I don’t have any pictures for today but I know we rang in the new year watching Return of the King, and you really can’t celebrate the start of a new year any better way than that. We had some sparkling apple and grape cider. Also, during the celebratory clinking of glasses (while the movie was on pause) I realized that the reason our Dyson hand vac wasn’t working was because the charger hadn’t been plugged into the wall. My dad TRIED to convey that, but I thought he meant the vac wasn’t plugged into the charger, so I plugged it into the charger overnight and it still wasn’t working. I followed every DAGGONE troubleshooting tip Dyson had to offer, including painstakingly cleaning the entire thing out with q-tips. I was upset because I knew we were not going to be paying to replace such a thing, and I might have had some choice words when I realized what the problem had been. Ah well.
Anyway, I feel compelled to say as I make this post that 2011 was not my best year. Aaron’s surgery and Mara’s death? Come on universe, give me a break.
I am thankful for Aaron’s successful surgery and his continued health. He was a light in the darkest of times in the weeks after Mara died. An anchor to reality who still has needs that must be met, and a reminder of happy things in our lives. I will admit that the first few days, while I was still numb, I did not feel joy even around Aaron, took no joy in him, and that was something that frightened and shamed me. I know now that it was temporary, and I have felt the familiar heart bursting sensation of loving parental pride on a regular basis for the past three months.
My love for him grows stronger as I watch his sensitive soul deal with the loss of his baby sister. My dear, dear son, who sees me start to cry many times a week, comes over, takes off my glasses and brings me a tissue. He wants to comfort me, and says, “Don’t cry Mommy, baby sister died when she was coming out of your tummy. Her heart just stopped and we don’t know why.” He asks to have a few flowers in his room every time we go to buy a new purple bouquet and says he wants them in his room so he can think about baby sister, too. He sees pictures of angels and says, “there’s my baby sister,” and he knows that there are some things that trigger my sadness. He has become comfortable with grief, and with talking about it. I feel that this is the greatest gift I have given my son, an emotional vocabulary and the self-assurance to talk about how he is feeling without being afraid or ashamed. I will be quite satisfied with that legacy.