Bereaved Mother’s Day

I learned from social media a couple weeks ago that today is International Bereaved Mother’s Day. I wouldn’t have known to check, but the algorithms know me now.

It feels comforting – to know such a day exists. I look ahead at next Sunday with immense dread. I don’t know how I will face Mother’s Day. But I will just face today.

I have lived 255 days without Zuri. Two more months than I had with her.

It’s been enough time for the habits of my mind to be rewritten. After all, the grooves were not too deep – I had lived that way for just six months. Six months with four living kids. Six months mothering you outside the womb. I no longer wake habitually around 2 or 3 am. I no longer rush to brush my teeth in the morning. I no longer pause to look at baby clothes at the store, or browse for used baby gear on Marketplace. I don’t run through the day thinking about when I can squeeze in a pump session. I no longer take supplements morning, afternoon, and evening.

I don’t track how much breastmilk there is in the fridge or freezer, or which can of formula should be opened next, or whether she has had her allergy mix-in’s for the day. I no longer take stock of fruit pouches and baby puffs, or whether she has a clean eating bib for the next meal. I no longer listen out for her cry during naps, and throughout the night. I am no longer vigilant about noises that might wake her up. The sight of empty room at the top of the stairs – it no longer knocks the breath out of me.

My body is forgetting the sensations. The weight of her body on my belly and arm while she nursed, the grip of her fingers on my hair when I put her on my shoulders, securing her with one hand while doing something or another with the other. Her little fingernails – always too long – scratching my chest or the outside of my arm, her saying her little hellos. The sweet sounds of you cooing next to me in the morning, telling me a long story about something, complete with post-game analysis.

The press of her padded palms on me, the edible rolls on her thighs. The fleshiness of her feet as we held them in our palms when she was on our chests in the ergo carrier, the tickle of her abundant hair under our chins, her little head looking left and right. The squeezes of her body against our torso when she flapped in excitement or fussed – and how our bodies then couldn’t help but bounce and pat on reflex. The ache in between my shoulder blades, the sharp pain along my elbow – those have faded too.

I’m losing these memories, these marks of you, like sand through my fingers, helpless against the passage of time.

I miss you, Zuzu. I miss being your mama in those tangible ways. With my body. With my mind.

I’m so glad we had 192 days. I loved being your mama. I wish I had more. I am learning how to be your mama in this new way, pain and love flowing mingled down.

Though the recognition that I was your favorite person sometimes crushes me, I cherish it too. What a priceless gift, to be the object of your affection, the source of your safety, your comfort. The face that made you smile. The smell that relaxed you.  The voice that drew your attention. The breasts that you pressed close against.  I cherish it and it devastates me… if I was the one you loved the most, then I am the one who failed you the most. It is a daily thing, laying down this burden I cannot bear.

Your Baba, your Goh gohs, your Jie jie and I – we are all learning how to live with this bomb crater. Our lives and our hearts are slowly scarring over, yet we will never look the same, never live the same, never be the same.

I miss you.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

Oh little Zuri! You met the King first. The littlest one will lead us all in worship.