When my confidence is shaken and the doubt creeps in,
I find my way to the beach.
It’s here, with my toes gripping the sand, the salty breeze on my face and the crashing waves drowning out the noise in my head that I am grounded.
Life continues to amaze.
Despite the unexpected twists and turns, the ocean and nearly full moon visible at dusk remain.
No matter what is happening inland or in my head, I can always escape here.
Just the moon and me.
Aside from the 37 hour labor, 11 days past her due date, she really was almost too easy, as a baby. She was 16 months before she walked; instead, she happily sat on any surface and entertained herself with her surroundings- be that toys, people or pine straw.
I should’ve known.
It was 30 hours into labor when my midwife looked at me and announced:
“This is not your story to tell.”
Time stopped. My heart stopped. My tears flowed.
Aurora had two cords wrapped around her neck at birth, delaying her arrival for good reason.
My midwife looked me dead in my eyes to tell me when to push, when to pause and suddenly, urgently, when, with a roar, to give it my all.
From the beginning, my daughter and I have challenged one another.
Now, the tween years- the ones everyone before me has warned of.
I fruitlessly planned for Aurora’s birth.
I refuse to plan for these next days.
Instead, I meet her where she is, each day.
Just like her birth, it’s not easy.
It never was.
We cry, we argue, we admit our mistakes and we hug.
It’s exhausting and rewarding.
My girl has been stubborn from the beginning.
But with good reason.
It’s her story to tell.
Not mine.
I should’ve known.
She was uncharacteristically angry. Snapping at her sisters with venom dripping from her teeth.
Emmett and I looked at one another, eyes wide, silently wondering, “What in the actual hell?”
We chalked it up to stress before a big gymnastics meet. Perhaps she was feeling anxious.
But her seething anger seeped from every crevice until finally, I took her aside and asked, “What is going on?”
And that’s when the dam of tears broke. She broke.
“I’M SAD ABOUT OREO!”
Ohhhhhhhhh. Yes. This makes a lot more sense, now.
6 family members. 1 loss.
So many different coping mechanisms.
Those that grieve obviously and openly (me).
Those that grieve and move forward.
And those that bury and try to cope without ever fully addressing it.
“Harper, trying to contain your grief without openly releasing it is like trying to contain your exploding slime. It will find its way out of its container.”
I encouraged her to write but she didn’t want to. “It will make me sad.”
But you already are sad.
Days later, she finally relented.
She put on the sad music and allowed herself to get washed away in the flood of anguish that is losing a beloved pet.
It’s too soon to know how much it helped but a writer myself, I know it couldn’t have hurt.
6 family members. 1 loss.
So many different coping mechanisms.
We break.
New Leaf Parenting 