Three generations at three months old

AYNSLEY:
At my parent's house, there's a photo of Mom at 3 months.  And one of me at three months right next to it.  We look alike, sort of.  Not exactly, but similar.  Now that Eliza is three months, I wanted to add her to the mix.

 Me 

 Eliza

 

Mom

I think you'll agree, something skipped a generation.  

I feel so connected to Mom when I am with Eliza, which is all the time.  We even have a "game" I play, where I tell Eliza all of the things I would have told Mom that day.  "If my Mom were alive, I would have told her how delicious this spring is.  How all of the trees are in bloom and how the cherry blossoms in particular make me think of her.  And then I would rub it in that it's 70 degrees here and 50 there." By saying it out loud, maybe I give Mom the opportunity to hear it anyway.

6 months later

AYNSLEY:
It is spring.  We recently celebrated the vernal equinox, the time of year of new beginnings, fresh sprouts and an abundance of green.  Gary and I will be celebrating our first anniversary in a few days and our Pea's three month mark a few days after that.  And today marks half a year that Mom has been gone.

She died on a day of balance, and here we are on the flip side.  We survived some of the roughest firsts: Thanksgiving, the holiday season, her birthday.  Dad's 60th was rough.  Valentine's Day, too.  We still have their anniversary, Ross and my birthdays and her favorite season Seattle to get through. And Mother's Day.  I don't know how I will get through Mother's Day.

The day to day for me isn't hard.  It's the moments in between.  It's when I have a question about parenting, or want to share, or ask advice.  It's shopping for Eliza's clothes.  I haven't been able to bring myself to buy her clothes yet-that's the thing I always imagined us doing together. I have zero fashion sense and Mom would have dressed her so ridiculously perfectly. 

Our Pea is growing and thriving.  She still looks more like Mom's baby picture than anyone else.  But she doesn't remind me of Mom.  When I am in full on parenting mode, when she's awake, I don't think about anything else.  But when we're walking and she's sleeping, I always want to call Mom.  I used to call her all the time when I was walking somewhere. To buy lunch, to the train, to and from hockey.  It's been a difficult habit to break.  Eliza naps when I walk.  I always want to fill the silence but I don't.  I force myself not to call anyone.  I just sit with the silence, looking at Eliza's sleeping body snuggled close to mine, checking every few minutes to make sure she's breathing. 

 I sometimes think that this was all a test, that now that I've realized what's important to me and my family, that I got to know my mother in a different way and I've made peace with some of my own demons, Mom can be alive. She can meet her grandchild and be part of our lives again.  It doesn't seem possible that this really happened.  Even now, six months later, I still can't quite believe it.

1.30.12

ROSS:
Today, my mom would have turned 57 years old. This is her first birthday since her passing, and it is truly a difficult day. Although I have been spending the day so far reflecting on our lives together, channeling her voice and spirit, and trying to feel close to her, it has been a very somber day.

It is still hard to believe that everything last year actually happened. Although I feel that my mom prepared me well for my own life, I could always still use her guidance. She was always there to ask me the big picture questions. I have felt somewhat lost without her. The bigger picture of my life has direction, it is somewhat confusing and ambiguous, but the general direction is there. Now it is the day to day of my life that I struggle through: the motivation to make the bigger picture happen, or simply trying to feel like I am becoming a better person each day.

I know these observations are personal, but I think they demonstrate how much my mom helped people feel complete. Maybe others who were close to her have been feeling similar. I don't know. What I do know is that today is a difficult day for a lot of people. I have already received a great deal of sympathies today from people who love my mom and who are thinking of her. I know days like today will become easier to get through over time. But most of all, I know that my mom's love lives on.

One of the most difficult lessons to learn is how to feel someone's unconditional love in their physical absence. It is true and real and I feel it everyday. But sometimes there is no feeling more painful than pure, honest, endless love. However, I would not trade this feeling for anything, or ever try to ignore it.

I think Kahlil Gibran captures it best in The Prophet:

"Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain...

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight."

