Remembering, forgetting

Soren is like a mushroom from Alice in Wonderland: from one side he helps me remember,  from another to forget.

I forgot the 18th of May. After a year of marking the days of Harper's birth and death,  I was too caught up in the daily effort of caring for Shea and Soren to remember. It was a day for new memories,  not dwelling on the past.

And yet....

I see her,  in the quirk of Soren's pinky finger. I feel her,  in the touch of his soft, shallow hair. I hear her in his squeaks and smell her when he nurses,  breathing in that uniquely baby scent.  I think of her,  in the dark,  pumping milk.  Lou and I are reminded when we see tiny, adorable girls and are reminded of what we'll never have.  This hits Lou especially hard.

There has been a romper missing. A tiny blue outfit that I remember Shea wearing. It's been cold,  and it's one of the few things we have in a newborn size with long sleeves.

I haven't been able to find it.

Until yesterday.

I was cleaning out the closet and ran into the hospital bag. A Vera Bradley bag,  gifted by my office,  for the express purpose of visiting Harper in the hospital. 
It was still mostly packed. Including that tiny romper. And I remembered. I'd packed that little outfit in anticipation of bringing Harper home the next day.  It was soft and the smallest baby suit we owned,  I thought it would be perfect to take her home in.

So much hope encapsulated in that bag.

So much hope encapsulated in Soren.

Last night,  I watched the movie,  Return to Zero. Trying to get it financed was a huge topic of discussion when I was spending time on the loss boards after Harper died. It's about the aftermath of a stillbirth.

It reminded me of all the well meaning but painful things people say to you after you lose a baby.  The anger,  the grief,  the numbness. The difficulty of being around pregnant friends,  babies.  The pain you're pretty sure will never get better.

But I watched it while nursing Soren. His eyes were bright and wide open, the focused stare of a suckling newborn. 

If not for losing Harper,  there would be no Soren. And even after just a couple of weeks,  that is unimaginable.

"Soren bean" Shea calls him.  He is not afraid or self-conscious about connecting Soren to his big sister. To Shea,  they are both his babies. One here,  one gone.

Dear Harper bean,

This feels like goodbye,  little girl.  Not because I will ever forget you,  not because you won't forever be a member of our family. But because this blog was to heal the pain,  to help me survive the madness of losing you.

Soren is a balm for my pain. I don't think I need this blog for therapeutic purposes any more.

I wish I could see all three of you together. Shea,  Harper,  Soren.

Here's hoping that in the far distant future,  there is a soft,  warm bed where we can all snuggle together. 

I love you,  Harper bean. Thank you for letting me be your mommy.