October

It’s here again. October.

A month that was my favorite month for a long time. It was an exciting month. It was typically my busiest month. College football season in full swing. I always feel most inspired by fall cooking and decorating. It's a month full of events that I either attend or manage through work. It had become the new wedding season. There were costume parties for Halloween. The weather would become the perfect kind of perfect. 

And then 2015 rolled around. That year I had became a statistic and the month of October took on a new meaning. One that made that particular October dark and difficult. That year, I was one in four women to experience pregnancy and infant loss. I was 1% of women whose pregnancy resulted in stillbirth. I was 5% of that 1% (that’s a thing? yes, it is a thing.) whose baby died because of an umbilical cord accident. October is an awareness month for many things, Pregnancy and Infant Loss included. 

In October of 2016, we gave birth to our daughter, our blessing after loss, a baby that the Pregnancy and Infant Loss community term a "rainbow baby." My grief that followed Hudson's death was very much a storm. It was tumultuous and scathing. In the throes of it, it was like a hurricane-tornado-tsunami super storm all in one. To be clear, Hudson was never the storm, but the aftermath of his passing very much was for me - more so than anything I had ever experienced in my life. The hope of new life through our pregnancy with Hadley was that light needed, the faith needed, the redeeming love from loss needed. To me, the term rainbow baby is very indicative and symbolic for her and one I use.

So now October takes on a new meaning again. It is a month where my grief and my joy live together intertwined. See, she wasn't just born in October, she was born on the International day of remembrance for Pregnancy and Infant Loss, October 15. Last year in the hospital, it was such a bittersweet, beautiful testament. We were completely exhausted, emotional, and relieved to have a living, breathing baby in our arms. This year, as we celebrated her birthday, it was a little difficult. I wanted to honor him, but it was her day. I don't want her to grow up in the shadow of the brother who came before her but who didn't get to stay. There is his memory that we honor, but she is her own little person. While he is and will continue to be ingrained in our family through special ways of acknowledgment, I struggled with how that will look on her day that shared a meaning in the pregnancy and infant loss world that we were apart of. I struggled with the guilt of if I didn't acknowledge it and that of if I did.

The Wave of Light is an International movement that takes place across every time zone on October 15 at 7 pm. Throughout the day, I didn't think about it, the focus was all on her. Then her bedtime rolled around and that happened to be 7 pm. All day we had fun with her and made special first birthday memories. In the 7:00 evening hour, she was in bed, the house was quiet. With her day drawn to an end, it was time I could allocate to my firstborn. In my mind, I feel like that's the way it would have been if he were here. Little sister to bed first, a little more time with him before his own bedtime. In 2015, my coworkers at the time had made special candles and gave them out to people on the team, surprising me with it as a way to recognize Hudson together. One by one I saw their photos pop up that night on social media, or received texts of a photo with their candle lit. That candle inspired us to create special One Wing Foundation versions made by our Hudder Putter Classic volunteers for our Care Boxes for parents to personalize to their child. I keep that original candle close and with his hospital blanket bunny, lit it in a quiet space in the house. We had finally experienced the first birthday we had so longed for, and there was a lot of emotion attached to that on this particular evening. We had completed a year full of firsts and reflecting on that was really difficult to do because it was a reminder of everything we didn't get to have with him, while still radiating in the thankfulness that we did get to have it with her.

Parenting after loss has been full of a lot of moments like that. Experiencing something together as a family, or with Hadley that we'd been looking forward to doing, or didn't realize how much we had missed doing by not having him here. It's meeting people who have kids that would be in his class and thinking how our lives would have already intersected by now. It's doing family activities and attending events we never did previously because they were family-centric and now we have a little one to take to things, or one that will garner the invitation. It's in the life celebrations, now adapted because of a baby/child in the family. It's all the wonderful ways our lives have been enriched because of her. It's all the little things she does, how she learns, and develops, all the little milestones we experience with her. As we experienced those things, it was so exciting, but there was the thought - every single time - that I missed the chance to see him do it. Some of those light bulb moments are harder to swallow than others. Those times as parents that have been more challenging, my mind says this shouldn't have been the first time you are experiencing this and learning how to handle. Then people say, you are a first time parent, you'll figure it out and the next one will be a breeze. I hate being categorized as a first time parent - though okay, yes it is our first time to experience this - but to a Parent of Loss, most of us feel like we shouldn't be, this should be our second time around.

I have struggled to find my writing voice since early this year because I know that my writing is strongest when it comes from a place of pain. The pain that I had drawn from previously hasn't been as prevalent. Sure it has been there, but I have wanted to stay in the happy because we had this baby that had been so incredibly yearned for. I didn't want to seem ungrateful. Unappreciative. Like I was dwelling in the pain. That I couldn't enjoy the now. However, there is a truth to this side of it and it's okay to shine a little light on it. Especially for others who are walking this path and know they aren't alone in those moments that make them catch their breath a little bit, the things that can trigger the broken heart of loss, or the times grief could take hold for no reason other than because that love will always exist for the one who isn't here, too.

October represents a lot. For me, it is now my month where I can celebrate how hope was restored from the ultimate pain of loss, through the most beautiful gift of our daughter.

The Best Year

My sweet baby girl, 

One year ago today brought us the greatest sense of accomplishment, joy and pride that we had experienced to date - it was the day you entered the world as our daughter. All yesterday, at any moment, I could think back to that day one year before and relive each moment. I remember everything about it from the time I woke up, to feeling contractions, to heading to the hospital wondering if we'd be coming home with you, to almost exactly 24 hours later when I got to hold you against my chest for the first time.

Your brother made us parents, he taught us a depth and understanding of love that we hadn’t known before, of sacrifice, of humility, of finding beauty through pain.

And you, my precious one, you made us full again. You gave us the meaning of redemption, of hope, of answered prayers. There was an all new depth and understanding of that love Hudson first brought into our hearts. It was amplified with you and one that we could live out through every moment of every day.

You are loving. You may not love to snuggle and prefer to wiggle around, but you love to give and get hugs and kisses to anyone you can, including Georgie Pup and Hudson Bunny. You touch everyone's faces and smile. 

You are curious. To observe how you take in the world around you is fascinating. To watch you begin to understand how things work, how they sound, how they move - it is a gift you've given us. 

You are strong-willed. You are a girl who knows what she wants and are determined to get it. Your teachers call you independent and strong. While it can make parenting a challenge at times, I hope this never leaves you and I'm proud that it is apparent so early. 

You are happy. You are such a happy child. Sure you can pitch a really great fit, but you are a smiley, giggly, cheerful girl. You sing more than you try to talk, you squeal to show excitement. You are expressionate and animated. You exude spirit and joy. 

