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.
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.
I can’t admit to a silver lining because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to reverse the sudden loss of our beloved pet.
But surely, I can recognize that in this time of deep grief and loss, our friends and family have surprised and overwhelmed us with great love.
Oreo passed away the first night we were out of town. The news shook us and so did the minute we returned to an empty home ten days later.
Grief consumed us the second we walked in-he wasn’t where we expected him to be.
Instead, flowers were.
Multiple bouquets of flowers, homemade cards and gifts greeted us, softening the deafening blow of his absence.
In the weeks that followed, gifts continued to arrive- garden statues, grave markers, sun-catchers and a light memorial that we look at every. single. day.
It’s no silver-lining. I wouldn’t trade this support for the life of our rabbit.
But it sure is nice to know we aren’t alone in our grief;
That our friends truly understand the depth of our loss and are brave-enough to acknowledge it.
Anyone who has lost someone will tell you that grief is non-linear.
Some days you realize it’s been several hours since you thought of your loved one which then triggers a new wave of sadness, realizing how the passing time has shaped your grief.
Grief surprises my family at any point, all throughout any regular day.
Nights are the most challenging, when my daughters lie down to sleep and miss their bunny brother.
Walking into the living room to see the empty fireplace where he sat upon his throne is hardest for me. And the other morning before school, when I went to grab a glass bowl out of the cupboard and realized it was the one we used as his water dish. I openly wept.
I had to correct my husband, someone who has never owned a pet before, when he referenced the point in time when we would “get over” our loss of Oreo.
No.
That’s simply not how grief works.
You never, ever “get over” the loss.
Instead, I recently came across an article about grief as a ball in a box that contains a pain button. In the beginning, the ball is large and almost always triggers the pain but in time, the ball gets smaller, hitting that grief button less often. Still, the intensity of the pain of the loss never dulls. It’s as if it just happened, no matter how much time has passed.
When we first heard the shocking, tragic news, I encouraged my girls to grieve openly. Not to hide. Suppressing only prolongs. We wailed and howled. Each girl took turns collapsing into my arms; sometimes, I held all four at once. We were away from home and we were broken.
Others nearby thought a close human family member must have died. When they learned it was “just” our rabbit, they were relieved and had a hard time understanding the intensity and duration of our sadness.
“I’m sorry our grief makes you uncomfortable.” I quickly retorted.
But I will never apologize for the open expression of our sadness.
“You don’t get to tell me about “sad”.” -Taylor Swift “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?”
I wish I could but I never will forget the supreme loneliness I felt as a child.
And I suppose that is why, as an adult, I feel so committed to seeing children.
Physical presence is not enough.
Neither is saying “I care.”
It’s action.
Before I took the pills that landed me in the hospital, before I stood on the edge of the balcony threatening to jump, I cut myself as a way to ease the pain.
I was 12 years old.
So, when my daughter exhibits signs of distress,
I take her seriously.
When minimal interventions (intentional time together, changes to routine, etc.) fail to work, I take action: therapy, medication.
It’s a well-known fact that we have a tendency to over-correct.
I just wonder how many of us recognize when we are doing it.
I did when it came time to create the annual “Gift of Time” envelopes for my girls.
A few years ago, in an effort to guarantee one-on-one time with mom or dad, I gifted each girl a stack of 12 envelopes- one for each month. Inside, a card with an activity they could choose to do with just mom or dad- no sisters.
We were drowning with the responsibility of caring for our health-challenged youngest, not to mention juggling four young kids. The Gift of Time ensured we got that one-on-one time with each daughter.
But, year-after-year, it turned into expectation.
When they opened the envelope and it was a trip to the library or a bike ride, instead of the bowling alley or putt-putt, they were crestfallen.
I realized I was creating presumptuous monsters, instead of appreciated moments.
So, I’ve paused. Reevaluating.
Sure, I want that precious time but at what cost?
I spent my adulthood wishing I’d had a closer relationship with my mother, when I was a child.
But what if my children rely too much on their parents to feel satiated?
Is it possible that I’m setting them up for failure? A childhood so idyllic, it’s difficult to replicate? Is that a crime?
I’ve parented long enough to become comfortable in the gray- the not knowing the next step.
New Leaf Parenting 