Wednesday, May 30, 2012


During the last full week of school with my first grade students I was reading The Velveteen Rabbit which depicts the "life" of a  briefly unloved stuffed rabbit who soon became a little boy's favorite toy.  Upon meeting "Real" rabbits, he learned that he was not "real" and would never live like they did.  Saddened he talked to the old rocking horse in the nursery who explained to him that  he could INDEED become real by way of the magic the love the little boy gave him which would make him "Real".  The boy became sick and some of the toys in the nursery had to be disposed of, including the beloved rabbit.

The adults gave him a new rabbit and even the boy believed that would sooth the sadness of losing his beloved rabbit friend.  By the end of the book, the boy did indeed love the Velveteen Rabbit more than enough to make him real, allowing the magic of love to turn him "real" and let him live amongst the other rabbits.  I won't spoil the ending, but it was heart warming and I think it was the part that touched me the most.

As I finished the book to my students, I had to save face and hold back the rush of tears that wanted to spill from every pore from my body.  We we share a book together we always talk about connections we can make to the book, be it ourselves, another book or our world.  I always share the connections I make to be a good example and model  to the students.  I shared my world and text connection, then, as I tried to transition to the next activity, one of my students reminded me that I had not share my text to self connection.  As the tears pooled I scraped up the connection that I believed of love, and that just because something does not SEEM real, our love for that object carried the magic of real-ness in our hearts.

I got through the day but found myself reflecting on connections I could make to the book, there were too many to count.

First, I though of the unknown love the boy originally felt for the boy.I remember not comprehending the love one could feel for their child(ren).  As the boy became to love the rabbit with all of his being, I was reminded of the idea of having a son that was growing in my body, the love, a love I had never fathomed, grew inside me as well.  I never imagined my life without him.

When he became "Real" too us a little too early on March 23, 2009 and we were forced to give him up, just as the boy did the Velveteen Rabbit, the magic of love that we gave him made him Real, even if in our hearts. 

Though we went on to have another "rabbit" of our own, our first beloved child has always been and always be REAL to us.  He lives in our hearts, watches us from Heaven, is missing from our lives, haunts our future, blesses our memories.

In the book, the live rabbits did not believe the stuffed rabbit was real because he did not move, live, eat, look, or talk like them.  Likewise, no one outside of the nursery toys believed in becoming real.  As the reader I connected with that concept, it's hard for people who are not baby loss parents or don't have to cope with children who aren't "real" here on Earth can't fathom the magic of making something that seemingly no longer exists "real". 

But those of us who identify with the nursery toys KNOW that once you love something so much with all of your being and it becomes Real, it never stops being Real, no matter how we move forward.  I miss my little "rabbit" so much it hurts, but at the end of the book, hope springs eternal as it always does.  Again, i won't spoil it, but i would love to hear the reflections of others.

- Except from The Velveteen Rabbit

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?" 

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real." 

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit. 

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt." 

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?" 

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." 
"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. 

But the Skin Horse only smiled.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

It Won't Be Me

I will get married and have the three children I always dreamed of.
My fertility will make it quite easy, hopefully too easy.
My pregnancies will be 100% pure joy and the births will go on without a hitch.
I will birth my babies and take them home with me a few days later.
Everyone will celebrate and balloons will be put on the mailbox.

My children will grow up healthy, give me a run for my money yet succeed at anything they try to do.
They'll be the picture of health, save the various infectious "bugs" that go around.
They will never struggle to hold life or hold their heads high.
People will view my family as a model family, a family they dream to have.

I will never miss a milestone, birthday, phase, heartbreak, graduation, marriage, birth.
I will foster their every stage of life and watch them bloom by my support and example.
My children will want to be like me both in parenthood and in success.
We will become so close as a family and pass that bond onto future generations.

My children will die after me, I will never have to eulogize them.
I will watch my children grow older and have them take care of me in old age.
From Heaven I will hope that they don't grieve too long, life is too short.