All of this in just your first year of life. I want you to know how incredibly cherished you are, how adored you are. You have made our lives far better than they’ve ever been and you will continue to do that as you grow. You are everything we could have ever hoped for, and what you have brought into our lives is greater than what we ever imagined.

Our hearts are so full. Happy birthday Hadley Jane, we are so thankful you are ours. 

Photos by Lori Wilson Photography. 

This Side of Heaven

Two years ago today started like any other, but it was unknowingly the first day of our new life as bereaved parents. It has been 731 days since life as we knew it for 30 years was altered and we were shaken to our core upon hearing the words that our baby at 32 weeks and 6 days didn't have a heartbeat. It was the day we learned that our precious Hudson had already left us and would not be born into this world for us to love him, raise him and parent him in our arms. The way it should have been and is for most. Instead, we would give birth to his silence, to the sound of our cries, and say a goodbye that no parent ever should. Instead of the life we dreamed of as a family, we carry him in our hearts as we live on without him and only the idea of what should have been.

Loss parents have different milestone days that resonate, we may call them different things. I call today, the day we learned he had passed, Hudson's Heaven Day, and tomorrow, the day we gave birth, his Birthday. I honestly don't know which day is more difficult.

Two years ago I entered this hospital completely unsuspecting that I'd be leaving 24 hours later without our baby. Though I've been back here again many times since, it was a different kind of experience to walk through those same doors again, just like I did two years ago. While my answer to these hard milestones has been to escape, to be "vacation us" instead of loom in the "everyday us" where he is noticeably absent the most, this time on his Heaven Day we get to see his legacy in action. Today we did the official celebration and Cuddle Cot dedication to Baylor University Medical Center, the place that holds our only memories of the time spent with our son in our arms and where we brought his sister, a representation of so much joy and hope, into the world as well.

While we never want this Cuddle Cot to be used, the sad reality is that it will be. During this month, I've been introduced to or made aware of six families of stillbirth that have occurred in May alone. Six babies gone to soon. Six parents whose lives will never be the same. In addition to this Cuddle Cot, the funds given to Baylor University Medical Center at Dallas by the One Wing Foundation have gone to provide aid for families who cannot afford proper burial arrangements for their stillborn baby or NICU infant, and to create a renovated private space in Labor and Delivery for families giving birth but will either never hear their babies cry, or they will have a short time together before that baby takes its last breath.

Guys, this just isn't the way life is meant to go, but sometimes it does. There is not a rhyme or reason. Not a divine plan when someone's child dies. It is not the natural circle of life.You may feel differently, I did before this happened to me. Now, I believe that sometimes the terrible-awful happens. It just does. While we can't change it, we can provide for it. We can be the community that catches those parents in loving arms, without platitudes, when they have faced the most difficult obstacle of burying their baby. It is a wound that may reopen from time to time, and one that doesn't ever really heal. Because that's child loss.

I know it's ugly and unflattering sometimes. I know it's not what people want to see because it's sad. I know that every time I post about it, someone cringes. But he's my child, just like Hadley is. He will be recognized too. I may not have cute pictures of him covered in food, smiling in the bathtub or grabbing his toes - because those were robbed from me when his heart stopped. This is what I have for him. This is how I parent him - my son who should be turning two tomorrow.

Waking up two years ago on May 26, it was any other day until it wasn't, and our path changed for good. As difficult as this road has been, can be, and will continue to be at times, I take solace in continuing to parent my son in any way that I can, and One Wing Foundation is that way. I felt him in my heart, the love and support in the room through the incredible Baylor staff, I see him in her eyes sometimes - the eyes I never got to look into.

Happy Heaven Day sweet boy. You got there before us and we know we will see you again on the other side.

The House That Built Me

"A house is built with boards and beams, a home is built with love and dreams." 
First house photo taken the week we moved in, June 2014

I remember the first time we saw it. We drove down a tree-lined street to this little blue-grey house with a front porch and a white porch swing. It donned an American flag and the blooms of a crabapple tree finished the craftsman style ideal. The house, built in 1922, was well kept and maintained its character with gorgeous original hardwoods, glass door knobs, clawfoot tub and 10 ft ceilings throughout. As we walked through, we both ditched the check list we had in our minds of our "perfect house" because truth be told, this was far from our idea of perfect and it didn't have our shared top three musts. However, it had something that none of the 20+ houses we had seen by that point had. This one had the feeling of home. 

It may have only been three years for us, but we lived a significant chapter of our lives in this little house. It was our first house together as a married couple. We painted walls, slowly finding new pieces of furniture to fill the rooms. We planted new bushes and flowers in those flower beds with our own hands. We rocked on that front porch swing countless times. We renovated and saw our ideas come to life. We adopted a dog and gave him a loving home. We celebrated anniversaries, birthdays, hosted holidays and various dinners. We found out we were pregnant in that house, twice. We dreamed a life for those babies in that house. It was where we returned home to, with broken hearts and bare arms when our first baby died. It became my sanctuary when I couldn't bring myself to face the outside world. It is where we prepared for our second baby's arrival and emotionally brought her home to. Those hardwood floors have soaked up countless tears. If those walls could talk it would tell many stories of a combination of our love and pain, deeply absorbed within them.

We don't need to move but there has been an itch. An itch for change. That little house felt even smaller once Hadley arrived, but we were content. However, as I scrolled through neighborhood listings with a friend, I saw it. I remember the house from when we were looking for our current house and loved it then. Looking at it again, it felt like us the minute I laid eyes on the pictures. When we were able to get in to see it, I walked through with Hadley in my arms. I saw us there. The birthday parties, the holiday gatherings, the space for the larger table to set. I stood in that kitchen, envisioning a busy morning scene of getting ready for work, packing snacks and lunch - lined up on the island ready to go. I could see the patio doors open with my husband on the grill, me cooking in the kitchen, Hadley and hopefully future babies playing somewhere in between. I saw the Christmas tree next to the mantle with stockings hung, the family snuggled by the fire in the fireplace. I saw the traditions we will continue and new ones we will start. We fell in love with it and decided to go for it - and now here we are. Proud owners of our new family home, sellers of our first family home.

Over the weekend, I took some time to walk through and pause in each room, taking them in before we started to pack them up and they will no longer be the way we have had them. We've done a lot to the house to make it ours, but the room I will miss most is the nursery. It is a beautiful space, in many ways, that has so much sentiment tied to it. I've written before about how the first time walked the house, we identified that room as the nursery. I thought it would be the kitchen, but its the nursery that I will remember most about that house. We put in the contract that we are taking Hadley's chandelier with us so she can have a piece of her old room in her new room - a symbol of the room that was meant for both our babies. Before there were pink lines, there was the vision of who would occupy that room. I didn't know the road we'd take to get there. We always saw that house as our starter home and we'd hope to have two babies there, then we'd probably outgrow it. I guess you can say that's where we are now, though different than we thought it would look.

