Damn You Internet

I came across this article on Facebook this morning, and when I initially clicked the link, I had no idea what the article would be about. The title read, "The Most Powerful Thing You Can Say to Another Mom", and the girl who shared the link simply wrote, "I'm a mom, I know ..." with other mothers chiming in in the comments section about how much they loved the article and how true and beautiful it was. So, of course, I click over hoping to get some kind of sappy pro-mom love message: "you're doing a great job!" "we know it's hard, but you're the best!" .... just the sort of things that I wanted/needed to hear this morning.

The article took me to a different place though. A place of anger and some serious bouts of "WTFs". And I try to stay away from feeding the internet "trolls", if you will, because I know how out of hand these comment sections get sometimes. So, I read the entire article, with the gist being that the writer's friend had just lost her daughter. And after her daughter's death, the writer's friend said to her: "You're a mom, you know." And the writer used this as the platform for the rest of her article -- that somehow, motherhood alone joins us in our experiences. That no matter how different we are, or how different the choices we make for our kids end up being, "it's cool, cause, you know, we're moms!"

Yay, rejoice! No. Just because we're both mothers doesn't make our experiences any more similar. I feel like I'm going off on a Jerry Springer stage, taking off my earrings as a producer holds me back, and yelling, "YOU DON'T KNOW ME!" Motherhood doesn't make us similar or instantaneously bonded just by virtue alone. I felt like screaming to the author, "YOU. DON'T. KNOW!!!!" You will never know, and honestly, I hope people never do. One of the comments said something like, "This is irresponsible blogging." And I couldn't agree more. You can't put a message out there letting people believe that this is the appropriate thing to say to a grieving parent. It's not.

And no, I don't have a magic formula for the "appropriate things" to say. Sometimes, there are no words. Honestly, for me, I appreciated hearing, "I don't know what to say" more than most other things people tried to tell me. And had someone attempted to tell me, "I know how you feel," I might've just gone off ... like this post. That's insulting, because you don't. I did end up leaving a comment (which I usually NEVER do) -- "I guess it's safe to say that, as mothers, we all have different experiences, and we should all respect that. But I know, for me, I wouldn't want another mother to minimize my loss by coming up to me and saying, "I'm a mom, I know." Naw you don't, trust me."

Griefville: Population Me

I have a confession to make about this year so far. I'm already dreading June. I mean, ALOT. It will be five years this year. An unwelcome anniversary.

I was reading over some old posts, and the grief just started bubbling over, welling up in my eyes and forming a knot in the pit of my stomach.

I don't want to be here again. I mean, it's not like Griefville is a place I ever get to leave. It's just, some days are a little more bearable than others.

And this year. Oh, this year. It's already shaping up to be just a thorn in my side.

Hemingway's Six Words

"For Sale: baby shoes, never worn." -Ernest Hemingway

A six-word story? I didn't know they existed. But I read this and thought, "wow, profound". Those six words, they tell an entire story ... one that I feel like I've lived. But in the spirit of brevity, I'll leave this post at that.

Right Where I Am: Four Years

HAPPY 4th BIRTHDAY DYLAN! My dear firstborn, we love and miss you so much. I'm participating in Angie's Right Where I Am project again, and after reading through last year's post, I realize that a lot of the emotions remain the same. I'm still incredibly humbled by those who remember with us, still touched by those who take the time to send a kind word our way. The tears flow a little bit stronger this time of year, the emotions just a little bit more raw than usual.

This year, we welcomed Dylan's newest little sister to the family. Perhaps the emotions were heightened a little by postpartum depression. Both of my daughters now have birthdays in May (Dylan's in June). I texted a friend: "I gotta stop pumping out kids right before the anniversary of my son's death, it's not helping prevent PPD."  I say it in jest, but it's probably true. 

I updated my Facebook status yesterday to say, "Happy Birthday Dylan! Happy 1 Month Vivy! Ahhh, the roller coaster that is motherhood." It's difficult to have a newborn at home in my arms and to be "celebrating" Dylan's birthday. It's like juggling emotions. I keep hearing people say that our newest daughter looks like Dylan. I love hearing his name. Sometimes, it's the little things, you know. Now that our older daughter is 3 and is now officially a BIG sister, she understands what newborns are and she understands that "Baby Dylan" is a part of this family. It's especially lovely to hear her say Dylan's name.

I think the grief at 4 years is a little like this post. It's a all over the place, a little stream-of-consciousness if you will. It resurfaces when you least expect it, in good ways and in bad. Not a day goes by where we don't think about our son. We made our annual birthday donation to the children's hospital. It's good, you know, that we've been able to take this experience and make what we can with it.

"You Got Dealt A Crappy Hand, Now Deal With It!"

Sometimes TV hits so close to home, like art imitating life. I can watch it, and think, "Yea, been there, done that." Nothing like Grey's Anatomy teaching you a few life lessons, or better yet, reinforcing and solidifying what you've already experienced. Last Thursday's episode was no exception. I learned what the medical term "A.N.D" meant . . . Allowing Natural Death. Had a "been there, done that" moment. And then I practically heard Karev yelling, "You got dealt a crappy hand, now deal with it" at ME! The grief seems to bubble back to the surface at the strangest times.