This has been one of those weeks.
On Sunday, I held two babies who were born in January, the same month Ander was born. One, a friend’s full term baby – she had her the day before Ander died. I got the group text message with the birth announcement the morning he went into cardiac arrest. I kept getting group congratulations in the hours after my son’s death. The other baby was my colleague’s adopted daughter. I loved holding those babies, but it was bittersweet. Ander would have been smaller, as a preemie, but he would be the same age.
On Monday, while out jogging a three mile loop, we passed seven babies in strollers. SEVEN. I noticed. I counted.
On Tuesday and Wednesday, my Facebook feed was flooded by two friends who got to take babies home from the hospital. Two little boys, healthy and whole.
Today, I found out two of my cousins are expecting this fall. That makes baby #2 for one and #3 for the other, grandchild #3 for one Aunt and grandchild #7 for the other. Still no living baby for me, no living grandchild for my parents. One cousin is older than I, one younger. Not that that should matter, but you know my obsession with my age, and time, so it matters to me.
It’s been one of those weeks when I try so hard not to be bitter, and angry, and hurt. When I have to remind myself over and over that it’s not my fault that my parents are grandchild-less. When I wish my Aunts were more sensitive during these announcements. When I’m so insanely jealous, and it’s hard to keep it at bay. When I have to tell myself again and again to enjoy my life now, to take advantage of what I’m able to do, to live in the moment.
And I do try. I attended my second roller derby clinic this week. We’re going to see James Taylor tonight. We’re running in a 5K on Saturday, and following that we’re going on a two-day camping trip. I have a softball game, and a figure skating lesson. I’m trying, but some weeks, it doesn’t feel like I’m succeeding.