What gives me a great amount of peace and comfort to this process is that I feel like, if Hudson were here, we would be doing this right now, moving to this house. The timing became right for us to do this now, and I think it would have been right now if both our babies were here too - part of me wonders if that is where the itch came from, an inherent feeling that we'd be doing this anyway. As Parents of Loss, we do have our own parallel universe that we picture our other child/children in. I find that it can be painful sometimes when what is happening in our reality doesn't mesh with what would be going on if the parallel life was our reality. But when big life events happen and you feel they would be happening with or without the missing person, it's healing to the heart and soul. In that world, we are moving our almost 7 month old and almost 2 year old to a new house that will become our family home for quite some time. In our reality, we are doing the same but with our almost 2 year old as a memory of what could have been.

It is emotionally difficult to close the door, both literally and figuratively, on that little blue-grey house on Woodlawn. It would be hard even if we hadn't lost our first born, if we weren't leaving the only house he "experienced" but I know that adds to the connectivity. The time we made this house our home the most was when we were pregnant with him and preparing it with him in mind. Not just the renovation work but the things we bought to get ready for our growing family. I cried uncontrollably when it was agreed on in our selling contract that we'd leave our washer and dryer. The washer and dryer we bought with a gift card my in laws gave us for Christmas because we had just told them we were expecting Hudson and they told us we'd need a good new washer and dryer for that baby. I realized it is only a washer and dryer, but they carry a large amount of sentiment! The washer and dryer set revolved around him.

The 30,000 foot view regarding this move is that it feels like we are leaving a piece of us behind, but I remind myself that this is another part of our story as a family. It is a chapter of our book that we continue writing. While it was the only home that Hudson "experienced", I look forward to weaving him into our new family home blueprint. I envision creating a special corner in the new game room where I can maybe utilize some of his nursery decor that I've kept packed away in hopes to use again. It's a corner where his rocker will go with Hadley's books and toys. A place for her to play, hopefully with future siblings, some day. We have left our mark on our first family home, it will be a special place to us always. Come this weekend, I'll sit in our house for the last time with it empty, the way I did when I first entered it. Three years ago it I was in this empty space with the excitement of what the future holds. This time it is with tears, recounting the precious memories made there and how it went from a house to a home. We'll close and lock that door for the last time. Goodbye sweet little blue-grey house on Woodlawn. Hello to what our future holds for our family in our new home just ten blocks away.

Easter People

Our babies on Easter Sunday

Last Easter, March 27, was 10 months from the day we met and said goodbye to our son. Last year on Maundy Thursday my mom sent me an article with the theme that we are Easter people living in a Good Friday world and that hit home to me. This year, I saw many more articles and interpretations of this message, but the one I read specifically pertained to a grieving audience. I wrote Hudson's 10 month letter with that on my heart.

"Sweet boy, we've experienced our own Good Friday in losing you. It has been dark and sad, we were angry and in deep pain. However, God's promise allows us to be hopeful Easter people. Hopeful of new life and that our sorrow will be resurrected. Today, we are Good Friday people, but we are also Easter people who are hopeful. We will celebrate new life and everlasting life with the promise that we will be reunited again someday in Heaven."

Last Easter was a somber time and it hit me much harder than I expected it to. I remember sitting in church and all around us were little ones who would be close to Hudson's age. My heart hurt and I yearned for my own son who should have been sitting in our lap, fidgeting, too. While my heart was heavy, it was also full of hope because we were 8 weeks pregnant with Hadley. I had bought the softest little stuffed baby chick and it was part of my first "belly pic" that morning. After church, we shared that news with family, which was also my parent's 34th wedding anniversary.

After church, we went to their house for brunch and before extended family arrived, we gave them their "anniversary gift" presented in an Easter Basket. There were three large plastic eggs filled with different candies and a message in each. Egg 1 wished them a Happy Anniversary and said "We are EGGcited", with chocolate eggs as the candy. Egg 2 said "To spill the beans" filled with jelly beans. Then egg 3 was filled with skittles and a picture of our 8 week sonogram taken a few days prior with a message that our Rainbow Baby would arrive October 2016.

What was really special and unique is that the traditional anniversary gift for 34 years is an opal and the opal happens to be the October birthstone. So in essence, we gave them their opal for their 34 year anniversary! 

This year Hadley turned 6 months on Easter weekend. I saved that stuffed chick and it was in her Easter basket. She wore the same dress that I wore for my first Easter. We were 22 weeks with Hudson for Easter 2015. We were 8 weeks pregnant with Hadley, missing our baby boy who would have been 10 months old for Easter 2016. This Easter, we have a precious 6 month old baby in our arms and a 22 month old in our hearts. We know that because He died for us, we will live eternally in the kingdom of Heaven. We are missing a piece of our family, but we will reunite again when our time on this earth has come to an end.

As I stood in that pew yesterday and recited the Apostles Creed along with the rest of the congregation, I knew this is the way we would teach the Easter story to our children and that message started yesterday with Hadley when we visited Hudson after church. Jesus died for us, he rose from he dead, he is seated at the right hand of the Father and will come again to judge the living and the dead. It is through Him and Him alone that we have eternal life. It is because of Him we will see our Hudson again, and it will be a glorious reunion when that time comes. 

Something in the Water

A month ago we baptized our baby girl.

We baptized our son in a hospital room. We believe he had already entered the kingdom of Heaven but we wanted the memory of being able to baptize him together as a family. It took place in the early hours of the morning with the pastor who married us. He came to the hospital, my family members and our nurse gathered around the bed in a circle, Max and I held one another while holding Hudson. The holy water was in a styrofoam cup. It was tragically beautiful. There wasn't a special outfit or family traditions, it was the best we could do at the time. For the very limited amount of time we had with him.

Before Hadley was born, we started planning her baptism. We had wanted to baptize her as an infant for various reasons, but the time of year was also really important to us. The holidays were so brutal for us a year ago when they should be a time of joy and celebration. We clung to one another as we "celebrated" our wedding anniversary and everything that had made up our marriage to that point with the devastating elephant in the room that we had become parents but didn't have a child anymore. We hurt. We were broken. We had experienced a time of for better and for worse early in our marriage. Coming up on this fourth anniversary we had talked about how special it would be for us to make that weekend about Hadley and to baptize her in the same setting that we were married in. To have that healing from the year prior. The baptismal gown that my great grandmother made was worn by my mom, her sisters and their female cousins. It was worn by me and my cousins. Now we had a third generation to wear it and needed to do so before she outgrew it. I wore that gown at 8 weeks old and so did she.

