Ugly cry

I thought I was past the ugly cry stage.

Ugly cry is a term I need to credit to my friend, Miranda. It is an incredibly accurate description of the soul ripping uncontrollable sobs that bubble up from your gut and bring you to your knees leaving you red-faced, headsore, and achingly empty.

Today, teary and upset for irrational reasons, I let a mug of coffee I was reheating slip and spill all over the microwave. Then the ugly cry came.

"I'm sorry," I sobbed to Lou as I cried on his shoulder. "I thought I was done with this."

It's OK, he told me, hugging me. Shhhh... Let it come.

Other moms told me it would hit me sometimes, for no good reason, impossible to predict. Other moms who had lost their babies,  too. Turns out they were right.

"Lift me up," demanded Shea. "I want to see the spill."

I showered. I retreated to bed. Friends came,  a playdate for Shea,  and I couldn't leave the bed. I'll make excuses for you,  Lou reassured me.

It's ok to stay in bed some days,  the other moms told me.

Not with a three year old,  I joked,  thinking that doesn't apply to me. I'm ok now. They were right. Bed feels good. A place to escape and cry and be sad.

I know I should get up. It's a sunny day. I should eat. I should meet our guests. But I don't want to. My pillow is soft and the world is hard.

Shea has come up to nap with me. I cuddle next to him and sing him the same lullabies I sang to Harper and wish we could just stay here in this moment.