Butterfly kisses, bad news and banana bread

There's a famous song called Butterfly Kisses. I used to like it, but now I don't. They lyrics say:

After all that I've done wrong

I must have done something right

To deserve a hug every morning

And butterfly kisses at night

I heard it played at a wedding on the weekend, and my heart just broke. It's hard enough going to weddings: seeing the dad walk his daughter down the aisle, hearing him give a speech about his girl, and maybe watching them dance. I see all of these happen, and know that's another thing we lost when our daughter died. It's all I can do not to run out to my car and sob. And then Butterfly Kisses is played. Sure it's a lovely song, but if the lyrics I underlined are true, does that mean my husband and I did too much wrong, because we won't get those things? Is a living daughter who gives hugs and kisses really a result of doing something right? No.  It's not dependent on how good we are, or even how bad we are. Life happens. Death happens. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. God is still sovereign. 

I hate giving people bad news. Telling family and friends that Ariella had died was one of the most heartbreaking things I've ever had to do. I'm thankful for things like Facebook, which enables us to spread the news and try to make sure everyone knows. But not everyone does know...yet they knew I was pregnant. On the weekend I bumped into someone who knew I was pregnant. The last time I'd seen them was three days before Ariella died. She looked at me and said "you had a baby, didn't you?" And I hated having to tell her that yes, I did, but she was stillborn. The look in her eyes was heartbreaking. She had asked an innocent question, one that I would have joyfully answered if Ariella was alive. Instead I had bad news to give her; it feels like I ruin people's day when I tell them what happened. I don't like making other people sad.

The other day I made banana bread. It may not seem like a big deal, but it was. Before I was pregnant, I loved baking and would bake at least once a week. Then I got morning sickness and couldn't even go into a kitchen without feeling sick, yet alone do any baking. Once the morning sickness left, I was often too tired to bake, and honestly forgot it was an option (as I hadn't done any baking for months). After Ariella was born, I hated the idea of baking. It was another reminder that Ariella wasn't with me - I didn't want to do something that I hadn't been able to do while she was alive. But last week I made banana bread. And I made some muffins too. To me, that's a big deal. Celebrating the small stuff.

The effort of socialisation

My friend Sarah wrote a blog post, Imagine, in which she listed different things you could imagine in order to better understand the life of a bereaved mother. While I feel like I could have written so much of the list myself, one in particular stood out:

Imagine a grief so great that the effort of socialisation seems overwhelming. Imagine trying anyway.

That, right there, is my life. And it seems foreign to me, even after 11 weeks. I used to absolutely love being around people, I thrived on it.! If I was home by myself for a few days, with nothing planned, I would go mad! But now I'm the opposite. It's such an effort to make myself go out. Even to places that I love, like my church. It's overwhelming for me to contemplate going places, and I think it's because, most of the time, there is always going to be the 'one person'.

One who doesn't know.
One who tries to make me feel better.
One who doesn't talk to me.
One who looks at me with pity.
One who inadvertently says or does something that hurts.
One who has a baby...

But, even though it's overwhelming, I still try. Because although there is normally 'one person', there is always 'the other one'.

One who gives me a hug.
One who lets me grieve.
One who asks how I am.
One who asks how my hubby is.
One who prays for me.
One who wants to see photos.
One who lets me grieve.
One who mentions Ariella's name.
One who tells me they loved her too.
One who tells me they miss her.

As you can see, the second list is longer. And that's why I force myself to go out, even when it's the last thing I feel like doing. I don't always stay the whole time, nor will I always be actively involved. So if you see me standing off to the side, it's ok. Sometimes just being in a room with others is enough of a challenge, yet alone talking to people! But to everyone who has been 'the other one', thank you. You make socialising a bit easier, and for that, I am grateful.