The church altar was covered in poinsettias the way it was when we stood up there together last. This time, two of the poinsettias were donated in memory of Hudson and in honor of Hadley. This time, we stood up there with our baby girl and our son was represented right there with us. The baptism took place at the beginning of the service and we stood at the altar together, surrounded by our family and some of our best friends, like we were four years ago for our wedding. This time the words we echoed back were an I Do to raise her in the church and nurture her through faith in Christ our Lord. She was baptized and we all laid our hands on her and prayed. The Reverend walked her down the aisle to introduce her to the congregation. The sermon was about brokenness and I found myself clinging to every word as my husband held our sweet girl and she squeezed my finger. Christmas carols were sung by the choir and congregation, then at the very end we happened to sing one verse of Silent Night, my Christmas lullaby to Hudson.

At the conclusion of the service, we walked together as a family to visit him at the church's columbarium, taking Hadley for the first time. Emotions poured over as Max held Hadley, tears in both of our eyes, and he kissed her little hand to then put on Hudson's niche. Our extended family members joined us and for some, it was the first time to see his resting place. A baptism was one of the only memories of something we had done with our son, and here we were with his sister on her baptism day, yet he was there too.

We celebrated her back at our house and we continue to make precious memories with her each day. I can't believe she will be three months old in just a few days. The time has flown by so fast and I know it will only continue. I remember a friend telling me that her babies' baptisms were two of the most special days. The way both my babies' baptisms have occurred, though very different, I have to agree. Thank you to our families, our church family and the special friends who were there to take part in this very special day for us!

Thanks in a time of Grieving

Last night, our little family sat on the couch. Tired after a long day/night, we enjoyed the quiet moments together. George was nuzzled between us, Hadley was asleep on my shoulder post-feeding. Max and I were trying to figure out the best way to move her into her Dock a Tot without waking her up. Suddenly his face lit up and he mouthed "she's smiling!" Then a series of coos and squeaks began. In those moments of sheer joy, memories flooded back of last year at this time. I was in such a dark place. I was grasping frantically for something to fill the void, but was missing it altogether. I wanted our Hudson so very badly, a life with him was all I could think about. I was lost, deeply sad at all times, and very broken. A year ago I didn't see hope. I didn't see happy again. I was just submerged in the sadness. I felt so isolated and alone most of the time. I can only imagine how hard I was to be around because I started to give up on camouflaging it with others. I had found my rock bottom of grief at this exact time last year.

Last night I had this precious baby girl on my chest with her sweet noises and sleep smiles. All of it filled me with emotion and I cried. Max thought I was tired and exhausted, he hugged me and told me to go get some sleep, he was going to take night duty. I looked at him and just said that I was emotional because of where I was a year ago, depressed and so unhappy, but now here we are, with her. Last year I struggled to find thankful, to be grateful. I found thanks that Hudson was ours, though not the way that we would have wanted, because we were without him. This year I'm not emotional because of what feels empty, I'm emotional because how full we feel. I have become accustomed to the piece of us that despite the fullness, feels like there is someone who will always be missing.

Last week the One Wing Foundation held its final fundraising event of the year, our Wine & Dine dinner. At that event, we had a representative from the Grief and Loss Center of North Texas speak. She did a beautiful job presenting on a difficult topic, grief. One thing that struck me is that the most common misinterpretation of grief is that the first year and its milestones are the hardest. As a grieving person, I knew we would grieve Hudson as long as we lived but I didn't think that it could be more difficult outside of that first year. What she's found is that the second year can be just as if not even more difficult. It hit me hard because for us, our second year has not been more difficult. As we prepared for Hadley, of course there were intense emotions and a wish that we would be introducing him to his little sister, however, we've found a healing and peace in this second year without our son. I know that's because of Hadley and what she has not only restored to our life but also the new pieces of life she's brought us. Not everyone has that. However, what I take from her talk was that people - both grievers and non-grievers alike - underestimate grief as a whole. We had a very hard first year but grief is never ending. It will be difficult at different times, for different people. Though this second year hasn't been as hard or harder for us, for others it very much may be. Though we aren't experiencing it right now, that doesn't mean we won't as time goes on. The grief is always looming and it may become more difficult at another time. When I went to bed last night, I was thinking about this and I found myself crying for Hudson and my wish to have both my son and daughter here with us this holiday season, a time of year that is centered around family. The looming grief found a vulnerable time to invade my heart and mind.

This morning as I was having time with Hadley, I thought about how two years ago we were pregnant with Hudson and we were trying to hide it from family on Thanksgiving. Next week when I go in to see my doctor for my six week check up, I thought how it will be the same week we went in for our first sonogram with him. We will celebrate our four year anniversary weekend this year by baptizing our sweet baby girl, when last year we were mourning not having our baby boy with us. I feel there are so many things that have come full circle throughout the last two years.

I had a conversation via text yesterday with a friend who is in a season of grief herself. We were discussing this holiday season and went back and forth about the platitudes offered and how most people cannot simply exist with another person in their grief. It is our nature to try to fix when most of the time, a grieving person wants someone to justify their feelings or have someone to just sit with them in it. We live in a grief illiterate society, but people do mean well and there are ways to "help fix" that are better than others.

This holiday season, you may know people in your life experiencing a Thanksgrieving or a Blue Christmas. If they have lost someone close to them whether it's been a few months or a few years, the holidays will be difficult. I challenge you that if you do have someone close to you in a season of grief, let them know you are there. Don't tell them things will get better, don't tell them anything that equates to what has happened is God's will or everything happens for a reason. Justify where they are with their emotions instead. Tell them this sucks. Tell them you hurt with them. Say their loved ones name. Share a memory of their loved one with them. Sit with them in their grief. It makes them feel like they are understood and someone else recognizes their pain. This can be more uplifting than any platitude or well wish.

As you prepare to send your holiday cards, if you know someone who has lost a loved one in the past year or seem very raw in their grief, don't send them the card everyone else will receive of your beaming family. It intensifies their pain and is like a fluorescent blinking arrow of what is missing in their life: a husband, a wife, a child, a mother, a father, a brother, a sister. Instead, when you are at the store, pick up a thinking of you card and send that instead. It's heartfelt, it's personal to them, it is so appreciated. For those who may be more removed from grief, that may not be necessary but I would definitely stay away from it if you can sense they pain is raw.

