Blog a la Cart

Time 2020-10-26 09:03:49

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My Addison Weeks,My Sun Bun,My Lilac Baby,My Lady Bug,My Peanut,My First Born,My Sunny,Today you are ten. 1-0! 10! You have been in the world one whole decade and that is simultaneously mind-boggling and totally and completely right.I can picture you sighing and gently smiling as you read that sentence, as you have noted that that is the sentiment of all of my birthday letters to you: the onslaught of time juxtaposed by the sweetness of the present. Because, yes, you ve now read this here blog, and all of the letters (Read here the other letters vpnbug). And that is what I dreamed you d do. And here we are, a decade later, and the very words I wrote for you above all others are being processed and understood and read by your very eyes. It is a wonder to behold you grow into a person who can now relate to her mother in this way. I so adore this stage. I so adore you.I think often about your entry into our lives, so immediately (simultaneously!) on the heels of our marriage. Of course you were with us over a decade ago as your daddy and I began our family atop that soggy mountain in front of all our family and friends. Of course you ve been with us every step of the way. You have made this life more rich, more meaningful, and more, just so much more. We are endlessly grateful you began when you did, and have enlivened every element of our lives since. It is the rightest of right things that has ever happened to me. And it laid the groundwork for this now full and chaotic and wonderful household in which you live. I can t imagine our family any other way. I wouldn t want it any other way.My wish for you is that you carry your kindness, your unwavering empathy, the gentleness of your spirit, your curiosity, your flexibility, and your immense heart with you into this next decade of your life. It has been the greatest pleasure nurturing these generous and beautiful parts of you I hope you never lose sight of them. I hope you know that they are the parts of you that make us most proud. While you ve made the daunting task of learning to parent (plight of life as a first born) a breeze with your smarts, your hard work, your dedication, your easy going nature it is that caring heart of yours that makes us proudest of all. I hope you ll always hold the world with compassion and may it do likewise for you.I will always be your biggest fan. I will always love you most of all.Thank you for making me a mother a decade ago. Happiest 10th Birthday, my Sunny girl.143 alwaysxo MamaTEN 2019NINE 2018EIGHT 2017SEVEN 2016SIX 2015FIVE 2014FOUR 2013THREE 2012TWO 2011ONE 2010BORN DAY 2009 Sweet mohawk baby in a cozy new footie courtesy of a college pal s mama, a woman who was with me the last time I ever saw my mother in person. I love the sweet lavender color with the elegant flower print. And a quilt handmade in Bermuda and gifted from James aunt, Weathy-bee s Great-Aunt Vail. The pattern is a bay grape, a classic Bermudian symbol. How fortunate she is to have received so many sweet gifts just for her. In a world of hand-me-downs, we are appreciative of a few fresh items for baby #4. FTC Disclosure: I get commissions for purchases made through links in this post. Hi, Mom,Today, your fourth grandchild is 8 weeks old. She is darling and sweet, as all new life is, and you d be positively obsessed with her. She has that signature Ulmer/Cart baby wild hair. It s as though we stick her finger in an electrical outlet each evening, but a bath is all she needs to really bring those locks to life. She reminds me so very much of infant Courtland, but with a tad less screaming (though she does like to work herself up at night for a good wail before bed).As I ve done with all your grandchildren, I designed and mailed hardcopy birth announcements to formally share the news of her arrival. I remember how you insisted with Sunny, and we sat together picking out her design at my home in LA. Little did I know how precious that four weeks we spent together with baby Sunny would be. How I long to share that kind of time and intimacy with you and baby Weatherly. So I designed the invite alone, but with you top of mind. As I do for all my stationery needs, I turned to Minted and found this baby shower invitation that I redesigned to be a unique birth announcement. Since Weatherly s name was inspired by the name of an America s Cup yacht, the design needed to have a sailboat in it. And the addition of the elephant was a full circle nod to the design we selected for Sunny nine years ago together.I had the announcement framed, and it now hangs in her nursery (also something you insisted we do, and I can remember the little frame shop down the road from our home in Palos Verdes where we picked