I haven’t figured out yet how to write here about my new baby boy. His presence in the world has been a balm to many, but it has also hurt others. This is a truth I can’t avoid and can hardly bear.
And his sister is still dead. His birth doesn’t cancel out the loss of her, even if it does bring a new light.
It is very suddenly summer here. We came out of the hospital into warm air, sunshine, days of blue skies. We’ve left another spring behind us, our second without her.
He was born in a bright operating room, full of doctors, residents, anesthesiologists bustling about, joking. They pushed and pulled on my abdomen for a long time. It felt too long and then, suddenly, there he was, held up over the screen for me to see: scrunched up like a frog, his face scrunched up, too, in a sweet scream. There he was. My beautiful boy.
I never truly believed he would be real.
It was all so different than the dim blue room down the hall where she was born so silently, not so very long ago.
If I had a dollar for each time I’ve heard: ‘how perfect: you’ve got one of each;’ ‘clever you! A boy and a girl!’…
He is perfect, yes. It is too much to ask of him to try to make everything else perfect, and it is not fair to not let him be all of the perfection that he is.
I sit and nurse him and listen to the radio. I hear the same songs I heard throughout the last months of my pregnancy and I wonder at how different the world is on this side of April 28. Simple songs hold so much in them, all the love and fear and anxiety and hope. The terrible terrible fear. And now they play and he is here and I sit and marvel at the way the world expands, contracts, and my heart, too.
I have so much to say and am having such a hard time figuring out how to say it.