The other night after dinner, our whole family decided to take a dip in the little pool we’ve set up in our backyard. It’s nothing special, but even in the few weeks since we filled it, there have been plenty of wonderful memories made. From the smallest of splashes of little brother, to the constant breath holding practice of big sister, the water has filled our summer days with wonder and play. So why not refresh our bodies (and lets be honest, tire those kiddos out before bed) as a family?
As I sat in the corner of the pool, watching my son walk and splash with ridiculous confidence for a 1 year old, and listened to Audrey give directions to her daddy about where to throw the rings and how to set up her breathing practice, I thought about how perfect our little family felt in that moment. But it was fleeting. Because almost as quickly and easily as the initial thought came to my mind, it was replaced by a longing for the little 4 year old who might possibly push our little pool to capacity. And from there, for the next 20 min, I ran down the rabbit trail that so often comes when I think about George Mason.
You see, our family probably does look a little bit like perfection on the outside. That “one of each” American dream family. Isn’t that what all the books portray? Don’t we generally tell mamas how special it is that they got their boy and their girl? Well that’s us. We’ve got our girl and our boy, and it looks pretty damn perfect. And yet, its not perfect at all. Because no one on the outside can see the scars from burying our middle child. No one can see the battle wounds of infertility. No can see the grief over what we thought would be and what is. The difference from what reality looks like and what lies behind the scenes. Do you know, I think the lost dreams is probably the hardest part of all of this? I didn’t lose a teenage son, with years of memories and relationship to grieve. I lost a baby. 16 hours old. There are no memories - except perhaps of the fear of losing him for those 16 hours and 9 months - I can’t grieve who he was, so I grieve who he could have been. What our family could have been.
I can imagine him as a healthy, thriving, bulldozer of a 4 year old. I can also imagine him as a sweet and tiny, kidney patient. I can fill the gaps, where there are no memories, with whatever my heart can imagine. But there will always be those gaps. And even in the happiest, most joy-filled moments of our life, we will grieve those gaps. Would Audrey and George be thick as thieves? Would George be thrilled to have a little brother? What will graduation day look like? What about those teenage years when its so not cool to have your little brother tagging along on your “big girl” times with friends?
These lost dreams, they are part of the reason for the 3 arrows tattooed on my arm. A visual reminder, and almost warning stamp, for myself and strangers, that what you see isn’t entirely what you get. Just like a jelly bean from one of those crazy flavored packs, you might see cherry flavored goodness, but the bite just might light your mouth on fire instead.