out the frame together for Sunny s.) Even more notable is the gorgeous baby book gifted by the family of our long time babysitter, Sophie, who you met on several occasions. Her parents gifted us this stunning baby book (a LA-based company to boot), and I ve spent time filling it with stories and photos and memorabilia as I did for my first-born. How surprising that baby #4 is going to have such detailed documentation of her babyhood, but it was just the nudge I needed. A copy of the announcement is of course tucked in its pages!It s painful, of course, that you don t get to experience all these things firsthand. But the pain is eased slightly in the knowledge of how much you d enjoy and love all these gestures.We miss you, mama. But this babe, and so much of her life, is influenced by how much you mean to us all.143 Your Ashley Hi, Mom,The birth of your fourth grandchild was not as I d anticipated it would be. I know, I know, one should never set expectations surrounding anything birth related, but despite knowing this from firsthand experience, I couldn t help myself. This was my fourth kid! Surely it would be quick and smooth and badass like Courtland s. Surely it would come on strong and progress consistently. Surely that baby would arrive within hours of the start of labor. SURELY!Alas, I was wrong. And as with all my labors, I doubted and obsessed and felt frustrated with my body lingering in early labor. The only constant of all my labors has been an early morning start that builds throughout the day. Sunny s took nearly 36 hours, and then Courtland s was steady and empowering and was under 18 hours, and Sander s, while longer than Courtland s was still less than 20. And then baby #4, I swore it d be fast isn t that what everyone says about subsequent babes? Well, not the case for this mama.I awoke early Sunday morning (July 22nd) around 2am to a contraction that was clearly strong enough to pull me from sleep. It felt more distinct and powerful than any of the Braxton Hicks business I d been feeling for weeks leading up to this moment. I didn t think too much of it, and fell back asleep. Fifteen or so minutes later, I was once again disturbed by that very specific kind of constricting and squeezing that felt so familiar to previous labors. This continued on, every 15 minutes or so, until about 5am when I woke James to alert him that I might I think I probably was in labor? Or the early stages of it at least.I texted dad and Kimmy, because Sunday on Cape Cod. I worried that trying to get them off the Cape and out to the Berkshires for the arrival of this baby who was surely going to be here before NOON was going to be tough given summer traffic. They began the trip west, and I got up, showered, shaved (because who knew when I d get a chance to do that if baby really was on the brink of arrival!) and continued to feel the wave of contractions every 10-15 minutes. They weren t strong enough to be debilitating or require my full attention, but I was acutely aware of them, and acutely annoyed that they didn t seem to be getting closer together or any stronger.Sander and Courtland awoke and we did our usual Sunday morning breakfast routine. Sunny was at a friend s house for a sleepover, and I texted the parents to ask if she could stay there the morning given that I wasn t sure how things were going to play out.I then decided to try to lie down and rest since I d been awake since 2 and things didn t seem to be ramping up. I think I managed to sleep in between contractions for a bit while the kids watched cartoons downstairs with James. It was a rainy, humid, grey day. Perfect for napping and cartoon watching. Out of no where, however, I started to feel incredibly anxious. I was jittery and overcome with chills and needed to get up and move. I paced around the house and had such an intense nervous energy about me. I couldn t stand still and walked in circles around our downstairs, obsessively folding towels that weren t folded just right, and peeling a banana unnecessarily for Sander. I called my midwife and said that this energy-shift was eerily reminiscent of transition with Courtland, except without any of the screaming pain. Could I be that far along and just not be in that much pain? I mean, fourth kid, so totally. Right?She suggested I come to the hospital because, You can t check your own cervix my dear! and it sounded like I needed some reassurance of what exactly was going on with my body and babe.I texted a friend to come over and hang with the kids because it was still a few hours before dad and Kimmy would arrive. Upon her arrival, James and I loaded into the car and made the drive north. Contractions were still happening, but again, they weren t debilitating or all-consuming and they were still so dang far apart. I doubted. I