There's nothing strong about me...

I just want the whole damn thing to be a nightmare. A horrible, endless nightmare.
So I can wake up in the morning and not be missing a baby.

I just want the whole thing to be some awful story that I made up.
So I can not feel...this. This awful pain that no one else can see. That no one else can feel. Deeper than the stitches. More intense than swollen, leaky, baseball tight boobs.

The closer the service gets and the further away from his birthday it gets, the more it becomes real. And life just keeps rolling by.

The boys keep us busy as does the planning and prep for Saturday. There are a few things we have yet to do that must get done. And we are trying to shower the boys with as much attention--and routine-- as we can. There are things I find myself not wanting to forget about both of them. Mostly everything, if I'm honest. But little things... Like that Kipton must fall asleep holding his empty cup tucked in or under his left arm. And that Aiden, when engrossed in what he's doing, will absent mindedly start singing Old MacDonald. That they both are so genuinely happy almost all the time. Granted, when they aren't happy, NONE of us are happy. There are some trying moments in our house. The boundary-seeker older brother and the boundary-destroyer younger brother. And I wonder what Everett would've been like. How he would've fit in. What crazy little thing I would want to remember about him.

I've been accused a lot lately of being strong. And I laugh. Really. I laugh. Because I'm doing everything wrong. I have moved and/or walked around since my epidural wore off just enough to get me somewhat steady. I focused on what I thought everyone else needed because it was easier than facing my own misery. I openly yell at God, fully aware of my humanity and my "non right" to do so... And do it anyway. I have a million fears when I'm "supposed" to simply rest in "the peace that passes understanding". I wonder and doubt the "point" of this story I'm telling. Living.

So because my brain thinks in strange ways, I was mulling over all of the "strong" sentiments, wrestling with my ability to simply trust and Be Still (Ex 14:14) and I thought as I turned into Target... Strong? Only if it means Struggling To Rest On Needing God. Jesus tells us that is what I should be doing.(Matt 5) Resting in God. For we will be comforted. For we will inherent the Kingdom of Heaven. And I think sometimes... I'd rather not be comforted BECAUSE I'D RATHER NOT BE MOURNING!! And sometimes I think SCREW THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.... I just want my little boy back. I just want my baby. I just.... I just want another few minutes. Please. Just a little bit longer. Please... Just a few....

And there's nothing strong about any of that. There's nothing strong about me.

I'm just a mommy who wants to remember everything I possibly can about all of my boys. I want to remember all of my poor mothering moments so that I can change. So that I can be a better Mommy. I want to remember the shining moments on ordinary days. I want to remember how hard and how painful losing Everett is...because it is somehow proof that I love him. And I know it is not true. I know there is more to remembering Everett that the pain. I will remember Kipton LOVING Everett. PopPop weeping tears onto his blanket. Gigi touching his face, tears streaming down hers. Papa's voice cracking as he said Goodbye...and that Everett looked like a Graham. Grandma holding him, letting the rest of the world disappear around her. Aiden looking. Thinking. Then Thursday on a Mommy-Son date, walking outside at school and sitting down at "brover's rock" and chatting for a "lil bit" And later our conversation over pink (strawberry) yogurt about Mommy's big belly now being little. And Everett not living with us. Unforgettable, wonderful moments.

There are some beautiful moments that have happened because of Everett. There are some happy, joyful moments. There are some moments that are heart wrenching. And I don't want to forget any of them. Even the ugly ones. The weak ones. Because I know that in these moments of my honesty in how I feel...in dealing with what floats in my head and sits in my heart, I find something I would have never otherwise known. Comfort. Peace. Hope. But I can't know the fullness of those things if I don't confront the pain.

So I will remember his life. And I will remember how my family loved him. And how the 42 weeks 6 days he spent with me changed every fiber of my being. Bringing me to the lowest points of myself on many occasions, simply to find the tears of Jesus. The Hand of Jesus. To help me stand up. Or simply give me strength to weep.

I still want the whole damn thing to be fiction. A made up story.

But this is life. This is my life. And I get to choose how I see it.