Happy Birthday Mom. I love you and miss you. I am endlessly grateful for you.

Thanks for it all.

The Pea is here!!

AYNSLEY:
Eliza Flynne Cohen arrived safely at 7:53am on Tuesday, January 3rd.  She was born at home after an intense 13 hour labor, weighing in at 8 pounds and stretching out at 20 inches.  She is a Capicorn with Capicorn rising and a Taurus moon, born in the year of the Rabbit and just 20 minutes after sunrise.

Gary and I are beyond in love.  This past week has been hands down the best in my life; I can't stop staring at her with intense, fierce wonder and pure gratitude. Gary and I called her The Pea, or just Pea for her entire in utero life; Mom's friends took it a step further and called her Sweet Pea.  And, I have to tell you all, that's the perfect name.  She is beyond sweet, nuzzling our necks and holding onto my fingers while she nurses.  She smiles in her sleep.  She is so mellow most of the time, but even when she's having meltdowns, she still wants to be cuddled and kissed (and I am more than happy to oblige-this is one spoiled kid already). 

Eliza came out a little swollen, like all newborns do.  In her first week, her face has changed a lot, but we still couldn't pinpoint who we thought she looked like in those first few days.   Of course, now we know.  She looks like Mom.

right after birth

 First family photo

 day 3

day 7

12.23.11

AYNSLEY:
And now we're on the other side of the Solstice.  The days have already begun inching longer; last night was a bit shorter than the night before.  One year ago today, Gary and I flew out to Seattle, not knowing what we'd find there. We packed funeral clothes. I had spent the previous night sleepless, praying as hard as I could that I would at least get to have one more conscious conversation with Mom. That was my only focus. 

Being December 23rd and last minute, we couldn't find a non-stop flight.  Our first leg was delayed 6 hours, but we didn't find out until we arrived at the airport.  The ticket agent couldn't figure out how to re-book our connection, so she cancelled our entire travel plan and tried to rebook us making three connections, but somehow couldn't do that, either.  Already panicking, my clearest memory of that morning is willing my knees not to buckle as I held tightly to the counter, attempting to plead with her to put us on some plane that would arrive to Seattle at some point, but unable to form coherent sentences.  Gary took over, negotiating everything: getting us back on the original late flight, getting us on a later connection, making me eat something for breakfast.  And a couple of hours later, sitting at JFK, I got my prayers answered. Mom was alert enough to talk on the phone; I hadn't spoken to her in a couple of days and was getting all of the information relayed, so just to hear her voice was so reassuring.  She was sluggish and medicated, but totally there and clearly happy to talk to me.

We finally arrived in Seattle close to 10pm PST.  Dad picked us up at the airport.  We went straight to the hospital and again and again, my prayers were answered. The next day, the waiting room was filled with our family and friends and didn't empty out until well after the New Year. This blog was launched because I couldn't field all of the phone calls, texts and emails that I was receiving, so I figured I'd let all of you come to us on your own time and when you were interested.  And I'd only have to do it once.

This year, as we enter the light half, my life is so profoundly different.  Any doubts or misgivings I had about getting married (and there were many, one year ago) have disappeared; I saw the strength of my parent's marriage every day and can't imagine one day since last December 23rd without Gary's support and love.  My general anxiety has faded significantly; I've learned that my imagination is far crueler than life and that things I thought would destroy me have not.  I saw the value in a support system and learned what it means to show up for people and am committed to maintaining and strengthening my own.  I am trying to thank more, to love more, to allow more, to laugh more.  I am happier this Solstice than I was at the last one.  Strange that that should be true; I have suffered more, I have watched those I love most suffer more, I have lost more.  And yet, I am undeniably a more settled, grounded, content person.  I learned so much from Mom, watching her grace, her determination, her utter refusal to go into despair.  And though she was literally surrounded in darkness for the entirety of her illness, it didn't penetrate her.  And so, the darkness couldn't reach me, either.