cursed. I bemoaned this weird purgatory that my body seemed to revel in for all of my labors. Was I crazy? Was I perhaps NOT in labor? What the fuck was going on? And why on earth was I so confused when I d done this shit three times before?At the hospital, the nurse checked me and after a very uncomfortable pelvic examine, with her hands still fumbling inside me, she declared, Well, I can t even find your cervix. Not words you want to hear when you suspect you re in labor. She couldn t even tell me how far along I was (or wasn t) because she couldn t reach my dang cervix. At my midwife s suggestion, we headed home to rest and see if things would pick up in the comfort of our own space. No need to be trapped in this room for hours if not days. Hydrate. Rest. Relax. I felt so so silly. Here I was, pregnant with my fourth child, being sent home from the hospital because I had misunderstood the signals from my body. Friends texted reassuring words. I wasn t silly and shouldn t be embarrassed, but man, despite their kind words, I still felt pretty down.Shortly after our return to the house, Sunny was dropped home and dad and Kimmy and her chocolate hippo puppy Yanmar arrived. The rain cleared, and it proved to be a humid, sticky, sunny day. Sander played nude outside with the hose, delighting in Gladden and Yanmar s antics. Dad took the girls to the movies. James and I lay down to rest, and during all of this, I d still feel those contractions, every 10-15 minutes, never so strong I needed support, but so distinctly present.As the day wore on, doula/friend Libbie and FGM Geraldine texted and checked in. G suggested that we get together to cool off in the local community pool and have dinner at their place to keep me distracted and out of my head. We went for a much-needed swim, and then enjoyed a big family dinner. It was indeed the perfect distraction. I noticed that the contractions were gradually getting more intense, as I was finding I was stopping to sway and bend at the waist when they d happen. But still, only 10-15 minutes apart. And I was still managing them without support. After dinner, Kimmy, Sunny and I opted to walk home, and that movement definitely urged the contractions along.We wrangled the kids into bed, and after everyone was settled, I suggested that James and I go for another walk. Despite some rain showers, we ventured out on to the campus where we d met nearly 15 years prior. It was so cheesily apt that he and I spend some time that evening, on the brink of welcoming our fourth and final child, strolling past the building where we d met and reflecting on those early years of our relationship and everything it had brought us. We even bore witness to two college kids making out in plan sight through the windows of one of those dorm rooms. As I rocked and swayed through a contraction, James hollered, Careful, or this may be your fate! in the general direction of the blissfully unaware pair.The walking definitely kept the contractions coming, and by the time we arrived home, I was asking James to help press on my hips to ease my back pain during each one. I was rolling and bouncing and laying over a yoga ball, and we settled in to some marathon episodes of Queer Eye. As the night wore on, things intensified, though again, the timing remained very spaced apart. I thought about waking up Kimmy or calling Libbie or G to come support, but there was something special, intimate, and safe about me and James, in the quiet of our living room, managing this together without distraction. And I still wasn t convinced that this was it. I even tried to lie down and sleep but the contractions were just too intense to conceivably rest. Finally at 3:30am, after a contraction that brought me to tears, I cried Uncle. I called my midwife and sobbed, I just need to sleep. I ve been awake for over 24 hours, and I can tell that I m still no where near ready to deliver this baby, but I need some sleep! And these contractions just won t pick up, but they won t quit either! She agreed, and said it was time to come back to the hospital. See, you ARE in labor. And if you re under three centimeters, you re going to take a much needed morphine nap. And if you re over 3, well, we can talk about what options you want to consider because I know you re exhausted. But let s first get a handle on that cervix. Assuming of course that they could fucking find it this time!We left in the dark and pouring rain, arriving at the hospital a little before 4am. I noticed that the contractions had become increasingly closer since the trip to Vermont, and while they weren t as long as they d been at home, they were coming more rapidly. The nurse checked me and determined I was at 4 centimeters (the correct number is 10. Always 10!). I knew exactly what I needed and