It Hurts

Most days, I feel as if my heart is about to explode with the love I have for my little girl. I think of her, and my chest feels as if it is on the verge of bursting open with all the love that is, and will continually be, pent up within.
It hurts.
Physically.
And I know it will not go away because I will never stop loving her. I know that the only way there will be some modicum of lasting relief is to have another, another a physical baby to lavish this love upon.

I have been open and transparent about our journey to a family in the past. It is not an easy road for us. And so, I ask you friend, please beseech God for me on this. Perhaps if we join together as a collective multitude to pray for joy again, he will hear our pleas.

But today, tomorrow, and even the next day, if you see me, talk about her. Ask about her. Include her in our conversation about the sun, and the busy days, and the holiday plans. Because saying her name out loud gives a small amount of release to this pressure that builds up within me. And it hurts a little less for a moment.

And please, don't be afraid of my tears. For they are just a simple expression of a mother's love for her child. They are a beautiful thing.

Meet Quinny.

I never wanted to be one of those lame moms who incessantly talks about their children, who writes a blog devoted to them. 

Well, here I am.

And all I want to talk about is her.

Eat it, old me. I'm a lame mom!

For those of you who didn’t get to meet her, I’d like to paint you a picture of my daughter, for a mother knows her child from the day her life begins.  Some of these things I knew inherently, but some have been revealed to me as a gift. This is my girl, my Quinn.

She is delicate. Though her daddy’s large hands and feet may betray her, her features are fine and soft and gentle. She is pretty. She is such a GIRL. She would have grown tall and lithe, with much more finesse in her athletic abilities than her mother. Her eyes are round and wide, but her lips dance with a smile and a dimple that flickers on her right cheek. Her curly brown locks can not be tamed, much to her mother’s chagrin. 

She is stubborn. She gets that from both her parents.  Quinn, please uncurl from that little ball and let the ultrasound tech check you out. Nope. Quinn, please move for your aunties so they can feel you kick. Nope. What Quinn didn’t want to do, Quinn wouldn’t do. She would stamp her foot, pout her little lips, and dig her heels in so deep, there would be no convincing her otherwise.  Mommy would recognize herself in her little girl, and foster that stubbornness into a strong, independent woman with something to say.

She is my morning girl. From the moment I woke up, there she was, happily kicking away. Good morning Mommy! What a beautiful day! So unlike me. So like her father. That would have been their time. Morning time. Daddy would have spoiled her with hot chocolate…every day…he told me.

She grows still when the faint strains of a beautiful piece of music grace her ears. Though she would have driven her piano teachers crazy with her incessant questions during lessons, she would have a deep appreciation for the beauty of music.

She is content. Not on the move a lot, happy to just sit and talk. She would have her moments of wriggling, of dancing and twirling. But then, she would plop herself down and just talk. Like one of the ladies. A chat-ter.

She likes to sleep. Like me, like Daniel. A house full of sleepers. So boring. So nice!

She is pensive. But, by no means serious! She lives up to her name. She thinks. Deeply. There is always a pause before she speaks. She looks at you with her big round eyes, blinks her long eyelashes like her daddy and says. Hmmmm. Hmmmm, Mommy. I’m thinking. And we wait for an answer. And it is simple and profound. My wise little one.

She has a soft heart. She sees the hurting and tries to cheer them with her joy. Just laugh! She says. It’s ok! Just laugh! That laugh would get her into trouble. Stop giggling Quinn, it’s time to pay attention now.

Most of all….

She is joy. Her laugh echoes in the recesses of my mind at all times. It is bubbly and overflows from deep within.  It…she… is pure bliss.

Don't be sad, Mommy. She says to me again. Don't be sad, I'm not sad!

And so I say, I will take joy from yours, my little one. I will grab on to that small flicker and hold on for dear life. Because without it, life is so very, very bleak. 

I pray that Quinn - her life, her being - brings you flickers of joy as well. 

Dear Mother

Dear Mother who sits with her child at her side,

There are many things I want to say to you.
Horrible, scathing, lashing words of anger and hot rage, of deep and inconsolable jealousy.

But, because I am commanded to, and please understand, not because I feel like it or want to in this moment, I will choose love. I will choose to feel joy that you get what I do not.

And, instead, I shall say this:

Think of me today. Think of me in the rough moments of being a mother. Because they are there, and they are real, and they are hard.

As you wake every hour, of every night, with a little body that depends so heavily on you, think of me.

As you feel like your day revolves around nothing but poop and boobs and sleep and repeat, think of me.

As that child screams in tantrum over something trite and you feel as if you have no more strength to deal with yet another issue, think of me.

As there are Cheerios, and toys and MESS strewn in every corner of your house, think of me.

Think of the blessing you have in seeing that child breathe, watching their heart beat, getting to be, really BE their Mommy. Think of what I would give for each and every one of those messy seconds with them.

And then, hug them, kiss them, let it go and enjoy each moment you are given with that precious child. For none of us knows when that may end. I was given 37 weeks with my child. 259 days. I pray you will have a lifetime. But please, for me, love that child as if you only had 259 days. Just love. Because in the end, none of this matters. Only them. Only him. Only her. Love them. Just love them with every fiber of your being! Love them with every ounce of love I cannot lavish upon a child right now. Love them for me.

Love,
Quinn's Mommy

Her Meaning

QUINN

counsel, wisdom

OLIVIA

derived from the word olive. The dove brought Noah an olive branch after the flood to prove to him that there was life after destruction. A sign of life.

Words and their meanings have always been very important to me. Though some may use words such as like and love, pretty and beautiful as synonyms, to me, they are worlds apart when it comes to what they actually mean. I love the depth of vocabulary.

