A kid by any other name

We're at the zoo. We're sitting in the Aisian Highlands, eating lunch. A small boy, maybe 5 or 6, just climbed up on the barrier fence that's about 3 feet off the ground with a 2 foot fence on top of that- perfectly safe if you're standing on the ground. It's a 10 foot drop from here. His mom glanced up and then got back to her food. As we're sitting in shocked irritation at the lack of parental responsibility, his mom says to his little sister, "Charlotte, eat." It feels like she punched me.

For the record, the kid was within arms reach of me (about 8 feet away from his mom) and if he had leaned over the railing or looked at all like he would actually go over, I would have both grabbed him, and said something to his mom. Instead I sat in quiet distain for someone who has no idea what is going through my mind.

Every once in a while on Pinterest, I will get stuck. I only see pins that will fit on certain boards. Many nights, it's Charlotte's board. Occasionally, I will search her name, just to see what pops up. Tonight that was not a good idea. A photo of a beautiful little girl with blond hair and brown eyes. Someone else's Charlotte. Never mine.

Mike and I got new phones a week ago. If I can actually blog from my phone, I think I can try to update more often. We'll see if this works.

Sophia refused to eat her carrots at dinner. Refused. She fell asleep while pouting at the table. I sent her to bed. Mike went up to snuggle her. So she fell asleep thinking I'm the meanest mom in the world.

Being a parent is hard.

Being a parent when you're angry at the entire world is harder.

Charlotte,

My baby girl. My sweet little angel. My first and always princess. I have written this birthday letter a thousand times this year. I have written it and torn it up and let the pieces float away in the wind. But now that it's time to send it, I can't remember the words. I can't remember anything but how sad I am without you. Everyday, I miss you. For five long years. For five long years. My baby is five years old, somewhere. I guess I tend to think of you living somewhere else. A long vacation from this angry life. An alternate universe, where my baby didn't die. Where you are growing up, one day at a time. But I can't place myself there with you. I can't be with you where you are. But every day, I wonder.

What I miss most are the tiny things that most people don't think about. How it would feel to hold your small hand in mine as we walk. What it would feel like to feel your breath in my hair when you hug me. The sound of your laughter as you chase your sister at the park. What would be your favorite movie? Your favorite color. Would you be a picky eater like Sophia? Would you have nightmares? Are your eyes blue? Is your hair blond? Do you look like your daddy? Like your sister? Do you have my temper? Where are you?

Today was a beautiful day. When we got to the cemetery, the birds were singing. The sky was bright blue, and Sophia sent you some balloons. Sophia had to smell every color of rose on your headstone. Pink first, then red, and finally white. When we left, she kept talking about "the flower place."

Charlotte, my heart is aching. I know that people say that all the time. A broken heart aches. But my chest is throbbing from wanting you. I lie in bed most nights and it's all I can do not to scream. You should be getting ready for Kindergarten. You should be getting put in time out for pulling your sister's hair. You should be here with us. For five years I have struggled not to be angry. Not to question. But I am still struggling. Even when the sun shines and the birds sing. I need to feel you, to hear your voice. Please help me to listen. Please help me to remember to breathe. Please, wherever you are, know me. Remember me. Let me always be your mommy. I love you, baby girl. I love you with every ounce of strength I have. Happy birthday in heaven, my love. Remember to listen for my voice, because I will never stop calling your name in the wind.

love, mommy.

Five years ago today, we were told our daughter had died.

Five years ago tonight, I felt my baby move for the last time.