wanted. This labor was reminiscent of Sunny’s, except I am now almost a decade older. I was not up for soldiering through the remaining 6cm without support. I wanted the epidural, STAT!Unfortunately, epidurals don t happen STAT. I needed to get a bag of fluids in me and wait for the anesthesiologist. As I waited with the IV pole in hand, labor started to really pick up. At this point, I was worried it might be too late for the epidural, that I d be in too much pain or having contractions too frequently. The nurse, my midwife and James supported me through that 90 minutes until I was able to final get some relief.The epidural went in around 6am and the midwife said she’d be back to check me at 8am. In the two hours of hard labor I did between arrival at hospital and waiting for anesthesiologist, I had progressed to 5cm. ONE MEASLY CENTIMETER! Curses. I figured it wouldn’t be until the afternoon that we’d hit the magic 10. The midwife Kim, one of two in the practice I see, even bemoaned that she would once again miss the opportunity to attend a Cart baby delivery. She was off at 9am, and her partner Amy (who attended Courtland and Sanderling s birth) would tag in.I had some anxiety settling in to the epidural because of what had happened during Sander s labor, but I was in a much more stable and strong emotional place now two and a half years after your death. The reality of having this baby started to sink in as I was given a break from the pain, and that also fueled some of the nervous energy I was experiencing. Fortunately, this epidural was much more evenly distributed in my body and while my legs were tingly, I could still move them, albeit clumsily.I really wanted to sleep, but anytime I turned on my side, the monitors would lose the baby s heartbeat. Despite valiant efforts from the nursing staff, we just couldn t get a steady read on babe s heart anywhere but with me lying on my back. While I wasn t fluffy, a term the nurses kept using, I apparently was fluffy enough that the fetal heart rate monitors were going to be finicky. So I lay on my back uncomfortably while James snoozed in the chair beside me.During those two hours, I did my best to relax, breath, rest and really take in that large and expansive belly, acutely aware that these were the last moments I d ever carry and bring life into the world. I sucked on a grape popsicle and intentionally focused on the quiet, peaceful energy of that moment, just me and my baby, working together. While I was no longer in pain, I could feel my body working. I knew when I was contracting, I felt the pressure and energy. I rubbed my belly as baby moved and swirled beneath my hand and whispered to myself, I can do this. We can do this. I thought about you, mom, and allowed myself to feel the great sadness of once again having to welcome one of your grandchildren without you. It is so fucking unfair. I will never stop feeling that hurt. But I also channeled your strength and love. I knew that you had done this for me, and I would have that energy with me as I did it for my own child.For a brief moment, I wondered if it might be possible that I could be ready to deliver by my next check at 8am. I felt the pressure shifting in my body, and it suggested that we were getting closer to meeting this baby. But I didn t want to get my hopes up, so I pushed that thought aside. No need to set myself up for disappointment.Despite this fleeting thought, I was admittedly floored when my midwife walked in at 8:20, checked me and said, “Shall we have a baby?”Shocked but elated, I laughed and said, Hell yeah! And see, you DO get to catch a Cart baby. James furiously texted my sister, as Sunny had so desperately wanted to be present for the birth, but I knew that there was no way they were going to make it. That fifteen minute drive had nothing on my desire to meet this little one.Kim zoomed out of the room to change out of her street clothes, and she arrived back at 8:24am. During my first contraction with her back in the room, she gently coached me through my first push and I heard one of the nurses exclaim, Wow, she s clearly done this before. That baby is coming right out. Three pushes and 90 seconds later, sweet Weatherly was earth side. It was fast yet peaceful, quick and empowering and as Kim handed me my baby, I was immediately reminded of what Courtland looked like at her birth. She was so very like her big sister. James and I didn t know the sex of the baby, and the umbilical cord was between her legs so it took a moment for me to move it out of the way. I have to admit, I was shocked to behold a vagina. So many people had predicted it would be a boy, I think I d really internalized the idea of having two girls and two boys. I was truly, genuinely, utterly surprised and thrilled when I looked down