When I got the email, and it was a beautiful passage about parenthood, about parent’s being commited to a life of worry because we love our children so deeply. For a moment I thought my grandmother sent it to me because I am a parent. It felt wonderful, she does think of Evan and acknowledges I am a parent. Sure no one talks about it anymore, but she sent me this email, so that means she is recognizing my parent-hood right?
Wrong 😦 the next thing I noticed is that she sent it to everyone in her address book even those who don’t have or do not want to have children. For they too are children and have caused worry to their parents. However, just for a second, I wanted to feel like a mom in the presence of my family. I like how that feels. Me=Mother.
It’s tough to carry a child to term, to give birth and then to have them fade away, leaving none to remember them clearly except their mommy and daddy. It’s tough. I want to be part of the parent’s club. I want to say "yes I know" when my co-workers talk about the turmoils of pregnancy and parenthood. All I can say is "Someday I truly hope to be kept up all night long by a screaming child."
I want to get a patch for the back of my denim jacket. Not one that say Panthera or Motley Crue, but rather, Mother to an Angel. I dream of the day when society openly acknowledges stillbirth and infant loss and we can talk about it in polite company rather then living in the shadows and feeling like a pariah. The day when I can keep a picture of Evan on my desk without people being afraid of me, or disturbed by the fact that although intact and perfect, he is not pink and living. I will keep dreaming, because once the dreams are gone there will be nothing left.