“I wish I could meet the parent I would’ve been, if my baby didn’t die.” This was a statement that came across my screen on an Instagram post as I sat scrolling through this evening. I found my mind returning to the statement just now as I lay on my couch with my 7 month old second born (but only living) child snoozing on top of me. A picture of his stillborn older brother is framed on a table behind us.
I don’t think I’m dramatically different as a parent now than I would’ve been had George not died. Obviously I can’t know that for sure, but I feel like my experience of loss has just made me softer around the edges with my living child. It’s a little easier to not stress about things like a messy nursery or bedtime routines or whether I’m dooming him by having him watch crime shows with me as an infant, when I’m just happy he’s alive and in my arms.
I just want to be his safe place. I don’t believe in spoiling him with too much love or connection. I want him to know that he’s safe feeling allllllll the big feelings with me, and I’ll be here helping him learn to get through it. I won’t be anywhere near perfect but my goal is always to return to that anchor of love and connection. Those are the same anchors that helped me survive George and Sara’s deaths.
There’s a bedtime mantra type song that really resonates with me – the first set of lines is:
I will be your home, I will be your guide, I will be your friend, Always on your side...
I want to be his home, his safe person. I will keep soaking up all the cuddles, co-sleeps, contact naps, and moments of connection. I will try to ignore the voices that promote less connection in favor of making them tougher. I want to arm my youngest to face the harsh world with strong, kind, connected, softness.
I would like to think I would be the same were George here, but maybe after losing him it’s just a little easier to lean into what feels right and filter out what’s less important as I parent his little brother.