I ordered a Christmas stocking for Weston last week, and it came in the mail today. There were so many choices, but I was immediately drawn to the white one. It is beautiful. I can't wait to hang it on the fireplace mantel I wrote about here, which is now in our possession and sitting on our living room floor.
It is ironic that white, of all colors, represents these beautiful babies. White is such an impractical color for a newborn (and a baby, toddler, preschooler...a kid in general!). I wish more than anything that Weston was around to trash all of the white things in his path.
A good friend gave me some gifts last week that she had planned to give me when Weston was born. She has reminded me of the gifts from time to time, but I couldn't bear to take them until last week, when I went to borrow something from her. Weston's gift is a beautiful, knitted WHITE blanket. It is perfect, delicate and pristine, just like Weston. I will make sure it always stays that way.
It has been said that we idealize the dead. In our minds, if they had lived, they would have been perfect. In the case of a small child, they would have never had leaky diapers, cried all night, thrown tantrums, hit their siblings, etc. And if they happened to live long enough to do all of those normal things that babies and toddlers do, we forget about them.
Weston most certainly would have done all of the above. (He did have a few leaky diapers. They made my day.) And Caroline does or did do them. Except hit her sibling: she no longer has a sibling to hit. I would give anything for the opportunity to smack her brother across the face. But is it really idealizing our children if we only concentrate on the good times? I don't look back at Caroline's newborn period and concentrate on the sleepless nights or explosive poop; I remember that she could curl up with her entire body on my chest or in my lap. I remember being unable to sleep, not because she was crying, but because I couldn't tear myself away from staring at her beautiful face. I remember seeing her smile for the first time. I remember hearing her laugh and say "Mama." I remember snuggling with her at all hours of the night. Even the explosive poop reminded me that everything was working internally.
I remember perfection. And when I think of Weston, I will think of perfection and purity...forever. That is the least I can do for him. I am not going to measure Caroline against him, but he was a perfect little soul. Knowing him has profoundly changed me more than anything else ever will.
Caroline is three. Three is a challenging age. But I will not complain. She is the most precious gift, and I am blessed beyond measure to be her mother. As I write this, it is 9:30 pm, and she has been in and out of bed since she went to bed at 8:00. But, when I look back on today, I will think about our scooter ride around the neighborhood (which made her say, "I so sighted!"), the giant hug she gave me after her nap, and this face when I went to pick her up from the gym childcare room:
And look at these perfect feet:
Was he special? Did I love him more-more than his sister []?...Death has picked him out, not love. Death has made him special...When I give thanks, I mention all [my children]; when I lament, I mention only him. Wounded love is special love, special in its wound.
~Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son at 59
What beautiful photos. I've got such a soft spot for feet. Weston's are beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThe quote at the end of your post is so nice, too. I'm a babylost Mom, too, 3 and 1/2 months out, also with a living child, almost 3 years old. Lately I've been thinking so much about the nature of love and loss and how they intermingle and impact each other. I know the loss deepens the love, for the lost, and for those still living. I hate that I know this, and what it took to learn it.