and exclaimed, Oh my god! It s a girl! We have another daughter! While the labor was longer than I d hoped, I couldn’t have asked for a more empowering conclusion to my own childbearing journey. Her delivery was truly awe-some. I will never forget the power I felt in that minute. I knew I would bring her into the world with confidence, and there she was, on my chest, screaming that epic newborn scream, so fresh and new and perfect and alive and ours.Every birth was so distinct and taught me so much about myself. I am grateful for each and every one. What a gift to have made and carried and welcomed these lives.Like a shooting star, baby Cart #4 entered our world and completed our family, reminding me of love s infinite capacity.Weatherly Elizabeth, we are so very glad you re ours.How you would just adore her, mom.143 Your Ashley Three years ago, nearly to the day, our families and many of you here today gathered in this very spot to celebrate Kimmy’s 30th birthday. Our mother and I, along with the support of the Fricke’s, threw Kimmy a hybrid tea party slash garden party slash tiki bar/sashimi extravaganza that was very fitting of my baby sister’s varied interests. It is deeply meaningful to be back in this space with you all today now celebrating the marriage of Kimmy and Jake and the building of this family whom we all cherish.While our mother is no longer with us in person to celebrate as we did three years ago, I know that there is absolutely no one in the cosmos more thrilled and over the moon to have this day transpire.I can say this because she had been needling Kimmy and Jake about when they were going to get married long before her passing, as the woman delighted in epic love stories and even more epic parties more than anyone I’ve ever known. And she wasn’t afraid to vocalize her opinions on any and all matters.From the start, Allison was thrilled when she learned that Kimmy and Jake were dating. At the time, it was perhaps not for the most deep or meaningful of reasons. You see, the woman had a thing about tall men. And she took great pleasure in the prospect of her precious preemie daughter, Kimmy, who stands at a mere 5’6”, building a family with a man who stands at a whopping 6’5”. To be clear, I understand objectively that 5’6” is not short by any measure, but Allison’s perspective was skewed by the genetic make-up of our particular family.  And indeed Kimmy was well-suited to cohabit with a person of great opinion and stature having grown up in a household of tall and opinionated first borns.And, of course, our mother and whole family came to love Jake for more than just his height. If not most importantly, because of how he loves our Kimmy and how she loves him in return.When our mother died so unexpectedly and suddenly, I understood very quickly how one retreats to the safety and comfort of those they trust and love most dearly to survive. For me, I found my anchor in my son who was born just three weeks after her death. He kept me tethered and safe. And as I reflect back on that time, it’s so clear that Jake was Kimmy’s anchor. He was her safe harbor.Of course I know how ridiculously cheesy that sounds but I keep returning to this metaphor. That our parents raised us right alongside a safe harbor, and that Kimmy and Jake are building their family similarly positioned near the safety and beauty of so many safe harbors is so heartachingly apt. Their partnership has already weathered one of life’s most challenging storms. And while there is no doubt that they will continue to delight in all of the joy and pleasure that comes from life on the sea, my wish is that they may always return to the comfort and support of one another and these safe harbors.Cheers to a lifetime by the sea and always finding safe harbor in your love. Hi, Mom,I know you d be proud of what I accomplished this weekend. I hate that I don t get to share it with you. That I didn t have you calling and checking in and cheerleading me throughout the process. There s no one in my life that does that the way you did. Perhaps the most stunning experience since your death as been confronting this painful reality. In losing you, I lost my biggest fan. And no one will ever champion me in the ways you did. No one will so boldly and confidently believe in me the way you did. I m having to learn to be my own best cheerleader. It s lonely sometimes. But I m finding ways to hear your voice and reassurance when I am most in need of affirmation. And to really take in the positive words and encouragement from other loved ones and my community when I receive them. It s not nearly as frequent and as unabashed as a mother s love, but it s important too.But man I missed a phone call from you this morning and the ability to gush and debrief and revel in the achievement.During