For the grieving family members, find a way to incorporate the loved one's memory into your holiday traditions. Maybe it is a stocking with their name, a family tree ornament representative of them in some way, a tradition surrounding the one who isn't there, or setting a place at the table to show they aren't forgotten. Maybe talk to those grieving hard - if they are parents of loss, a sibling of loss, a child of loss or spouse of loss - to ask them how they would like their loved one's memory portrayed in the family celebrations so you can know what they need.

To those grieving, create a plan for your holiday season. Know that you are not alone. Know that though it's hard sometimes, there is thanks and giving to be found and that there can be joy amidst pain. Do what you need to do to make it through this next month of watching the world go on around you when yours may feel halted. Practice self-care and whatever that means for you right now, during this season of grief.

For us personally, we needed different. Last year we had to host Thanksgiving to keep ourselves busy. It needed to be a different setting than what we did each year because I had already envisioned that setting with our son and it was too hard to do it without him. We needed a change up. Christmas was especially difficult, it was the time we had told our families the year before that we were expecting. Those memories were too glaring and the pain without him was too raw. I couldn't be around expecting family members while we were struggling to get pregnant after experiencing the death of our baby. It was too hard to be around other parents experiencing Christmas with their little ones. So we escaped. Travel is something that is special to us, it connects us on a deeper level being able to see and experience new things together. My husband needed snow because that represented the holidays to him, so we chose a Winter Wonderland in Montreal and Quebec City. It was what we needed to get through not having our son for Christmas.

We've all heard of the 5 love languages and you may or may not know your personal language style of giving and receiving love. If you don't, try this. Here are some ideas of ways to express that based on your personal love language.

• If your love language is through gifts, send them a thoughtful way to include their loved one in the holiday, like an ornament for their tree. Last year it meant so much to me to receive ornaments in Hudson's memory. Our Christmas tree tells our family story and now Hudson was able to be included in that. Etsy makes some wonderful remembrance ornaments, Pier One has these beautiful angel wings, LaurelBox makes these ornaments for grieving loss. If they do not celebrate Christmas or you would like to do something else meaningful, consider a donation in memory of their loved one to an organization that may mean something special to them. That simple gift helps a grieving person feel like their loved one lives on or has left a legacy, no matter how big or small.  

• If your love language is through words, send them a text, an email, a card or call them. When people are deep in grief, many times they do not want to talk on the phone, but they will appreciate your attempt even if they don't answer or return the call. A text or email may illicit a response they are more comfortable with, but if they don't respond, know they are grateful to hear from you. You can say you wish (loved one's name) was here with them, too. You can simply say you wish them comfort today. It doesn't have to be profound or a novel. Sometimes the more simple the better. 

• If your love language is through service, take them a meal, mow their lawn, offer to help them around the house, or grab them some essentials from the grocery store just because you were thinking about them. Many times, help is offered but a grieving person may not be able to or know how to accept help. Sometimes you just need to show up and do it, or proactively stay on top of them to say today I'm coming over to do x, y or z. 

• If your love language is through time, like with service, stay on top of them and arrange time to spend together. Offer to take them to visit the resting place of their loved one with them, to go on a walk or another fitness activity they may be too inhibited by grief to try to do on their own, go to coffee or lunch, or have a movie marathon at their home. 

• If your love language is through touch, never underestimate the power of a hug. 

As a grieving person, you can also use the 5 love languages to express your grief in a way that honors your loved one.

• If your love language is through gifts, if your heart is ready, adopt an Angel from an Angel Tree who would be the same age as your loved one or hold a baking day with friends or family and take those baked goods to people as a gift. Last year I found a snowflake poem that made me think of Hudson. I found snowflake ornaments and gave those to others in Hudson's memory. This year we will adopt a 1 year old boy from the Angel Tree and as a family, we will honor Hudson by giving another little boy a special Christmas in Hudson's name.

• If your love language is through words, use writing as a form of expression. Write them a letter, story or narrative. You can scrapbook special things that makes you think of them. Connect with others on your path and go to coffee with them to talk about how you are feeling or text them when hurting most. I found myself writing and meeting with other loss moms a lot during the holidays last year and it was a great band aid for my heart to use my writing and conversation to help heal. 

• If your love language is through service, use a volunteer opportunity to serve those in need at a food kitchen on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Create bags of food for families who can't afford to feed the mouths around the table. Organize toys at a local hospital or shelter for kids who don't have anything can bring healing to your heart. Maybe it is connecting with others walking your path through a support group care package or ornament exchange. 

• If your love language is through time, surround yourself with family or special friends who make you happy. Plan out activities to fill your time when you think you may be sad. Spend time at a nursing home talking with someone who may not have anyone to visit them. 

• If your love language is through touch, don't be afraid to ask for a hug or someone to hold your hand when you need it. Another way to fulfill that is to go to an animal shelter and cuddle those animals who don't have owners to love them yet. 

Most importantly, know that you are not alone. Know there is a community ready to embrace you if you are in need. Seek out your tribe and find the support you need to get through this difficult season. If you can't make a list of what you are thankful for this year, that's okay. Maybe you can find thankfulness it in the one you wish were here. A thanks that you had them at all, even if just for a little while. Sending you love, comfort and peace during this season. 

Chronicles of Parenting a Living Child After Loss, Edition I

The moment she was placed in my arms, everything changed.

My comparisons from this time and last time ceased once I heard her cries. At that moment, it was a new and different experience. There was a lot of strength and optimism from the time we entered the hospital around 3:00 PM on Friday, October 14. That optimism continued on into the evening and through the hours of the early morning of October 15, but throughout it all there was still a tiny bit of insurmountable fear in the back of my mind. That fear took over during delivery and at one point I remember thinking that she's been in the birth canal too long (she hadn't at all) and I ignored nurse Shirley's half-push prompts because I felt like I needed to push harder to just get her out already, something could still happen (it didn't). The feeling of sweet relief and sheer joy spread throughout us once she was in our arms, safe and sound.

However, her birth story didn't tell the side of grief that was experienced once she arrived. About two hours after she was born, it was noticed that the little noises she was making wasn't her learning to cry and make sounds. It was termed grunting, which indicated that she was having trouble pulling oxygen into her lungs. She was taken from us and they were able to remove the excess amniotic fluid. As mentioned in her birth story, it was a busy night for Labor and Delivery. When it came time to move us to postpartum floor, there were not any rooms available. We were temporarily placed in a room on the antepartum floor - which is where we were taken following our delivery with Hudson until we were ready to go home. These rooms are primarily used for women who are pregnant and need to be hospitalized. Now we were back in the same kind of room we were in when we said goodbye to our son, which took me right back to last time.

