its strength. But your hand lies motionless.
It is hard to believe our hearts can keep beating
when yours is silent forever.
That was not the miracle I expected from your birth.
Songs for Abigail: VI
Still the bells and muffle the drums;
with solemn step the parents come.
With weeping hearts and lowered eyes
they curse the day that Abigail died.
Let the trees shed their leaves in the summer field
Let the autumn harvest refuse to yield
Let the birds fold their wings and forsake the sky
The world must be broken, that Abigail could die.
Tell the mourners in a somber throng
To quiet their cries and swallow their song
Let the silence beg the question why,
of all that is possible, Abigail should die.
Stop the waves on the ocean’s shore
Stop the seasons’ changes evermore
Stop the sun in its eternal sky
Let the world mourn that Abigail has died.
06 August 2010
all checked up
We took Ellie in for her six-month check-up today. The doc said she looks "awesome." Perceptive doctor! (Okay, she may have been referring to Ellie's health, but I'd like to take the comment in a more general sense.)
She weighs 15 lbs, 4 oz - almost exactly double her birth weight. She's 25 and a half inches long (she's grown an inch and a half in two months o.O) and her head is 42 cm in circumference. She's right at 50th percentile, as she has been, except in height she's between 50th and 75th percentile.
And she is hilarious. She's got such a personality; she cracks us up all the time. She finds us quite entertaining as well. She's starting to sit up really well now, which is exciting. The doctor thought she'd be crawling really soon, although she said some kids never do the hands-and-knees traditional crawl - they crawl Army-style or do the inchworm, which is basically what Ellie's doing now (though I've been calling it the caterpillar).
We took a six-month picture with Mr. Bear, who was given to Ellie at her baby shower. She's basically the same size he is now. I remember when she got him, he seemed HUGE.
She weighs 15 lbs, 4 oz - almost exactly double her birth weight. She's 25 and a half inches long (she's grown an inch and a half in two months o.O) and her head is 42 cm in circumference. She's right at 50th percentile, as she has been, except in height she's between 50th and 75th percentile.
And she is hilarious. She's got such a personality; she cracks us up all the time. She finds us quite entertaining as well. She's starting to sit up really well now, which is exciting. The doctor thought she'd be crawling really soon, although she said some kids never do the hands-and-knees traditional crawl - they crawl Army-style or do the inchworm, which is basically what Ellie's doing now (though I've been calling it the caterpillar).
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| Three weeks |
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| One month (the "Hitler 'do") |
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| Six months |
04 August 2010
full contact.
Well, THAT was fun.
I'm so pleased that my daughter shares my belief in food as a full contact sport.
I'm so pleased that my daughter shares my belief in food as a full contact sport. She, in turn, was delighted to make the acquaintance of sweet potatoes for the first time this evening.
Hee hee.
watermelon & sunshine
Also, a little office humor (if anyone can tell me how to rotate the video so it's not sideways, I'd be most grateful):
31 July 2010
holy guacamole
Okay, this is the kind of shit I can't post on Facebook for fear of ending up on STFU, Parents.
We gave Ellie avocado (mashed up and mixed with breastmilk) over the last couple days. It was hilarious. Given the whole push-food-out reflex that she still has, at times it looked like a lot like she was eating Slimer.
When I feed her, I use the trick of having two spoons, so she can play with one while I reload the other. This worked great with rice cereal and oatmeal, but she was unwilling to relinquish either spoon when it came to the avocado.
But the important thing is how much fun we were having. And we were having a LOT of fun.
We gave Ellie avocado (mashed up and mixed with breastmilk) over the last couple days. It was hilarious. Given the whole push-food-out reflex that she still has, at times it looked like a lot like she was eating Slimer.
28 July 2010
the jumperoo jig
This is one of about eight videos I took this morning of Ellie dancing jigs in her jumperoo. She has so much fun with it, I could film her all morning.
I think at less-than-six-months she's already a better dancer than I am - not a terribly difficult accomplishment. : )
I think at less-than-six-months she's already a better dancer than I am - not a terribly difficult accomplishment. : )
24 July 2010
geeking out
Sometimes I find myself staring at my daughter as she sleeps, and realize I have a humongous, goofy grin on my face. What can I say, love makes fools of us all.
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