To My Son

Dear Son,

You, my third child, will arrive in less than two months. Your big sister, Caroline, is anxiously awaiting your arrival, and your dad and I are working feverishly to get our house ready for you. Once again, our lives will change when you get here.

Four of us will experience life together, but we are a family of five. You have an older brother who died. You are the only member of our family who will never get to meet him. Our family talks about him all the time, so I think you will always know he is part of us. I don't envision a big, sit-down talk where we tell you that you have an older brother named Weston.

You are expected to arrive right around Weston's birthday. In fact, there is a chance the two of you will share a birthday. If so, I hope it creates a special bond between the two of you.

Parents have hopes, dreams, and fears for their children, even before they are born. After losing your brother, my list of hopes and dreams for you is pretty short: I want you to live longer than me and your dad. I want you to know you are always loved, no matter what. There are more, but those are the two big ones.

And, fears. That list has gotten longer. It is one of many changes in moms and dads who lose children. Now, though, I just want to address one fear.

I fear that there are already heavy, heavy expectations placed on you.

I am elated that you will be joining our family. The thought of meeting you for the first time, smelling your sweet newborn smell, finally holding you, and watching you grow fills my heart with a joy that you cannot even imagine.

Weston died when he was three weeks old. He will not grow up. The two of you will not play together. And that fact makes me very, very sad. Weston's absence has left a hole in my heart that will never be filled as long as I am alive.

My fear is that YOU, my second son, are expected to fill the hole in my heart. Thankfully, no one has suggested that you will replace Weston (what an insult to both of you). But I am afraid that your arrival in our lives will be characterized as a cure for my sadness and grief over Weston.

I feel joy every day. Your big sister and your dad bring joy to my life. Now, feeling you kick, preparing your room, and imagining my day-to-day life with you in it bring me joy as well.

But I am also sad every day. Because I always think about Weston, and he is not here, so I miss him terribly. As a mother, I cannot help but carry all three of you in my heart, constantly. I could no more stop thinking about the three of you than I could make my heart stop beating.

So the key is this: it is possible to feel abundant joy and overwhelming sadness at the same time.

Trying to "cure" my sadness is an impossible task. It is unfair to ask such a thing of both you and your big sister. When you see my sadness over your brother (and you will), please do not ever think that you need to make it go away. That is the heavy expectation that I will never place on you.

You will learn that two seemingly opposite states of being-joy and grief-can coexist. They do not cancel each other out. But as long as we love someone who is not here, we experience grief. And joy does not invalidate or eliminate grief. They are yin and yang. In fact, I would argue that we cannot fully experience either state of being without the other.

You are not Weston, so you do not need to fill a Weston-shaped hole. You are not a cure for my grief. You are my third child, my second son, the baby of our family. That is and always will be enough for me. You are a gift from God.

I love you,
Mom