Saturday s yoga class, one of the instructors said, “Each morning I ask myself how I’m going to change the world. But I also ask myself how I’m going to make sure the world doesn’t change me.” And those words really struck me. In a surprisingly emotional and intense way.So simple in meaning, and yet, they ve been rolling around in my head ever since. I realize it is because it is not just what s happening in our country and the world that I m fighting to keep from breaking me. It s the death of you, my mother, and the resentment and anger and heartbreak that brings that I m working actively, everyday, to resist. While I will ride the waves of negative emotion that grief undoubtedly brings, I never want this experience to turn me into someone I m not. Bitter. Distrustful. Resigned. Defeated. I want to ensure that this world, this experience, doesn t change me, but instead makes me stronger and more boldly who I am. While you aren t here to cheerlead for me, your death has forced me to rise to the occasion and do it for myself.Undoubtedly that is why yoga has become such a central and important part of my daily life. How poetic and cheesy and fucking true. Because there s beauty in the breakdown 143 Your Ashley Hi, Mom,You died two years ago this morning. Valentine s Day 2016. While you were dying, I was lying in bed, posting a photo of your two granddaughters to Instagram. I wrote about love in the ways I understood it at that time:Celebrating love that brings a pig in the house in -17 degree weather, that shares brand new sticker books with younger siblings, that brings joy and anticipation despite searing pelvic floor discomfort, that shampoos away skunk spray, that tolerates Cheerio farts, that permits nachos for dinner (every once and awhile), and that looks like the stuff of everyday life but is what keeps this whole thing together. And while all of those sentiments are still true, through my grief, I have come to understand love in its darker, more complicated forms. I ve been writing essay after essay about your death, my grief, and the love found in all the broken spaces. This one I feel ready to share. I dream of such an essay one day gracing the pages of Modern Love. But I m not there yet. For now, these inadequate words will have to suffice as I continue to do the work and navigate life in The After.I miss you. I hate this day and all that it represents, and yet, I feel a more deep and honest understanding of love in the wake of your death. I am a better person for it. What a cruel and stunning truth.143 Your AshleyA Literal ShitstormFor my mother s 65th birthday, our family gathered in Saratoga Springs, New York, home of her alma mater, Skidmore College. My father arrived with my mother after a lengthy car trip from their home on Cape Cod, and my elementary-school aged daughters greeted them with great enthusiasm. Can I hold Momar?, inquired my Kindergartener. My father obliged, and my child proceeded to skip down the streets of Saratoga with her grandmother safely concealed in a small Rubbermaid container. I watched on with a mix of amusement and dread, envisioning the stumbles of my child and a stiff breeze as a recipe for disaster under these particular circumstances.   Don t worry, my father chuckled, recognizing the potential calamity, there s plenty more of her back at the house. My father is a scientist, and for him, practicality and efficiency reign supreme. Naturally, the kitchen tupperware was the most secure method of transport for my mother s ashes. Dignified? Perhaps not. But certainly safe, and certainly amusing, though I could picture my mother s heavy eye roll in response to being treated so casually. But I hadn t been on the receiving end of such admonishments in over a year. Admittedly, I can recall the mix of annoyance and humor that accompanied her reprimands, as our final conversation the evening prior to her death was of this nature.  We lived in Vermont, and the weather was predicted to fall below zero degrees. My mother, who was visiting the next day, called to insist we bring our household s potbellied pig inside for the night. She didn t want to find frozen pork in our barn. Potbellied pigs are Vietnamese, she reminded me, and couldn t be expected to tolerate a harsh Vermont winter.Despite this lighthearted conversation, my mother died hours later, suddenly, unexpectedly, in the arms of my father, her husband of 42 years, in their bed on Valentine s Day morning.When my father called to relay the news, my husband was elbow deep in pig shit, as Penelope Pig had had her morning constitutional all over our kitchen floor. And seeing as I was nine months pregnant at the time, he d offered to handle the clean-up. “Happy Valentine s Day,” he muttered sarcastically moments before the phone began to ring.The