Ezra's Mommy asked me if I'd like to guest blog, and I am honored and very grateful for her offer. Four months have passed since Little Peanut Boy's death and birth. His spirit is right next to me as I write this entry, his photo on my desk, and he was actually the one who asked me, in his own way, to write about this at this time. The funny thing about grief to me (funny in an odd way, not a humorous way) is that at any given moment, without warning, the weight of the sadness hits me like a ton of bricks. The sadness is always there, just below the surface, and won't go away. But sometimes a song, or a memory, or a thought or vision will trigger this flood of tears and heaviness of heart, even if only for a moment.Sometimes the vivid memories of my time with Ezra will trigger my sadness, such as the long conversations I had with him when he was inside his Mommy, which caused him to kick excitedly. Then there was the time I held him, with that little half-smile on his face. That was the first time I stared into the face of God. Sometimes the vivid thoughts of things that did not happen will make me sad, like carrying him in a baby sling to the store, or taking him to the movies and for ice cream, or going to Disney World.
Or giving him a haircut.
The hospital gave us a memory box that included a lock of his hair. His hair is black, thick and curly, kinda like his Daddy's, or at least when his Daddy had hair! In his photo, his little white cap is covering it, but we saw his hair up close and in person. I've had these vivid thoughts, almost like memories, of sitting a 4 or 5 year old Peanut Boy at the table, and trimming his impressively large, wavy, beautiful fro. With electric barbershop clippers, like the one my mother used when she cut my hair years ago in a previous century, long before PCs, the internet, email and blogs. These haircut sessions were functional and practical (I needed it), but they also served another purpose—they helped to solidify the bonds between parent and child. Of course, you can't forget the barber's bib, don't want to get the hair clippings all over the boy's shirt, do you? And have the mirror handy. I dunno, maybe you had to be there.
the Stirrup Queen's Completely Anal List of Blogs That Proves That She Really Missed Her Calling as a Personal Organizer