The Digger Wasp

I am compelled to write right now as I sit in tears after reading a poem I didn't expect to have this effect on me. It's called "The Digger Wasp," from Paul Fleischman's "Joyful Noise, Poems for Two Voices."

The poem is from the point of view of a mother digger wasp who knows that even though her children will never see her, they will know her and know that she loves them. She prepares a nest and food for them, trusting that they will know it was a loving mother who made the preparations.

I just got the book today. I flipped it open to the middle, choosing a random poem to read. I was hit immediately by the first words, "I will never see my children, they will never gaze on me."

I don't think Daniel ever saw me. He did open his eyes while he was being handled by the doctors and nurses, but once he was in my arms, he had closed his eyes and wasn't trying to open them anymore. But I talked to him. I kissed his face and whispered that I loved him. I held him close. I hope that, even though our eyes never met, he could feel his mother's love.

I haven't written much here because I got stuck. I didn't know what to write next. I have decided that an account of the rest of the day he was born would be better kept private. It was a very hard but very important and special day of our lives, and I don't want to share it publicly.

But I do want to keep writing as I feel prompted. When I started this blog, I had big ideas. I wanted it to be a place where I could honor my little boy by telling his story, but also by documenting the ways that I was going to live my life fully and honor his memory. I wanted to tell you all about how I had a new appreciation for a healthy body. Daniel didn't get a chance at life with a healthy body, and I felt like I shouldn't take my healthy body for granted.

And I still feel those things and I want those things, but again, I was stuck. While I do want to maintain a hopeful spirit and share the joys of life and health here, I'm still a grieving mother. Some days I do actually feel really hopeful and happy and like everything is fine and okay and I can do this life and make it a good one, even though it hasn't gone according to my plan. And then there are days when I feel like it's all unfair, but what does "fair" mean anyway? Life isn't fair, right? But doesn't it still seem "unfair" that David and I have to wait so long for our babies and then we lost Daniel? Doesn't it seem "unfair" that we don't know when or if we will have more children?

I have always been able to stay fairly positive when it comes to dealing with friends' and family members' pregnancies. But this week, especially, has been a hard one. It seems like everyone I know is announcing a pregnancy or what gender they are expecting, and everywhere I go it seems like I'm the only one without  a baby in my arms or in my belly. And I always wonder, "What do they think about me?" Do they know that I actually gave birth to a beautiful 10-pound baby boy just months ago? No, they don't. Do they wonder why I only have one (living) child? Do they have theories about my situation? I listen to the other moms at preschool talking about their babies' milestones, wishing I could be part of the conversation but sitting in silence. Daniel would have been about the same age.

Sometimes I wish that I  lived somewhere where it is normal to have one child. It's not normal here, at least in my circles. I shouldn't care that this makes us different, but it's just one more thing that I think about.

I showed this blog to my friend who also lost a baby to TD. I told her I was stuck and that I didn't want to write again until I was in the right frame of mind to make good on the plans I had for it.

She told me to write anyway. That this was real. It takes time to be in that frame of mind, and it's okay that I'm not there yet. I thought that was good advice.