painful clichés of this entire experience do not escape me. A Valentine s Day death in the arms of one’s soulmate. The loss of life on the brink of welcoming another. Our kitchen floor covered in animal feces as the universe dropped the most extreme load on our household.This couldn t possibly be real. It was all too contrived. Too movie-scripted in its staging. And yet, there I was, expeditiously unmothered.Death from a theoretical perspective is serious in its contemplation. It is unknowable and inevitable and universal, which make it all the more complex.The lived experience of grief is, of course, all these things. It is marked by a pain I can only equate to the deepest, most intense moments of labor. That visceral, unhinged agony that accompanies giving life and letting life go is fittingly synonymous, two realities I faced cruelly side by side. Grief is traumatic in all the somber, serious ways one anticipates.And yet, the evening of my mother’s death, my husband and I found ourselves huddled over the bath tub scrubbing pig poop from the coats of our two large retrievers. In the hysteria following my father’s phone call, my husband had flung our swine’s droppings onto the back deck, and our dogs had gleefully rolled in the tempting excrement. As I hefted my 37 week pregnant body into the tub, and swore and pleaded and gagged in response to my dogs’ disgusting life choices, the heavy fog of shock and emotional turmoil briefly lifted.  James and I found ourselves in fits of uncontrollable laughter, a display of levity in the face of this calamitous day. On the face of it, cleaning up poop in a bathtub while pregnant on the eve of your mother’s untimely death feels like an unnecessarily cruel reminder of life plowing unrelentingly ahead. And yet, the ability to still find humor in such a preposterous state of affairs, even on one’s darkest day, was deeply reassuring. To feel laughter, and that momentary reminder of the joy that makes the loss of life worth grieving, provided hope.“Mom would be so appalled that instead of donning a dramatic black gown for the next year in a show of mourning, I’ll be covered in baby poop, spit up, and spoiled breastmilk, likely wearing a stained nursing bra and mesh underwear, ” I mused to my husband through a mix of laughter and grief-induced tears.My mother was the kind of person who swooned over the story of her grandmother covering her grandfather’s grave in a blanket of fresh roses while wearing black for an entire year. While an elegant mourning dress would convey the seriousness and drama of death and the blanket of roses would certainly pay tribute to my mother’s passion for flowers, the five day old sweatpants and soiled t-shirt were a much more authentic display of the work of grief in the face of life moving unforgivingly forward. And my mother never wanted a grave, so the floral covering was a truly superfluous consideration.I couldn’t fathom how I would mother without my own mother a phone call or car ride away for support and encouragement. I heard her loving voice reminding me this was all just a phase. This time would pass, and it wouldn’t feel so debilitating and all-consuming weeks, months, or years from now. She had said this when I was puddled on the floor of my bathroom, my oldest daughter wailing in the adjoining nursery at 6 weeks of age. I’d called her weeping I wasn’t cut out for parenting. She’d gently reassured me, “You can do this.”While my love for her and grief over her death will never subside, I’m learning, a year into this process, that it evolves and shifts. The notion that time heals all things is utter bullshit. But time does allow for growth and adaption. Time permits balance and gentleness and forgiveness, with the world and oneself. And it has a way of stripping life down to its most essential parts. Love presents itself in all of its messiest, purest, unfiltered forms in the aftermath of death. My son was born, three weeks to the day, following my mother’s passing. While I had had relatively uneventful, smooth deliveries with my two older children, my son’s labor was predictably fraught.  Fortunately, baby remained healthy and strong despite the upheaval of its incubator. With the love and presence of my dearest family and friends, I made it to ten centimeters. With three strong, determined pushes, I brought my son into the world. He pooped on arrival, a fitting tribute to my mother and the trajectory of our story. I held my newborn to my chest, the sticky meconium further binding us together in those final moments before my midwife cut the umbilical cord. My third birth, and yet for the first time, I envisioned my mother similarly cradling me during my first breaths. I beheld the fragility and power of new life, the sweet half strawberry nose of my mother atop my son’s face, the mystery and universality of it all. Grief ushered in an even deeper gratitude for this life, a grace and gentleness previously unknown. One of the many surprising gifts found in such heartbreak.Shortly after his birth, I developed an infection that resulted in days of extremely high fever.  