Song: Better Place
Artist: Rachel Platten
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This playlist needs another song for Brayden. Another song to celebrate the healing power of my rainbow. The sweet little baby who has become my sunshine. This amazing little guy who has made my world a better place.

Lyrics:
I'll tell the world, I'll sing a song
It's a better place since you came along
Since you came along
Your touch is sunlight through the trees
Your kisses are the ocean breeze
Everything's alright when you're with me

And ah ah ah ah ah, you're my favorite thing
Ah ah ah ah ah, all the love that you bring
But it feels like I've opened my eyes again
And the colors are golden and bright again
There's a song in my heart, I feel like I belong
It's a better place since you came along
It's a better place since you came along

I see the whole world in your eyes
It's like I've known you all my life
We just feel so right
So I pour my heart into your hands
It's like you really understand
You love the way I am

And ah ah ah ah ah, you're my favorite thing
Ah ah ah ah ah, all the happiness you bring
But it feels like I've opened my eyes again
And the colors are golden and bright again
And the sun paints the skies and the wind sings her song
It's a better place since you came along
It's a better place since you came along

Ah ah ah ah ah
Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh
Ah ah ah ah ah
Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh

Now I'm alright, now I'm alright
Everything's alright

Cause it feels like I've opened my eyes again
And the colors are golden and bright again
There's a song in my heart, I feel like I belong
It's a better place since you came along
It's a better place since you came along

The little one is fast asleep, the house is quiet, I'm on my own tonight, and I'm left to think about the day. A good one, parenting-wise. A happy one. Lots of smiles. Baby giggles. I'm sitting here a very happy lady. 

We tackled bedtime tonight, just the two of us. And I cherish that quiet bedtime feeding. The way he stares up at me, with those glossy, sleepy eyes... He's so delirious with tiredness that he stops drinking to smile with his whole face. A tear slides down my cheek. I wonder if I'll ever stop crying every time I feel this content. 

Two nights ago I missed this moment. Monday nights are me-nights. I attend a yoga class and leave bedtime for the boys. I know it's good for me. I need it actually. Crave it by the time Monday rolls around. But I miss this moment. That sleepy baby moment when the world actually seems to stop moving. When I get in the car to pull out of the driveway, I have to convince myself to do it. Every single week. There's a pause before I put the key in the ignition when I think, "Maybe tonight, I'll stay. Maybe tonight he needs me more than I need this hour away." But I always go. I know it's important to go.

But it's never easy. Even on the days when we've been grinding it out at home. Bad naps. Bad feedings. Grumpy baby. The nights I seem to throw Brayden into his dad's arms when he walks in the door. Even those days when I should want to run for an hour of quiet... Even then it's hard.

Weeks ago we were in the thick of sleep training. As Brayden fussed and cried upstairs. I, too, let a few silent tears slide down my cheeks. And then I'd go to him. What was the point in being apart? So I could get a few more hours sleep at night?

And now, now that he is sleeping so soundly, I watch him in the monitor and smile. And sometimes I miss him! I'm ridiculous, I know. But I miss him all the same.

When we get an invitation to go out, or start to make a plan for some visit or trip, the first thing that always pops in my head is how will Brayden fit into this? Can he come too? 

When I have an errand to run or an appointment to attend, I always plan on him tagging along. I want him there. I love to push him around in his stroller and watch him watch the world. The fact of the matter is, I'd rather deal with a crying fit in the grocery store than rush in and out alone so I can get back to him.

Despite not wanting to be apart from him, I am sometimes. There are always appointments he can't attend. Evenings out that his dad and I need to spend alone. And we both do just fine without the other present. But I miss him fiercely. Even if it's just an hour or two.

I'm not sure if you'd call that separation anxiety. I'm never overly stressed out about being away. But in the back of my mind is this simple fact:

You never know how much time you're going to get with someone. You think you have a lifetime together, and before you know it, you're giving a nurse permission to take your baby away. This is the scene that plays out in my mind too often lately. That moment of real separation. That moment the baby who one went with me everywhere was suddenly gone. And now a lifetime separates us.

As long as I have Brayden here, I want to experience everything we can together. The incredible moments and the mundane. Because I know, too truly, how painful separation can be. So, if something comes up -- a trip to the grocery store or a trip across the country -- and I can have him with me, that's where he'll be. Right where he belongs. 

February 15, 2016 is the day I took the test. It's the day we found out about Brayden. The day we began to hope we'd be bringing home a baby.

I didn't get to write publicly about those joyful but incredibly worrisome and grief-filled first few weeks because we didn't "go public" with our news until we hit the "safe zone" of the 12 week mark. I think we did this more to try to be normal than we did because we actually believed we were safe. We never felt safe the entire pregnancy, honestly. So it was definitely more out of "tradition" than anything. 

