peaceful bedtime thoughts
I'm reading "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination".
The author's first child was born still in April 2006. One year and five days later she gave birth to her second child. Similar, much? I asked for this book for Christmas and I just opened it last night but I've already underlined several sentences that I can relate to so much.
About her children...."The love for the first magnifies the love for the second, and vice versa."
About her grief...."I felt a strange responsibility to sound as though I were not going mad with sorrow."
And why she wrote the book..."I want a book that acknowledges that life goes on but that death goes on, too, that a person who is dead is a long, long story. You move on from it, but the death will never disappear from view."
Why she chose not to take pictures of her stillborn son...."The photo would not have been of our child, just his body. Only from this distance do I understand the difference." Yes, that's it exactly.
Abby is not the baby in all the photographs throughout our house, she is Abby, our little soul in heaven, in our hearts. I see her face every day, in every room of my house, and yet I don't know her. I don't know the sound of her laugh, if she had dimples, what would make her laugh, if she would be scared of the vacuum or allergic to cats. I don't know if she would like to eat avacado, or if she would cry in the bathtub, or if she would sleep on her belly or her back. Would she suck her thumb? Would she like dolls? How would she dance to Flo Rida? These are the things I grieve for. I want to know all of these things, and so much more. I don't just want the baby in the pictures, with purple hands, tubes in her mouth, and death makeup on. I want Abby, my child, full of life and love and personality. I want her to learn how to walk, print her name, braid her hair, and send text messages. I want to sit with her sisters and watch her graduate, get married, and push out her babies. I want her to be called Mommy, Auntie Abby, and Grandma. I want more memories of her. I want her to be remembered, always and forever.
"I'm not ready for my [first] child to fade into history."
The author's first child was born still in April 2006. One year and five days later she gave birth to her second child. Similar, much? I asked for this book for Christmas and I just opened it last night but I've already underlined several sentences that I can relate to so much.
About her children...."The love for the first magnifies the love for the second, and vice versa."
About her grief...."I felt a strange responsibility to sound as though I were not going mad with sorrow."
And why she wrote the book..."I want a book that acknowledges that life goes on but that death goes on, too, that a person who is dead is a long, long story. You move on from it, but the death will never disappear from view."
Why she chose not to take pictures of her stillborn son...."The photo would not have been of our child, just his body. Only from this distance do I understand the difference." Yes, that's it exactly.
Abby is not the baby in all the photographs throughout our house, she is Abby, our little soul in heaven, in our hearts. I see her face every day, in every room of my house, and yet I don't know her. I don't know the sound of her laugh, if she had dimples, what would make her laugh, if she would be scared of the vacuum or allergic to cats. I don't know if she would like to eat avacado, or if she would cry in the bathtub, or if she would sleep on her belly or her back. Would she suck her thumb? Would she like dolls? How would she dance to Flo Rida? These are the things I grieve for. I want to know all of these things, and so much more. I don't just want the baby in the pictures, with purple hands, tubes in her mouth, and death makeup on. I want Abby, my child, full of life and love and personality. I want her to learn how to walk, print her name, braid her hair, and send text messages. I want to sit with her sisters and watch her graduate, get married, and push out her babies. I want her to be called Mommy, Auntie Abby, and Grandma. I want more memories of her. I want her to be remembered, always and forever.
"I'm not ready for my [first] child to fade into history."