Tonight. This early morning.

I have found myself doing everything but thinking about Everett.  There's a certain amount of guilt, we'll call it overwhelming, that comes with that.  Because I haven't forgotten him.  I just can't devote any time to him because there are so many other things that require me.  And I feel like I'm neglecting him.  Neglecting me.  Because I can't just love him like I should be allowed to.  Talking about him makes people uncomfortable.  Ignoring him makes me uncomfortable.  And so life has this precarious tension of ignoring the 6 lb baby that isn't in the room.  Or the house.  Or at school.

And I find myself missing him.

Wanting him.  Thinking about how he would be rolling over, or trying to.  Thinking about what his smile would look like.  Thinking about Kipton with him.  Aiden with him.  Snuggling him at night or during the day. And all I have is this stupid bear.

This stupid bear that I can't sleep without.  This stupid bear that somehow brings me comfort.  This stupid bear that catches my silent tears.

I find myself overly preoccupied with pregnant patients' OB appointments.  And every pregnant lady that walks by.  I am so blessed to have my two little boys sleeping next to me--one to my right, one to my left- in their Jack-and-Jill rooms, me sitting between them.  I am so thankful for their sweetness.  Their enthusiasm for life.  Their wreckless abandon for life, love, and ice cream.   But I am human.  And I havent figured out the "only feel joy" part of being Christian.

Because I am a mommy who has a dead baby.  So I should be able to be sad.  Especially in the quiet.  I don't share my sadness in person because I don't want your pity.  I don't want your gumbled up words that never come out right.  Because maybe heaven is a better place but that doesn't change the fact that I miss my baby.  That I want to hold him for just another a few minutes.

There are moments of total selfishness that I want to turn back time and not let anyone hold him.  That I don't want to share any of my time.  I wonder if the stress of changing arms constantly tired his lungs even a minute early.  I wonder if not inducing earlier resulted in weaker lungs.  I wonder what we could've done to make it last just a little longer.

I don't need empty reassurances that nothing would've changed things.  I know that.  And I'm glad that his grandparents were able to hold him.  But tonight.  And for the last week.  I'm sad.  And I can't ignore my heart anymore.  I've a million other wonderful and sometimes even funny things to write about, but tonight.

Tonight.  This early morning.  I am sad.

Because I love my little sleeping, snoring beauties so much that I am sitting between their rooms to hear them sleep.  And I miss their brother.  And somehow I feel closer to him when I'm with them.  Life is less painful with them close.  Life is often loud, but it is fun and busy and filled with all sorts of things that roll.  They are light of my world.  They make this life enjoyable.  But.

Tonight.  This early morning.  I am sad.

Because there are times I want to be pregnant again so much I can hardly stand it.  Then I see myself in a mirror.  And I think... I sure as hell don't want to START a pregnancy fat.  Which makes me question my sanity.  Is THAT  a reason not to get pregnant?   But I hate myself right now.  (and please, no comments to attempt to make me feel better-- there is NOTHING you can say that will change how I feel about being fat.  I've been here many times before, was fat as a kid, and fat is not fun, especially when you should have a baby to show for your abdominal roll but instead, all you have is this stupid bear). I hate back fat.  I hate three abdominal rolls of disgustingness.  I hate soggy, saggy, empty, flat boobs.  I hate thunder thighs.  I hate not being able to run 3 miles.  I hate being able to do the same exercises I was doing 5 years ago, but looking like a cirque-ish sea cow on land.  I hate swimsuits.  I hate that somehow  my a$$ is large,  but my boobs are non-existent.  I hate pants that don't fit.  I HATE being fat.  I HATE it.  But worse, I hate that I preoccupy myself with wanting to tell people I had a baby 11 Thursdays ago so they won't think I'm JUST fat.  I hate that I do that to myself.  I hate that I don't want to get pregnant quickly LARGELY because I'm LARGE.  How.  Selfish.  Self centered.  How.  American.

And so I'm sad.  Saddened by the state of my selfishness.  Of my vanity.  Of my pride.  Of my emptiness. Of my humanity.

Because it is my humanity that feels the loss of Everett.  The loss of his lifetime.  The loss of his smile.  His coos.  His chunkiness.  His toothies.  His toesies.  His nose.  His fingers.  His belly.   His first day of high school.  His wedding.

And I suppose if my humanity was more in check and my Christianity more in control, I would see this life through rose colored glasses. I would think only about Everett being perfected in heaven. I would think only about how pretty I looked at church and how many people could see me there, I mean, how I could I serve the church with my time, talents, and money. (my mistake).   I suppose if my faith was stronger I would see me as Jesus sees me: fat and selfish, but still a recipient of his love.

So I'm sad.  And fat.  And I'm ok with that tonight.  Because I am not satisfied with that for a lifetime.

I wonder why we think somehow as Christians sadness is not okay. That constructive self criticism is not okay? That feeling your humanity is not okay?  Doesn't James say it's STUPID to look in the mirror and do nothing about what you see?  To keep going on about your life as if your hair and stench need no attention?  Since when is it ok to be fat and unhealthy?  Since when is it okay to defile your "temple" with excess weight but not any other "body" sin?  And why is any emotion other than joy greeted with scripture references to be only joyful?  There used to be this entire grieving process that was customary and now we hurry people to the "joy comes in the morning" part.  Why can't it be that joy comes FROM the MOURNING?  That is often where we find Jesus.  The real Jesus. Not the church Jesus that forces you to wear a tie and sing songs written in 1879.  The real Jesus. Who extends a hand for comfort.  Who offers a moment of quiet for your pain.  Who cries with you. Who forces you to look into His eyes for your mirror.  Who tells you like it is but loves you anyway.

And as my house sleeps tonight, I rest fitfully in my hallway.  Wrestling through my humanity.  Liste ing to the breathing patterns and dreams of my 2 perfect little boys that I got picked to raise.  Missing my son I will not hold again.
Maybe tomorrow..  In the early morning.  I will be peaceful.  Because in my mourning, I have found a shared tear from my Savior. In my humanity, I have found Jesus.