A couple of months ago I had another miscarriage. It was an unexpected pregnancy to begin with as The Professor and I had been told years ago that conception without medical assistance would be nearly impossible. We’ve struggled with infertility our entire marriage and frankly over the last two years I’d pretty much come to terms with the fact that I would never actually carry any of our children. That kind of knowledge comes with it’s own kind of grief. There’s a lot to swallow in that one simple realization: I’ll never feel life move inside me, I’ll never look at my children and see my husband’s smile or my eyes, I’ll never breastfeed….the list goes on. Like I said, it is its own kind of grief and well I’d come to terms with it. And then that damn positive pregnancy test.The weeks that followed that consisted of weekly doctor’s appointments with too many blood tests to count and more vaginal ultrasounds than anyone should have to endure. My ObGyn and then the Perinatologist couldn’t quite figure out what was going on with the pregnancy and then ultimately it was determined that it wasn’t viable.
Ah…life can sure knock you on your ass sometimes, can’t it? In the midst of all of this emotional drama, I was still writing and well, still being a mom. Being sad about stuff that kids can’t see and especially little kids can’t understand, it’s hard to explain. There were lots of times my sweet girls would come up and ask, “Mommy, why are you crying?” or “Mommy, you okay?” <– my littlest is a great talker, but she uses less words than her sister. Daddy did a lot of explaining and Mommy did a lot of crying alone in the bathroom.The pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage opened up a lot of old anger and grief about the whole infertility issue, stuff I thought I was done with. And well, I realized something, grieving as a mother is both harder and easier than grieving without kids. There was something so wonderful about those moments when I was so sad that I could reach out and squeeze one of my girls. Or how Busybee would come over and put her sweet little hand on my cheek and say, "it's okay, Mommy, don't' be sad." But it was harder too because I knew I couldn't just be sad all the time, I had to swallow a lot of it and put on a happy face so I didn't distress my children. But in doing so, they kept me out of going down that rabbit hole, the one I fell down into with my first miscarriage where I spent the better part of six months in bed.
So there you go, my recent assessment on grieving with children. How about you? Have you ever had to explain something like that to a young child or did you just grieve in private and hope they didn’t notice? *and you know since I don’t show pictures of our actual kiddos, you’re stuck looking at shots of our cats*
I’m Robyn DeHart, AKA Basket-Case Mama, but not because I’m crazy (though really, what mom isn’t?) but because I have a slight obsession with baskets, well containers really. I’m a bit of an organization nut and I love to containerize stuff. And yes, I’m authorized to use words like that because I am also a writer. But back to the kids, so I’m mom to two ridiculously beautiful little girls and I can say that without bragging because I didn’t actually make them. Last year my husband, The Professor, and I adopted said little lovelies from the foster-care system here in Texas and now we’re a big happy forever family. Busybee is three and so full of joy it just oozes from her. Babybee is a walking-talking toddler who has a heck of a temper but is so cute, it almost keeps her out of trouble. Though neither of my girls are newborns, I’m fairly new to motherhood compared to the other peanut butter moms, but we’ve settled in as a family as if we’ve always been together. When I’m not trying to keep up with my two bundles of energy, you can usually find me on my laptop on Pinterest, no, that’s not right, um…you can find me writing, yes, that’s it, writing my latest historical romance. www.robyndehart.com