Our new life begins

It is now over a week since the memorial service for Noah.  My mother stayed with us for a month, arriving shortly before Noah’s death.  The ceremony and her departure seem like markers on the road that leads us away from the hospital, the trauma and the death, into a new phase of life. Days are unpredictable and I find myself surprised by the emotions that greet me hour-to-hour. 

As Ethan grows and changes, we find new things to marvel at and be happy about.  Already, his little character shines through – a tough little man who knows what he wants and is willing to fight to get it, if needed.  He tussles with us while we interrupt his feeds to burp him, swinging his arms and arguing in his little baby language about the pause in his meal.  

make with the bottle or the finger is mine!

Ethan and Thom are quite pair of men.  When we can’t resist Ethan’s cries, Thom takes him into bed, allowing him to sleep curled up on his chest.  They both snore away and resist any attempt from me to wake them up, even for feeds.  They happily snuggle and pass gas in their sleep, farting in harmony.  They are really only separated by the amount of costume changes, as Thom won’t change unless absolutely needed while Ethan’s day typically has more costume changes than a Madonna concert.  However, he has little choice over these, being enforced by me after some kind of baby mess, puke or pee.

Then times strike when I am consumed by sadness.  Longing for Noah.  To know where he is and to somehow be with him.  I cry in the shower nearly every day.  It is a rare time alone, where memories find me.  Certain sights and sensations stick in my brain, like the feeling of Noah’s hand on that final night.  I have dreams that he is still alive and is returned to us, but we are unprepared and have to make do in odd ways, like carrying him around in a shopping bag as the buggy doesn’t have space.  I try to keep the realizations about life and love that he gave me in mind, but the often daily struggles sabotage me.  People tell us we are coping well, but we have no idea what that means.

I know that everything will change.  I don’t know how I will feel next month, next year, but that somehow I will deal with that, too.  I’m figuring out that the human heart can harbor two opposite feelings at once.  Both the sadness and the joy pull at me to give into them completely, but I can hold them both.  Letting go of the sadness seems a disservice to Noah, while the joy is owed to Ethan and all the little ways he encourages me and makes life new.  For now, I think I need both feelings, despite the conflict. 

As I write, Thom cooks.  Ethan snoozes after a mini-baby massage from me.  Flowers from Noah’s memorial fragrance the air.  Strange and sad and wonderful all at once.