Mish-mash of Thoughts on my Miscarriage

I'm ok. I don't cry every day (anymore) and I don't think I have lost the ability to be truly happy (anymore). In fact, many days, most days, I think I really am happy. Tonight, watching the Tony Awards, I'm pretty darn happy.

So don't worry about that.

One thing I've learned is that babies are everywhere. Little by little, I'm learning not to flinch when I see them (I think I have it down to a couple of fast blinks). It's a weird, weird feeling to get uncomfortable around babies. It's like being uncomfortable around rainbows or flannel blankets. I'm not uncomfortable because they're nasty or ugly, but because they are so heartbreakingly beautiful.

We visited the twins' grave on Memorial Day. Memorial Day morning, I realized that I didn't want to go. I hadn't chosen to be the young mother in the baby section of the cemetery on Memorial Day. But when I got there, I remembered how much I loved cemeteries. There are so many stories engraved in stone, and most of the stories are happy ones. Even the sad stories (five tiny markers in a row for five babies who all died before their first birthday) are filled with love. I was glad I went.

It's amazing, but even though everyone is afraid of saying the wrong thing, not a single person has said the wrong thing (except me). Some people have been so thoughtful that it's made me cry, but that doesn't mean they said the wrong thing. Last week a woman told me that she wanted to spend all day with me on the twins' due date because it would be a hard day and I shouldn't be alone.

I've fallen desperately in love with my little boy. Last week he finally mustered up the courage to let go of the wall in the pool, and dog-paddle out into the middle of the water. He shrieked with delight and shouted, "Mama, look, I'm brave, I'm brave!" pumping his skinny brown legs as fast as he could. My baby, my son.