I do not know, really. Or I do. But it hurts to think, talk, write about. And so I don’t. Much.
I’ve been here. But not.
I’ve been grieving. Digesting. Processing. Trying to wrap my head and heart around “moving on”. And coming to terms with my hatred of that phrase.
I’ve been frozen with terror by the persistent though thankfully far less frequent nightmares in which I lose one or the other of my two living children. The mind can be cruel. That much is clear.
I’ve been taking inventory. Making mental checklists of the good things about never trying again to have another child. Silencing the desire – the longing, the ache – to bring home the baby girl I thought I would one day raise. Voicing and otherwise acknowledging the intense gratitude I feel for my two beautiful, amazing, spirited, challenging, life-changing boys.
I’ve been struggling with parenting. Deeply. Intensely. Spectacularly badly. And, recently, calling out for help. Help – I hope – is on its way. Professional help. Together with humility. Our preschooler, the former Miracle Toddler (MT), has brought me to my knees. Often. I do not like the parent I have become in the face of his growing oppositional defiance. Shame is a constant. And soul crushing. But. Help – professional help – is, I hope, coming soon. For both him and me/us.
And those things, my friends, have made like a cat and got my tongue.