Normality

As normal as my life has seemed to return, it's not....at all. Everyday things are difficult to do. Yesterday, Blaine left for the week for Regionals in Jacksonville. This is the first time he's left for more than just a couple days, let alone the first time I've been away from him for one night since the night of April 18. I haven't cleaned the house or cooked in over a month. I've been so thankful for those who have looked past the mess and have cooked or offered gift cards and money for us. Today, I cleaned the house. I sorted through the many gifts we received and items for Kennedy. To say the least, I couldn't imagine having to sort through items she actually used or belonged to her, but every single item I looked through made me think of her. They brought back feelings of hating how I feel so often. I feel like people look at me and wonder why I still feel this way, then I realize it's been less than two months. Two months isn't enough time to grieve the loss of a child. And I don't think two years is either.

I found the memory box that was given to us at the hospital, which before didn't have much in it besides her little bracelets and a few other small items, one being a little baggy with a few locks of her dark hair, which looks a lot like my own. As I opened the box, inside was a copy of her obituary, a copy of the letter Blaine had wrote to her, and the molds of her little hand and footprints. I stood there for a few minutes longing to get to hold her again. Kiss her cheeks. Just one more minute. One more hour. Just one day.

Being out in public has been very hard for me. I just wish people could see and understand what I've went through. I still have baby weight. I still have postpartum symptoms that makes me feel yucky. It's so difficult for me to get dressed daily. I don't and won't have anything to show for why I look or feel the way I do, besides a scar across my belly that reminds me daily of the blessing I carried for 38 weeks. Every time, that line takes me back to what should have been. I see parents with babies, little girls with siblings, happy families that don't have a worry in the world and I hate it. I hate feeling jealous of people for being happy, for having babies, when I should have been like them. I've held 2 babies since Kennedy, and each time I have just wanted to lose myself in tears and heartbreak. I honestly hated holding them. I didn't enjoy it, at all. I've hated seeing pictures of grandmothers holding their newest grandchild, even though I know Kennedy has been in my mom's arms for 37 days.

My heart is shattered and broken beyond repair, but I have a great bandaid that covers my hurt and holds me together. Without that beautiful girl, my life may have been broken forever.