Shortly after settling into this tiny temporary room, we realized she was still grunting. The nurse came in and Hadley was taken from us again. It hit me so hard to be back in that room, watching a stranger take my baby from me and wheel them away, door closing behind them. In the back of my mind I knew she was coming back, I knew it wasn't goodbye, I knew it wasn't like last time but in that moment the emotions and my grief got the best of me. This is where my personal version of post traumatic stress started.

About an hour later, the nurse and pediatrician came to see us. They told us that the grunting was still persisting and that we had a few options. They said it could be that there is just a little bit of fluid in there and it would resolve itself within a few hours, it could be pneumonia or another infection, it could be some kind of internal problem that they will need to start running tests for. She recommended that we wait a few hours and keep her in the NICU for observation to see how she does and then if it isn't getting better, we would do x-rays of her chest and start running tests. Now that we had this long awaited child, I hated having to be apart from her. 

We tried to sleep and get some rest as we waited, but my heart was overwhelmed. A few hours later, we were led to the NICU nursery to see her and to work with a lactation consultant. They said she had a posterior tongue tie and that it would be challenging for her to adequately latch, so we also learned how to syringe feed. The pediatrician came by and checked her over again, saying she was doing great and her lungs just needed a little time but that the grunting had stopped so they let her come back to our room with us and to work on obtaining a good latch to nurse her.

By 4:30 PM we were finally moved and settled into a postpartum room, now in a new environment and I could get over that hump, get back to the new and different of this time again. We were nursing her, family came to visit and to meet her, we tried to get our own rest in between.  As we moved into Sunday and throughout that day, we thought we were on the up and up. Except that her bilirubin levels were going up slightly each time checked which indicated jaundice, but we were still in the safe zone. No big deal, I had jaundice, a ton of babies have jaundice. Max held her in the window where the sunbeams came in and the two of them napped together throughout the day, bathing in the sunlight to help that jaundice dissipate.

We were supposed to be discharged on Monday, but early that morning the pediatrician came in to talk to us again. Her first 24 hours, she lost 1% of her birth weight which was normal. But that second 24 hours, she was down an additional 10% of her body weight which was a lot at once and concerning. We thought she was latching better and feeding well, but apparently she was not. The pediatrician on call said she wanted the lactation consultant to come check for a good latch and we'd wait for the blood test results for her jaundice before she will discharge us. After working with the LC for about 20 minutes, they said they just weren't comfortable sending us home yet. We then learned she was now above the seventy-fifth percentile and had moved into the high-risk classification with her jaundice. I had a tearful conversation with the pediatrician and she was aware of our previous birth and loss of Hudson. The team decided to discharge us, but keep Hadley as a patient. While I wasn't their patient anymore, we were to stay together in that room with her as if I were because they weren't going to send us home without our baby again, as long as they could help it. That, I am truly thankful for.

That Monday was a hard day. Aside from already being a sleepy newborn, the jaundice made her even more sleepy. It was nearly impossible to wake her up to try to feed on the schedule they wanted us to have so that she didn't lose anymore weight. However, to help the jaundice, she needed to eat. Throughout the rest of that day, I was broken down so badly. I would have episode after episode of staring at this precious newborn baby, wanting her so badly to open her eyes. It took me right back to last time with Hudson and trying to will him with my mind to wake up. Holding this tiny baby, tears running down my face please wake up, please open your eyes, it absolutely broke me. While I knew she would be fine, this wave of grief and de ja vu consumed me. We worked hard throughout that day to feed her and get her in that indirect sunlight so that they wouldn't have to take her from us to be under lights and receive supplemental formula to gain weight. We were trying to breastfeed and get a good latch, but also cup feeding and syringe feeding to make sure she had enough in her belly. By Tuesday afternoon, her BR levels had lowered, she seemed to be feeding better, and she hadn't lost any additional weight overnight so we were able to take her home.

Finally we were at that moment of being wheeled out of the postpartum floor, holding our living child. As they pushed me down the hallways of Labor and Delivery and to that front door, I clutched Hadley in her little going home outfit that was too big for her though it was a preemie size. I know I had the goofiest smile on my face while at the same time trying to fight back tears. I've been on that wheelchair ride before, but without my baby, a look of horror and disbelief on my face, passing people in the hallway, trying not to look at them and see their face when they looked at me. I clutched this little girl and listened as people gave their congratulations, commented on her big pink bow or how tiny she was or how beautiful she looked. I had tears of joy and pride, tinged with a little bit of sadness because of the memories that flooded back. Because I didn't get to do this part last time.

Max arrived in the circular drive with the car and he put her in the car seat for the first time. I let her grip my finger the whole way home and in exchange, she allowed me to stare at her in awe, with those tears streaming down my face. I held my breath walking in the front door. Max carried the car seat in. We took her out and walked into the nursery. We stood there together, the three of us, in that room. In the room that from the first time we first entered the house with the realtor, we identified it as the nursery. The room we had waited to bring a baby home to. The room we started to create for a little boy. The room we fell to the floor sobbing in when we got home after saying goodbye to that little boy, our first baby. The room that brought us joy again to create the perfect space for her. Now she was here, we had our baby in that room. I held her and just cried because that day had finally come. Afterwards, Max walked her around and introduced her to each space in her house, huge smile on both our faces. 

Throughout these first few weeks at home, both of us would just hold her or stare at her and cry - happy tears, tears because we couldn't believe that she was actually here, that we were finally having these moments together as a little family. I wasn't prepared for all of these overwhelming emotions. At the end of our first week with her, I learned that my placenta had an abnormality discovered once delivered and had been sent off to pathology. I also learned that her umbilical cord was short and had a marginal insertion which meant instead of a normal cord placement in the middle of the placenta, it was on the side. Both of these things can cause a number of risk factors, including a cause for stillbirth. One of the risk factors of a marginal insertion is restricted blood flow to the baby, which would explain the umbilical cord blood pressure issue we had. Between the unknown placenta abnormality and the marginal cord insertion, I felt even more so like she was a miracle. I was so thankful she came when she did and we didn't have to wait another few days for her to arrive. It makes me fearful in thinking about what it could mean for future pregnancies seeing that my uterus seems to create a risky environment for my babies and why neither of these factors were discovered in one of the 20+ sonograms we had. We will discuss pathology report and our questions with our doctor at the 6 week check up but for now, I concentrate on the fact that Hadley is healthy and perfectly fine despite the way things could have turned out.

