Good days

Sometimes I read my own blog posts - they make me cry, they make me remember, they remind me how I felt in that Very Hard Moment.

I write as therapy. It makes me feel better and allows me to soften the cutting edge of raw, intense emotion. Writing helps release the tears when I need to cry and vent the anger when I need to scream. It works - I always feel better after putting it all into words.

The downside of that is that this blog never captures the good days. The times in between the bad, the happy parts of the new normal.

And because I was once a mom reading the blogs of other moms, desperate for reassurance, it occurred to me that I should mention there are good days, too.

In fact, these days, the good moments tend to outnumber the bad.

Yesterday was a wonderful day. I awoke to visiting family and Shea adoring his visiting cousins, got in a good workout at the gym, and watched the Nats achieve victory.

I was not completely without thoughts of Harper - I wore my Harper bean shirt. But having her with us in spirit brought only comfort, not sadness.

Odd as it sounds, Harper's death has intensified my happiness with Shea and Lou. Not that they don't still exasperate me from time to time. Shea is, after all, a three year old, and Lou is, well, a husband, and there are times they separately or collectively drive me nuts (as I'm sure I do to them!) And there are still those sad, raw, mourning moments that I need to myself. But when I'm snuggling with my boy, his sweaty curls against my cheek, reading a book or talking about the world around us, playing endless hours of basement baseball, or holding Lou's hand, laughing at something silly, I am much more aware of the moments we have together. They are much more filled with joy than they were Before. I am so very lucky to have such an amazing family. Losing Harper has made me better understand the concept they always try to drill into you at yoga, of being Present, of awareness of the Now, of paying attention to the tiny details of every moment. And those details - the inflection of Shea's voice as he tells me sincerely funny observations, the feel of Lou's beard against my face, the sight of my boy's sturdy legs as he races around - fill me with joy every bit as acute as the pain the memories sometimes bring.

Even as I type this, we are together as a family, Lou and Shea are working on a puzzle, the dogs and cats are curled up sleeping, and the only plans we have for the day are to spend them together.

And I think, yes, this. My life hugs me.