When choosing our children’s names, it was important to me to have deep meanings behind those combinations of letters that they would carry for the rest of their lives. I wanted the characteristics of those names to reflect what we would pray they would grow into.

Some parents pray for their daughters to be beautiful, to be kind, to be a lady. Though I believe she was all of those things and more, I desired Quinn to be a baby, a girl, a woman, of wisdom.

A woman who made sound choices and thought with purpose, who had a deep understanding of the world around her.

A girl whom others would look to for advice and counsel.

A lady who was wise.

To us as parents, this is the trait we would be most proud to see our girl live out. 

On the morning of September 13^th, we dedicated our little girl before we said goodbye forever. We entrusted her back to God, to the place from which she came, and let go of the gift that we had been so briefly blessed with. We could not dedicate her life to him, as she already danced in the place where she was created to be, so we dedicated our lives instead. We dedicated ourselves to being parents that Quinn would be proud of. We dedicated ourselves to trusting God, though we wanted to lash at him with raw anger at the betrayal we felt. We dedicated ourselves to being changed because of our little girl.  

And so now, I am not the woman I once was. She has altered me forever and my baby is still teaching this mommy many things. She is teaching me wisdom. Quinn is teaching me to search for knowledge and thirst for truth. Her spirit has made me desire to be what I prayed for her. In her perfection, she reflects the one who made her. I can only hope that because of her, I am able to portray a small glimmer of Christ’s spirit. 

I pray that each of my children, and the names we choose for them will do the same.

Lady of Sorrow

I wish I could hear Mary’s side of the story. Jesus’ mother and I share a sorrow that no mother should ever have to feel - losing your precious child, watching them die and knowing that you can do absolutely nothing about it.

We think about the miraculous visit of Gabriel and how amazing the immaculate conception would have been. But what about Mary? She was a Jew. She knew that a saviour, her son, would come into the world and ultimately have to give his life. In that moment, was she feeling joy? Or was she suddenly hit with the weight of desperately loving a child, yet knowing each day that she would have to watch him die?

“I am the Lord’s servant,” Mary answered. “May your word to me be fulfilled.”
Luke 1:38

I am no theologian. Perhaps what I am saying is completely blasphemous. But in these words, I don’t hear joy. I don’t hear the elation that a woman feels knowing she is pregnant and going to become a mother.  I hear heartbreak. I hear consent to living with sorrow each and every day of her life. I hear a woman after my own heart. 

Altar of Annunciation, Meinrad Guggenbichler.
Mondsee Kirsch, Mondsee, Austria

Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, Adriaen Isenbrant
Church of Our Lady, Bruges, Belgium

Tell Me.

I’ve always loved favourites.

What’s your favourite colour? Teal.

What’s your favourite thing to do? Create.  

What’s your favourite song? The Girl by City in Colour.

Daniel and I play this game a lot, asking each other favourites. Asking our friends their favourites, asking our friends kids their favourites. It’s lighthearted, it’s fun, it’s something we would have done with her, with our daughter, with Quinn.

Now, we imagine her favourites. I think we do a pretty good job.

What’s her favourite colour? Purple.

What’s her favourite thing to do? Giggle.  

What’s her favourite song? The Girl, by City in Colour.

It’s our “family thing”. You know. You have a family thing too.

Today, I ask you, what’s your favourite thing about Quinn? Tell me what you remember. Tell me what you loved about her. Even if you never got to see her sweet face, if you know me, you knew her while she was growing inside of me. You got glimpses of her too. What was your favourite?

My favourite thing was Quinn and her Daddy. She had him so wrapped around her little finger from day one. She would hear his deep voice and go giddy with joy inside of me. I can just imagine her flinging herself into his arms when he got home from work each day, a gleeful "Daddy!" singing from her lips, so like his. I remember telling several people how excited I was to see Daniel with his baby for the first time. He's such a proud papa. Such a good papa. My favourite.

P.S. I'm making her a baby book. These sentiments will be included. Only share if you wish. 

Pondering

What do I say in that inevitable moment that is to come?

“Do you have kids?”

“No.” A lie. A disservice to my beautiful girl. Yet, the easiest way out.

“Yes, she’s 3 months." Another lie. Though she would be. 

“Yes, she’s dead.” Truth. But so, so callous. And inappropriate.

So…what?

I do not welcome your feedback unless you too have walked this road, have struggled this struggle, have lived this nightmare. Perhaps this is harsh, but only you, mother of my heart, will understand that each word chosen in this moment, though simple, holds so much weight. Each word speaks to a life that was lived, but is no longer here. Each word tells the entire story of a little girl, my little girl, my Quinn. And so, you can see, why these words must be chosen so carefully and so deliberately.

I am not ready to choose these words, to speak them aloud just yet. And so, I sit in the stillness and warmth of my home, my safe place, and dream of her. I dream of her beauty, of her button nose, the delicate curve of her lips, so like her daddy’s, of her hands and feet, so large and awkward in comparison to her delicate face and body, of the feel of her cheek upon my lips as I kissed her for the first time, of her fingers curled around mine, of the soft, downy feel of her perfectly round head, covered only by a light fuzz, a testament to the curls it would have held.
I sit and I close my eyes and hear the echo of her laugh. A bubbling and full laugh, free from being tainted by the troubles of this world. Pure and utter joy, that girl.
I sit and see her looking at me, pausing for a moment from her dancing and skipping, her round eyes wide, her brow furrowed, but a smile dancing at the corners of her mouth. And in her 4-year-old simplicity, she cups a hand around my face and she says to me,

“Don’t be sad, Mommy. I’m not sad!”

I’m trying, my girl, I’m trying. For you, I’m trying.