At every 2 am diaper change and feeding, I rock her in her room. Sometimes I hold her and as I look at her, I cry. I whisper her lullaby songs to her and allow myself the chance for that emotional release of my grief and my joy tangled together. Smelling that sweet baby smell, feeling the weight of her in my arms, hearing her breaths and sighs, seeing her little facial expressions as she sleeps with the occasional raised cheek smile. I wasn't prepared for all the emotions this "fourth trimester" brings, but they are coupled with those of a mother's heart who is parenting one child in her arms and one she longs to hold again.

After losing Hudson, I'll admit, I would get really angry anytime I heard a mom complain about motherhood. I would bite my tongue but always in the back of my mind I thought I'd give anything to have that, you don't know how lucky you are to have your child. Because of that, I have immense guilt when I feel like this is really hard. But it is very hard, for any mother. I have guilt for the times I feel defeated or stressed when we have trouble with feeding, or I am so incredibly tired, or I just don't know what else to do to soothe her. I think that guilt is normal for a mother of loss to feel. I know this is just the beginning of all those feelings. I am tremendously grateful to have this sweet girl with us, to be her mother, to raise her and to love her. I'll take the hard times, all of them with the happy, whatever it may be, just to be able to have them with her at all.  

Welcome to the World, Hadley Jane

My Precious Girl,

Today is November 3. If we were not a high risk pregnancy, this would be the due date we would have been anticipating and counting down toward. Today you would be 40 weeks, instead you are 19 days old! As I write this, you sleep in the Rock and Play next to me. They say when you sleep, we should sleep. I'm exhausted but I can't stop staring at you and I am feeling nostalgic about three weeks ago tomorrow when you decided it was time. I want to remember everything about this, which is why I am writing. I want to remember all of these moments, all of these emotions, every feeling of exhaustion, pride, sadness, joy, fear, triumph - all of it rolled into one.

The morning of October 14 I woke up around 5:00 am, your typical time every day to say good morning mama! You were kicking and moving, but I was also feeling contractions. I had been feeling them since the Sunday before when we went to the hospital to be monitored when your heart rate was elevated. The contractions had not increased in intensity and were still very irregular throughout the week but Friday morning, they were feeling a little stronger. At our 37 week appointment the day before, I had moved from 1.5 cm dilated on Sunday to 4 cm dilated on Thursday. We talked with our doctor about how Tuesday morning would go when we'd arrive to induce labor. My doctor felt like we would probably make it to then, but she said she wouldn't be surprised if you came on your own before.

I took my time getting ready that Friday morning. It was my last day of work before maternity leave started. We had a busy weekend and I planned to spend that upcoming Monday at my final appointment, followed by a prenatal massage, then doing any last minute errands before your Daddy and I had one final date night at one of our favorite restaurants. That morning I took my 37 week photo which was the last bump shot with you!

I got to work and felt a little off. I was trying to wrap up everything but in the back of my mind, kept wondering if these contractions were really feeling a little more real, or if it was just in my head? I finished my to-do list around noon and said my goodbyes to the team. On my way out, both my boss and another team member predicted you would come sometime that day or over the weekend because of the full moon.

I got home around 12:30 and felt the need to feel close to Hudson. I held his lamb, sat in his rocker and wrote him a letter. I was feeling very nostalgic about his birth and very emotional. After about an hour, I realized that contractions had become much more regular - in fact, incredibly regular. I decided to start timing them just for fun. I didn't think we would get to time contractions so I was somewhat excited to do that. After about 30 minutes had passed, I noticed a pattern, that they were every 4 minutes for exactly 1:05 or 1:15 min. After an hour of doing this, and checking your heartbeat on the fetal monitor, I let your Daddy know that we may be heading to the hospital. He said he was on his way home! I called my doctor's nurse and she told me to head to the hospital and check in for observation in Labor and Delivery because it sounded like we could be in labor. Daddy got home around 2:30, we grabbed the hospital bag that I had packed, kissed Georgie pup goodbye and had our moment of could this be it?! after all. Leaving the house we were about 40/60 that the next time we came home, it would be with you in tow.

We got to the hospital and checked in with Labor and Delivery Observation. They hooked me up to monitor your heartbeat and the contractions for 30 minutes. During this time, we had a very special person who set the tone for our experience, Nurse Jill. My doctor's nurse, Stephanie, had already called down to them and prepped her for us. She knew all about us and was ready for us. She was so wonderful and I felt she was a special angel placed to be there for us on that day and just what we needed to begin this experience. During that first thirty minutes, Daddy and I sat in our triage-like, curtained off room and overheard a scenario I recognized all too well. A woman had come in and she was in a panic. In tears she was frantically asking if her baby was okay. We listened as they tried to calm her and look for a heartbeat. Tears fell down my cheeks as I heard the sound of a fetal heart monitor searching for a heartbeat and her scared stifled sobs. Your Daddy reached for my hand. It took a bit, but they did find a heartbeat and I could breath again, but it really rattled me. When Nurse Jill came back into our area, it's like she knew. She talked to us about Hudson, she said his name, she said we had a special angel watching over us. She told us that we were going to get you here safe and sound.

At the conclusion of that first 30 minutes, she had tracked the same contraction pattern I had at home but they were now every 3 minutes. I was 5 cm dilated so she told us we were going to walk this baby out. We were instructed to briskly walk around for 30 minutes and then come back, that we would do this three times and after each 30 minute set of walking, we would check your heart rate and my contractions. Throughout our walks, I definitely had stronger and closer together contractions. We walked all around that hospital and the exterior in those 30 minute increments with brief check ins.

After the last walk, we went back in and I was 7 cm dilated. Jill called the doctor on-call for my doctor's practice. She came back in to give us the option of going home and seeing how things continue to progress on their own, that I'd probably be back within 24 hours. Or, if it was okay with me, she recommended we go ahead and have this baby. We chose the latter, though it meant that Dr. Kurian, who we felt so close to throughout this whole experience, would not be the one able to deliver you. The doctor who was on-call, Dr. Myears, was someone we had seen once when our doctor was sick. She was very caring and compassionate, and she knew our history. Having met her before set us at ease and we were comfortable that she would be delivering you. Jill looked at us and said, let's go have your rainbow baby, she's ready to meet you. Shift change had started but Jill stayed an extra hour to make sure that we were transitioned well and that everyone who was going to be working with us through the delivery process was in the know of what the plan would be. On the Monday morning following your arrival, Jill came up to check in on us, gave us big hugs and had the chance to meet you!