I won't ever have to sit through hours of scans so the doctors can figure out what's wrong.
I won't go into pre-term labor and have my baby taken to the NICU.
I won't EVER have to see my child on too many machines to count.
Never will I have to sign papers turning off the machines that keep my child alive.

I will never live each day grateful that I got through the last one without my child.
I will never wish my child was living and wonder what they'd be doing at present.
There will never be an empty place in my heart, home, life, and family where my child should be.
I will never mourn my children or feel guilt about why or how they died.

It won't be least that's what I thought

Friday, May 11, 2012


Mother's Inspiring Video About her Blind Baby Boy:

People ask her why she didn't choose to abort her boy. They stare at both of them. They talk behind their back. But none of that matters because this mother knows that her boy is beautiful just the way he is. What a great video.

'via Blog this'

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Honored to be Published again!!!!

Thank you to The Grief Toolbox for being SO supportive and encouraging me to write my way through grief and living on.  They have published my latest poem My Mother's Day.  You can view it on the link below or scroll down to read it as well (viewing is better as it rises my viewing rate which helps me reach more people).  Please like, share, view, tweet, etc.!!

On Mother's Day I miss my son.
Yet I look up into the sky and feel him smiling down on me.

On Mother's Day other mothers are accepting handmade gifts from their children
When I bask in the glow of my son's bravery.

On Mother's Day some mothers are having breakfast in bed.
I wake up next to my husband who thinks I am the best mommy ever!

On Mother's Day I miss having the duties of a mommy.
Yet my duty is to spread his story and his inspiration every chance I get.

On Mother's Day I wonder what he'd be doing now.
But when I think about my role in my son's life I know he's proud of me.

On Mother's Day I realize that most don't consider me a mother.
I know I have made the ultimate sacrifice as a mother, that makes me a mommy.

On Mother's Day most mothers get to snuggle their children.
On that day I know that my child is always in my heart and is always watching over me.

On Mother's Day mommies look forward to being honored.
I dread it but enjoy those who honor me as a mom.

On Mother's Day a lot of mommies spend time with their loved ones.
My time is spent with close loved ones who call me a mommy.

On Mother's Day most mothers reflect on their years as a mommy.
The milestones I have missed pain me but the days to come present so many possibilities.

On Mother's Day many mothers feel proud of all of their kids' accomplishments.
My son didn't have enough time yet he achieved strength and love.

On Mother's Day many moms look forward to watching their kids grow and thrive.
I look forward to seeing how my son's life will help others if not myself.

On Mother's Day other mommies are getting cards from family members.
I get flowers from my husband and a card from my parents, I don't need much more.

On Mother's Day some moms remember the years, the pregnancies, the joy of motherhood.
I rub my belly remembering the calm before the storm. pure bliss.

On Mother's Day many mommies look forward to watching the next milestones.
The days to come only bring motherhood in some aspect to me.

On Mother's Day there are moms who carry a strong load yet revel in it.
Losing my son is a strong load yet a labor of love, I carry it with pride.

On Mother's Day companies put out all sorts of cards honoring all mommies.
There isn't a card for my role as a mommy, yet I don't need a card, only the love of those who care.

On Mother's Day a lot of moms refer back to memorable photos.
My limited photos remind me of love, and the hope of things to come.

On Mother's day there are a lot of moms who feel like this day is the only day they are honored.;
I feel blessed and looked after everyday by my guardian angel, my son.

On Mother's Day some mothers wish they could be with their babies.
I do too, yet his life in Heaven is much better than what he would live on Earth.

On Mother's Day most moms are crying tears of happiness at their accomplishments as a mom.
I cry tears of loss yet the same tears of pride, the same tears of those moms, in a different capacity.

On Mother's Day ALL mothers all honored.
I AM  mother and I feel honored! <3

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

I've Loved My Child Right From the Start

‎"I've loved my child right from the start,

A feeling that's filled my entire heart.

