Sometimes, it seems like I can’t win.

When I write about my despair over Madeline, I get people telling me that I have to pay more attention to Annabel, as though she is ignored in a corner somewhere. When I write about Annabel, people tell me how nice it must be to be over Madeline’s death, like that could ever be possible.

When I say that I am sometimes overwhelmed by my feelings, I’m told I didn’t spend enough time grieving, as if there is a time limit.

People say they can’t imagine what I’m going through. I can’t imagine what another parent goes through when they lose a child, because it is an experience unique to everyone.

I used to think about what I would do if Madeline died. When I was on bed rest, I would stare at the corner of the ceiling and imagine what it would feel like if she didn’t survive.

I can’t even articulate how much I underestimated the pain – and at the time, I thought I was overestimating.

Some say they would never do “insert something I did here.” I used to say that about different things all the time. Now, I realize I can’t, because I really have no idea what anyone’s circumstances are. I have perspective I don’t want, but I’m certainly not going to ignore it.

It used to get to me, the things people say. The looks they give, the words they type. And then I remembered that these people don’t matter. The people that hate, the people that judge, the people that think their words can hurt me – they do not affect me anymore.

These are the people that matter:

The people that love, the people that support, the people that care (the great majority of you) – you matter, and you will get it back in leaps and bounds.

You can always count on it from me.

Today I looked into your eyes, really looked.

And you looked back into mine.

I held you tight against my chest, and I swore I’d never let you go.

Every day your eyelashes get a little longer.

The inside of your left elbow is especially warm.

Your head fits perfectly on my shoulder.

My nose fits perfectly at the nape of your neck.

You want to be a big girl, to stand and sit and be tall.

(I was the same way)

A year ago I told the world you were coming.

I know now that I’ve known you forever.

Your personality is infectious.

We laugh together every day.

You already remind me so much of myself that I’m a little scared of when you’re older.

But for now you’re still my baby, and I will hold you, kiss you, tickle and squeeze you.

Tonight we will snuggle, and I will breathe you in, like I do every night when you sleep.

My sweet and precious girl.

Dear Mr. Spider,

I had big plans for the day. I was going to shower, take a walk, run some errands. And then I saw you, there, on the wall. Just hanging out with your smug attitude. Normally in situations like these I would summon my husband, but he wasn’t home. So I put on my big girl panties and got the vacuum. That’s when you regrettably decided to move into an unknown location. Not cool, Spider. Not. Cool. I’m giving you approximately an hour to vacate the premises. I’ve left the front door open for you.

Cordially,
Heather

Mr. Spider,

Well, here it is, two hours later, and you haven’t left out the front door. I know, because the baby and I have been standing on this chair watching for you the entire time. I even gave you an extra hour as you probably move slow on account of your freakishly gigantic size. We appear to be at a crossroads. So you can either leave now, or I will be forced to vacuum every nook and cranny of this home, and that sounds really labor intensive. Please, just leave. I’m tired of standing on this chair.

Not playing,
Heather

Giant Creepy Thing,

OK. I give up. I can’t live with a Spider, this place is too small as it is. So you win. The place is yours. We keep the toilet paper under the sink, the silverware is in the third drawer on the left, and I hope you like Lean Cuisines and cereal because that’s all we have in the house. Also, the neighbors will be suspicious of you, so proceed with caution. We’ve enjoyed our time here, I’m sure you will, too.

Wearily,
Heather

Spider,

My husband has come home and informed me that we are not giving you our home, so I guess this means we’re going to cohabitate. Clearly, we need some ground rules. I have taken the liberty of drawing up ours.

~ You will never be in charge of the remote control.
~ You are never allowed to go near me, the baby, or the dog.
~ You ARE allowed to go near Mike, especially when he has a newspaper in his hand.
~ Eating on the couch is never allowed.
~ Don’t leave your webs all over the house, my mother already thinks I don’t dust enough.

Resigned,
Heather

Dear Mr. Spider,

Living together clearly wasn’t meant to be. After nagging Mike until he lost his mind, he searched our place until he found you. I wish you the best of luck with your new residence, wherever the flushed toilet water takes you. Let me know when you settle and I’ll forward your mail.

Fondly,
Heather

I am stressed out. Anxious. Trying to figure out what is the best situation for my family while weighing all the pros and cons. Worrying about my aunt, who is in the hospital. Wishing I could be there for everyone, worrying that I’m not there for anyone. Feeling out of control.

I retreat, and I get the box.

Holding it in my hands, I am transported. The contents are so special that I know where it is at all times.

I carefully untie the bow, and lift the lid.

The box holds a ziplock pouch.

Inside that pouch are two perfect curls.

Curls I carefully selected to hold onto forever, from my favorite section of her hair just above her right ear.

Curls I had sworn I would never let her cut because I loved them so much.

Sometimes, holding the box is enough. Other times, I need the pouch in my fingers. And on the worst days, I open the pouch, and as I gaze at her locks I remember how soft her hair was, how long it was getting, how pretty it was.

It still smells like her.

Along with my shirt, the box keeps something that I can hold and touch and use to feel connected to her. It isn’t cold.

It isn’t her.

But it’s all I have.