I thought it might be good to share some of those initial feelings now, one year to the day of getting the news. One of the first things I did this morning, after enjoying my morning routine with that same little rainbow, of course, was reach for my journal from last year. I flipped to February and there it was: an entry for the 15th. It was a letter to Ryan. I won't share it all, but here is a line or two that really capture the feeling:

"I'm excited baby boy, but so nervous too. I know you'll do what you can to protect us. And I'll do what I can to keep from worrying. But I need you to know that no new baby will ever take your place. You came first -- and you always will."

That's a lot to unpack. And I think really sums up the pregnancy after loss journey. The joy. The worry. The fear. And the desperation to hold on to the baby who died despite taking such huge steps in moving forward. 

My chest kind of tightened when I read those last lines.

"You came first -- and you always will."

It goes without saying that in my day to day life, Brayden obviously comes first. His needs are so great, literally no one could ever get in my way of taking care of him. But it makes me think about what if Ryan lived? What if I was mother to two living boys? How does the whole coming first thing work then? I'd assume that BOTH boys would come first. That I'd put both of their needs ahead of everything else, right? Maybe some day I'll know what it's like to tends the needs of two living children. But this morning it was a heart crushing feeling to know that Ryan really doesn't need anything from me. Everything I do for him is more to fulfill my own needs to remain connected to him. 

Back then I was confused about how life with a living child and one who slipped away would look and feel, and I think in a lot of ways, I still have those confused feelings now.

I'm so grateful to have my rainbow here in my arms. Though, I still don't ever really feel "safe." That feeling of safety was torn from me 17 months ago. But on this day, one year ago, I started to feel hope again. I felt hope despite the confusion. Despite the worry. Despite the fear. 

Today is the day I caught my first glimpse of the rainbow. And despite the more confusing and troubling feelings it brought, it's a day that will always be worth celebrating.

I haven't been 100% honest about everything that's gone on with me emotionally since Brayden was born. I write sporadically about what's been going on in life. And I write little notes to Ryan still around his milestone days. But real, hard, honesty hasn't been on display much here. Not like it used to be. And honestly, it's because it's hard to talk about.

Today is a day designed to promote open dialogue surrounding mental health. A day to say it's okay to talk about these things. And what's more, that you're not alone. I share what I share today so I can stop feeling alone in the feelings. But also to share with other mamas so they know they're not alone.

Caring for a new baby is hard. And I did not do so well with it in the first 2 months. I know I mentioned in passing here a few times that I was struggling "a bit." Or I'd chat with a few select friends and mention that it was hard or I was having "a bit of a hard time sometimes." But I always used language that probably underplayed my real genuine struggles.

Because how do you admit that you're not 100% happy and joyful when you've been given the gift you hoped and prayed for more than anything?

After losing Ryan and then bringing Brayden safely home, I just could not admit that my days were anything less than a blessing. How could I when I knew so many other mamas who'd give anything for the chance I had been given? How could I when I knew the "true despair" in losing a baby?

But in truth, I just simply didn't feel the pure happiness I expected I'd feel once I had Brayden in my arms. I felt lonely with this feeling. A feeling that felt impossible at the time to share. 

But the truth is: I should have shared it then. Perhaps I'd have felt less lonely. Maybe I'd have been able to manage more confidently in those earlier days of my motherhood. Instead of feeling such a strong emotional struggle every single day in addition to the regular struggle of parenting a newborn.

I didn't share it then. But I'm sharing it now. Because I think loss mamas especially feel this need to keep quiet about those struggles. We don't want to come across as ungrateful. We don't want to upset other friends struggling to bring home a baby. We don't want our living babies, who we wished so hard for, to ever feel like they brought us anything but joy and peace. 

But those unsettled feelings -- the feelings of struggle and confusion, a bit like you're drowning in this new life you've taken on -- are felt by so many mamas. And as with most things, the burden is easiest carried when carried together.

So today, I'll share that although I've come a long way from those earlier days, it's still not all a piece of cake. I definitely have a handle on things more now. And I cut myself more slack now than I ever did. But I still have tough days. And I've had to work to accept that I'm not going to enjoy every single little moment. And that's hard to admit -- because I want to. And I expected to. But life is about managing expectations. 

Lately my biggest struggle comes in the late hours. Brayden has recently started sleeping through the night (*touch wood*). But I still tend to wake up to check on him from time to time. And in those late night hours my mind wanders to Ryan. How could it not when the house is quiet and I find myself with nothing but time? I lay in bed and wish so hard that I had more time with him. I try hard to recall the moments we did have, but I'm finding more and more as time passes my memories are becoming blurred. I wish I could go back and hold him a little longer. I wish I had more pictures to help unblur my memories. Every day I get new memories and new  moments with Brayden. And I feel so much more sadness than maybe I ever had that I don't get those memories with Ryan. Lately I've felt especially sad and beat up about losing him despite the year or so it's taken me to feel some peace again.