I went through the labor and suffered the pain,

For many long hours with nothing to gain.

I've spent sleepless nights being awake,

Though it's been a while my arms they still ache.

I've sat and I've wondered of how she would grow,

The love of my family that she come to know.

The sound of her voice as she learns to talk,

Watching her steps as she tries to walk.

I have a child that I really love so,

I am her mother yet nobody knows.

I've spent all those months watching you here with us

I've lived through it all and have nothing to show.

I don't get invited to chat with young mothers,

Because I don't have a baby like all of the others.

I've got some stretch marks that I'd like to hide,

but I don't have a pram with a baby inside.

The people I've known for so many years,

Avoid me now, which adds to my tears


I don't know how long I'll be feeling like this,

But one thing I know, my baby I miss.

When Mother's day comes it will be very hard,

I won't have any flowers, not even a card.

And just because she's not here with me,

I still have a daughter I wish I could see.

But one thing I know and this is for sure,

I'll be her mother forevermore!

- Author Unknown

Sunday, May 6, 2012

My Bubble

You often hear of people living in a bubble.  Well the first thing that comes to mind is the infamous "Bubble Boy".  Next I think of the old colloquialism of people living in their own bubble.  Bubbles used to be such a joyous past time, the wonder, the awe, the amazing creation and completion, yet the fun never ended.  I love watching my daughter marvel at the wonder that is bubbles, she so innocent, curious, amazed.

She is unaware of figurative bubbles, the bubbles that keep judgment away, that "protect" egos, that close people off, that keep folks "safe", that keep the denials alive, that lets those who need to hide.

In this train of thought, I have pondered my own bubble, a bubble I never wanted, one I wish I could pop.  The bubble I live in is bullet proof because no one can penetrate the loss of a child.  I have tried to break free, the chisel at my prison, yet everyday I find myself trapped in a bubble that consumed me when I lost my son.

Inside my bubble I am inundated with my own grief, no one else can penetrate it, in fact, they think that it is my choice to be consumed by my grief, yet the bubble does not break so how can I break free?  They stand outside my bubble judging, moving on, thinking my bubble is the same as theirs.  Our bubbles float away from each other.

I know that everyone has their own bubble they live in, that they wish to pop, such is life.  We all have bubbles, in one way or another. Sometimes our bubbles are our conscience, our regret, our sorrow, our insecurity, our life experiences, our journey, our lack of faith or hope, our loss, our love, our hate, our pain, our dreams, our bitterness, our sins, our resentment, yet they keep us from living, REALLY living.

On the flip side, there are folks who don't want anyone to burst their bubble.  These bubbles are the ones you look at that catch the sunlight, that, when you examine them further, you see the swirls of color in their arcs.  They're beautiful and admire them.  I want to be in those bubbles and revel in the Heavenly colors  the glory, the wonder, all I see is colorful.  I want that childhood curiosity, that amazement.  Those bubbles remind me of why I am alive.

My bubble was so small in the beginning, yet taking one breathe after another my bubble has grown and if I look hard enough and keep breathing, the colors start to twirl.  I am always afraid my bubble will pop because now I don't want it  to.

I envision other bubbles bonding with mine and we travel together, holding on to each other, desperate not to pop.

Bubbles only pop when met with an obstacle, yet I am determined to get my bubble as high up to the sky as possible so it won't pop.  My bubble formed because of the deep breath it took to let my son go.  It was a gasp, a whimper, yet through the years it has gained strength as have I.

Each step I have taken, each morning I have awakened to face a new day, the breathing that has blown my bubble from a small speck to a bubble that attracts other bubbles like it, we soar together, rise high together, making each other's bubbles bigger and more colorful.

I prefer my bubble, not it's origin, but it's journey.  I know it will never pop yet I am not sure I ever want it to.  My bubble has become strong because because I breathe on, sometimes I even focus on deep breaths to get through life's bubble popping obstacles.

My bubble is no longer a barrier, it is a compass, it is the wind that carries me on.