 

12.7.11

AYNSLEY:
This past Sunday, one of my dearests threw me a women-only baby shower.  Sixteen of us crammed into Gary and my little apartment, most sitting on the floor (including my mother in law, which I still feel badly about).  Everyone at different life stages; some mothers, some never to be mothers, some just at the beginning of their adulthood, others with enough experience to offer sage advice.  I always say gifts are optional but no one arrived empty handed.  The amount of baby gifts we have received is unbelievable.  Some of this is the nature of being first on both sides of the family, but a lot of it is concentrated well wishes from followers of the blog, people who don't really even know me but adore Mom and, still feeling helpless and sad about the circumstances, can't help themselves.  But the best gifts were truly all of the blessings I received that day.  Everyone either anointed me with oil or said a little prayer or gave me mounds of reassurance that I will not only make it through this transition to mother in one piece, but I will do a good job of it.  And to seal in those blessings, everyone transferred them directly to my belly, in the form of henna tattoos.

I realize the past few entries have been depressing and raw and hard to read.  But the truth is that while those emotions are real and true, they are not a realistic view of life now.  Those are just the moments when it's easiest to write.  Yes, absolutely, there are moments when the loss is overwhelming.  But there are also many more moments when life simply continues, when we look forward to good things and deal with the mundane.  And there are many moments when I think of Mom and it makes my heart soar with joy for the 31 years I got to be with her and all she taught me. 

My dreams of her are still infrequent and mostly from when she was ill.  A couple of nights ago, I was treated to dreams of her all night; we were hanging out at the Kline, working on walking the halls, and it dawned on me that if she really were still here and working on getting stronger, at some point I'd have to lose her again. And maybe that's the ultimate peace-making realization.  That as hard as this past year was, we never have to do it again. And she made such a beautiful time of it.  She lived her last year as fully as she could, finding joy and celebration; so many never even come close to such grace.  And as difficult as it will be to enter into parenthood without her, and as sad as it makes me that she never experienced being a grandmother, my not having any real responsibilities allowed us more time together.  I was able to fly to Seattle at a moments' notice, I didn't care about spending ridiculous amounts of money on airfare; things were easy in a way that they never will be again. So that's been my most recent discovery and most recent source of comfort.  This mourning is what it is.  I know that it has changed me forever.  But at least I never have to lose her again.

11.27.11

AYNSLEY:
Somehow, we made it through Thanksgiving.  Luckily, no one at my table insisted that we share the things we're thankful for, as I am having trouble piecing together feelings of gratitude.  Surely I must be thankful for all of the many blessings in my life right now; there are so so many and I don't want to appear ungrateful.  But I can't honestly sit down and say "I am grateful for..."

When Mom first passed away, I felt a sense of relief.  I didn't have to worry about her feeling worse and worse, about her pain, about letting her down again and again.  I didn't have to sleep with the phone next to my pillow or check flight prices or availability every day.  In the last couple of weeks, all of that relief has dissipated.  My body has accepted the end of the frenetic pace, the end of crisis mode management and I am left with only the overwhelming absence of Mom.

Now the feelings of injustice and anger surface more readily, the reality that she won't get to know her grandchildren, that she won't see Ross graduate, that she is missing out on many years that she had planned to enjoy.  I am angry that she won't be here to help me when the Pea arrives, that any questions I have now remain unanswered, that any bumps in our relationship that were waiting to be healed will never be healed.  I get furious when well meaning people say there is no greater joy than being a grandparent; that I didn't manage to pull my life together in time and I robbed her of that.  

Living across the country, it's sometimes easy to pretend that life is still normal.  I didn't talk to Mom every day when she was healthy. The day that Gary and I got engaged, I had already spoken with her during the day before he proposed and when I called again, she was confused that I would call twice in one day.  But when there were things I wanted to share, I would call.  If events were happening, I would call.  If I needed clothes advice (which is frequent), I would call.  And now, it's been so long since I've been able to call and share something or ask for advice.  Day to day it's okay, but the compound effect is hard. There's so much lately that I want to share with her.  There are so many questions I want to ask, so much advice I still need, so much I don't know.  And the road ahead is just so much more of that.