Remember Nurse Katie from Hudson's labor and delivery? She was planning to be there on October 18 as our doula and photographer - the "doulagrapher" as she called it. Since you moved up the timeline, I immediately sent her a message to let her know that plans had changed and I was in labor now. With three kids, a nursing career and photography business, I fully didn't expect that she would be able to be there, but the amazing person she is made it happen. She met us at the hospital with camera in hand, smile on face and there with us through the nearly 12 hours of labor, again. My doctor's nurse, Stephanie, had also been a huge support throughout this process and she came up to be part of "Team Hadley" as well.

With Nurse Stephanie after you arrived

We were settled into our delivery room by 6:45 and shortly thereafter, there was a knock on the door. A familiar face popped into our room and I nearly burst into tears. For anyone who has read Hudson's birth story, you may remember that the first person to enter the delivery room after I had been hooked up to the IV was the sister of a friend of mine. She was the resident on the floor and was coming in to check my vitals and Hudson's positioning via sonogram. It made me immediately comforted to have a familiar face there in my darkest hours. This time, Mallory was doing rounds on another floor but saw our name on the board and came to say hello. I haven't seen her since Hudson's delivery and to have her pop her head in was really special. We exchanged big hugs this time and smiles as we caught up. 

Our main nurse for the labor and delivery experience was Nurse Shirley. She was a very different personality type than I thought I would need for this, but it turned out to be exactly what we needed. Shirley's big personality kept us on our toes, kept us laughing, and kept us distracted.

My family arrived by 9 PM and kept us company well into the early morning. The plan that Jill and Dr. Myears had was to start a pitocin drip to help progress labor, to get the epidural and then break my water. However, Shirley felt like my body was doing this on its own and she wanted it to keep doing that as long as we could. We took more walks, used the medicine balls and then around 10 pm, it was decided to go ahead and break my water. Contractions really picked up then, fast and furious. It was apparently a very busy night, maybe there really is something to the full moon and women going into labor after all, but it took almost an hour for the anesthesiologist to arrive in our room after requesting the epidural.  That gave me quite the taste of true labor pains and your Daddy and Katie helped me get through them. The anesthesiologist who gave me my epidural with Hudson came in the room and was part of this birth story too. This time, it worked correctly on the first try and I was comfortable throughout the remaining hours of labor without needing to increase it or have a new one.

Midnight was nearing and we all started to take bets on when you would arrive. With Hudson, once my water broke, delivery came quickly after. I thought it would be similar with you. I thought you'd come before 2 am, your Daddy said 3 am. Nurse Shirley said you were your own baby, she thinks you'll come after 4 am. I sat on medicine balls, I had a "peanut" ball positioned under my legs as I laid down to help you progress. We all slept a little on and off as each hour went by. Finally, around 4:15 am, they said I was completely dilated and effaced, it was time to call Dr. Myears. This time I wasn't scared. I didn't want to keep you where you were to stay part of me as long as possible. I couldn't wait to have you in my arms. I was ready to meet you and start this life as your mama. There were smiles and words of beautiful promise. She's almost here, they said to me. Let's get our girl, I said to them.

By 4:30 am, the room was full with "Team Hadley" and as everyone took position, I had to focus because it started to become all too familiar. I needed Daddy by me, I needed his hand in mine and at my side so we could receive you together. I felt overwhelmed with emotion and Shirley talked me through this. She said this time would be different, it may take longer, to listen to her cues. She instructed me on full pushes and half pushes. They had an oxygen mask this time, I needed that to get big breaths.

At 5:08 am on October 15, you arrived. Of course you did, I should have known. That 5:00 am window was always your time of day. You were 7 lb, 3 oz and 20 inches of pure perfection. I watched as you were lifted and I could see you in plain view, waiting for your scream. I saw you before I could hear you and before I could finish my thought of why isn't she crying, there it was. The most beautiful sound I have ever heard. You screamed and you cried. As soon as I heard it I laughed. I wanted a river of tears to flow but laughter was how my emotions were expressed instead. They laid you on my chest and your Daddy buried himself in us. Nothing was like the last time anymore, it was now its own experience. You were here, you were breathing, we looked into your eyes, your arms and legs moving as you were laid on my chest. In those moments, time stood still for just a little while.

I watched through tear-blurred eyes as eventually they handed you to your Daddy and he walked you to the other side of the room where the nurses weighed you, measured you, did your APGAR tests and gave you a sponge bath. I watched as your he protectively looked on, with your hand clasped around his finger.

He put your first diaper on you and he continues to do that as often as he can - I listen as he talks to you, he says it's your bonding time together and it started in that delivery room with your first diaper.

They lifted you into his arms again and he walked back across that room to me and we spent time together, just the three of us, as a little family before we introduced you to your grandparents who were patiently waiting in the waiting room.

While we were in the hospital, you met two of your uncles, three of your great grandparents, two great aunts and a great uncle. You met some of Mommy and Daddy's special friends who love you beyond measure. And now here we are. You are perfect in every way. You and your brother resemble each other slightly but that's maybe because I want you to. Every now and then I'll catch a glimpse of him in you, but you are your own little lady with your own features and characteristics that we will be able to watch grow and change. You have the biggest cheeks and a dimpled chin. Your Daddy's eyes and the softest skin. Your hair is lighter than Hudson's and without any curl. You have the longest fingers attached to the most precious chubby little hands. I count your toes and rub your feet. Your nose continues to look more and more like mine, and like Hudson's. I rub our noses together and cry to be able to do nosies with you the way I did with him. You have the sweetest yawns and sounds.

I will never forget the moment that I realized you knew me. It was our first full day in the hospital. You were wailing and then quieted at the sound of my voice. You gripped my finger and were instantly calmed while the nurses poked at you. I knew I loved you from the time I found out about you. I bonded with you throughout my pregnancy and loved you more by the day. Seeing you for the first time and feeling you on my chest was one of the most beautiful moments I've ever experienced. But watching you as you recognized me and knew I was yours, that was a moment I didn't know to expect or how to prepare for and one that takes my breath away every time it happens. I watch you with your Daddy and how you both adore one another. You snuggle up to him and do not fuss when he holds you. You know him as yours too.

You came on your own time and on Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. A day that the year prior had brought us pain as we remember Hudson in our raw emotional state. But this year on October 15, you restored our hope by bringing us the greatest joy and a redeeming love to show that beauty can rise from the ashes.

Hadley, you are our miracle. We are so thankful to have you and that you are ours. I will not say that all the pain we endured on this road to getting you was worth it, that you were worth the wait. No, because that diminishes your brother and is not a fair representation of either one of you. However, it is because of what we went through that makes you that much more special and wonderful and incredible. Our promise to you is that we will love you unconditionally, we will teach you, grow you, support you, and provide you with everything we can to enrich your life with love. Welcome to the world baby girl, I can't wait to do this life together and see where your story takes you.

Nosies,

Mommy