It's hard to feel so sad again after feeling so peaceful for so long.

A real shock to my system.

The truth is, lately the tears come more freely than they have in some time. It's like now that Brayden and I are settling into life together, I'm slammed by Ryan's overwhelming absence. I've spent so long being only able to focus on Brayden that now that there's room in my brain again, my first born is poking around for some attention. Attention I'm too willing to give him. But it's grief. So it's hard. 

And that's the honest truth about how I'm feeling. About how it's been to become a mother again after the death of my baby.

It's hard. But I know I'm not alone.

Faith. Faith is not a word I've used a lot in my writing. It's not a word I've really felt much throughout this experience either, which is probably why it has stayed out of the conversation to this point. But I think today is an appropriate day for some discussion on the topic.

I was raised Catholic. Attended Catholic school. Sang in the choir. Attended a Catholic youth leadership camp one summer. Was a group leader for faith-based retreats hosted by my high school. I am very grateful for my Catholic upbringing. For having the concept of faith instilled in me from a young age. Once I left for university, my involvement in the Catholic church waned a bit -- easy to do when it's not being thrust in your face every day. But even though it wasn't at the forefront of my day to day life, I always connected with the idea that I was Catholic and I had a "Catholic community" should I ever need to or want to participate in that aspect of my life.

My husband was raised Catholic as well. His experiences were not quite the same as mine. But he was baptized. And so when we discussed having children there was little to discuss around the subject of baptism. Our kids would be baptized Catholic. (There's still some debate about Catholic school -- he went to public school [uh oh]), but for the most part, any conversations around children and religion were very easy. 

When Ryan died, my already seriously diminishing relationship with God and my faith was rocked. No. Not rocked. Basically obliterated. I had experienced loss before. Loss from illness. Loss from tragic accidents. And in each moment, I had questioned Him. Wondered why bad things happen to good people. But tried to find solace in the whole "trust His plan" mentality. 

So then Ryan died. And I more or less adopted a "God who?" kind of feeling. Maybe even something along the lines of the mantra for the Ugandan tribe from The Book of Mormon. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, you can Google it I'm sure.) Basically it's awful and I quit Him. Screw "God's plan." And I could give two shits about how he works in mysterious ways. What was the point in faith if you'd live a good life and then the worst most horrible and unspeakable things could still happen to you?

I haven't spoken to God more than a few words since then. There might have been a "Please let this baby be okay," when I was pregnant with Brayden. And then a quick, "Thank you," after he was born. But I was (am?) just not totally ready to reconcile with him after what happened that September. 

Well, today, I took Brayden to church. We've been talking a lot about his baptism and getting ready for that, and there was this voice in me that was saying how important it was to actually participate in my faith if we're going to baptize him. (Especially if Catholic education isn't necessarily a given at this point -- yes, we still have a few years to go before we have to think about school, but I'm a planner, what can I say?)

For today it was just Brayden and I. And it was fine. It was mass. What can I say? It's not like I walked in and was struck by lightning. Or even the opposite. I certainly didn't have any great epiphanies. The skies didn't open and fill me with the light of God's love or anything. But, if I'm being honest, I had two very serious "moments."

The first came at communion. I carried Brayden with me as I accepted the Eucharist. The deacon (I think that was his title -- there were 3 different men presiding over mass today -- seemed like a lot to my memory of mass), but anyway. The deacon gave Brayden a little blessing before we walked away and I was slammed with the memory of the priest who came to the hospital the night Ryan was born and blessed him as he laid in my arms. It was this totally gutting moment of have my living baby be blessed for the first time while thinking of my dead son being blessed for the only time. I'm not even sure I remember making the decision to have the priest come that night. It's all such a blur. But there was definitely something in that moment that took the wind out of me.

So then I go sit back down. Kneel actually. As the Catholics do the whole stand, sit, kneel thing, this was a kneeling moment. I had done a pretty good job up to this point in the service of focusing so much on keeping Brayden content or sleeping that I hadn't done much connecting with the mass. But this point, the after communion, kneel and pray part, was emotional. I didn't say much. And much of what I did say I guess is between me and Big Guy, but I found myself in tears. (How dramatic to be the lady in the back of the church crying silent tears alone during prayer.) But it happened. I wiped them away and silently shook my head at myself. What the hell was happening to me?

I'm not changed by this one experience with my great return to church. I'm not sure I'll be "changed" at all. I have my feelings about God and all that's happened. I know now that God isn't perfect. And I've said it before, that I'm still trying to forgive Him and accept Him for that. But I'm glad I went. I'm glad that despite my reservations with my faith that I can still be open enough to give these experiences to Brayden. And maybe church will become one more place I will feel comfortable talking to Ryan. Maybe some day, church will be a place that Brayden will talk to Ryan, too.

You never know. God works in mysterious ways. (Ugh.)