We couldn’t figure out the cause, and the postpartum realities combined with my grief were only further confusing the situation. As James ran through symptoms and potential causes over the phone once again with my doctor, I mumbled through a feverish haze, “I think I saw some white spots in my poop. Could that be something?” We were desperate for answers and some relief from the 104 degree reading on the thermometer. We scheduled an appointment for the next day, and I agreed to provide a stool sample. That evening, when I had a bowel movement, I asked James to bring me gloves and a container. I lay down on the floor of the bathroom, the tiles cooling my feverish cheeks, and promptly fell asleep alongside the toilet bowl. When I awoke, James was once again elbow deep in shit, this time my own. As he went to transfer my excrement into household Rubbermaid, he inspected it closely, carefully considering  these white spots of which I spoke.“Oh my God, Ashley. That is oatmeal. That is oatmeal from all the damn lactation cookies you’ve been eating.”Apparently, we did not need to provide a stool sample. A sneaky case of mastitis was slow to show its most notable symptoms, but by the morning, I was on a heavy dose of antibiotics, and the dynamics of my marriage had forever changed.I knew how much my husband loved me. I had experienced his caregiving and support in unmatched capacities over the course of that three weeks following my mother’s death. But I had no concept of the unwavering depths of his love until I witnessed him literally holding my own shit in his hands. In a month’s time, the death of my mother, the birth of my son, and the caregiving of my husband had tested my own capacities for love. And, more significantly, I had experienced the intensity and scope of how I was loved in return. And with the strength of that love, we continue to make our way through grief. In death, love shows itself most boldly. In the Kindergartener skipping through the streets with her grandmother in Tupperware. With dogs covered in pig shit. In meconium-coated newborn toes. With a husband picking through his wife’s feces in a quest for answers. While it may not be terribly dignified or romantic, it is what makes death such a worthy, formidable adversary.We carry the light and the dark, the joy and the pain, as all humans do.A year following my mother’s death, we approached her freshmen dormitory, now a residential apartment building. My father suggested that we scatter a few of my mother’s ashes over the gardens out front. “Momar can feed the flowers,” he told my daughters. “She would love that, because flowers were here favorite thing. Besides us, of course,” responded my Kindergartener. As residents strode in and out of the building, caught up in the rhythm of their daily lives, my family stood around an ordinary rose bush, and through tears, we smiled. All this shit is compost for the future. And I’ll always see my mother in the flowers. Hi, Mom,I heard your youngest grandchild’s heartbeat for the first time yesterday. It’s amazing how that simple sound can make such an abstract, mystifying process concrete. That steady whosh turns an idea, a concept, a dream, a hope, into something so clear. So real. So thrilling.“That’s our baby.”Our final baby. The last time we’ll get that relief, that proof, that affirmation of the wonder of life in process. Without direction or demand, my body is once again creating. And that reality is awesome. And humbling. And absolute magic.For the first few weeks of this pregnancy, I wasn’t excited. I was nervous. And ambivalent. And anxious. Was this what we really wanted? Was this what our family needed? I questioned. And hesitated. And hedged.And I missed you, mom. I fucking missed you. (I mean I always do, but during these past few months, more palpably).But as the weeks have fallen away, and my belly expands, and my fatigue fades, and the news spreads, I feel a lightness. An anticipation. A joy.I so look forward to welcoming this child into our family. With all the chaos and love.Sunny and Courtland were entertaining Sander the other evening, indulging his desire to spin in circles while holding hands, before collapsing on the floor and throwing his body on top of theirs. He giggled with delight as he threw himself on top of Sunny, and she wrapped him up in a big hug while whispering, “I love this little guy.”There is so much of that ahead of us.143 Your Ashley

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