Baby L is out there...

And the "threenager" stage is a real thing.

This morning, I saw (yet another) birth announcement on Facebook, and this baby boy was given the name Alex and I planned to use for our baby boy. It was going to be an “L” name, following the Jewish tradition of naming him with the first letter of a family member who has died. In this case, he was going to be named an “L” name after my Poppy Lenny (Leonard) and my Grandma Lee (Leona). Whenever I have a baby, he or she will have an “L” name. If I have a boy down the road, will we use the same name we planned for this one? It’s unclear. And that’s why I’m not sharing it. I don’t think I’ll know how I feel about using that name until and if and when the time comes. What I do know is this other little baby boy born over the weekend who popped up in my Facebook feed now has that very name.

I love the name. It’s similar to Brooke’s in that it’s not an unusual or particularly weird name, but it feels unique because you don’t hear it very often. I don’t know how I feel about this other baby having “my boy’s” name. But it does feel like some sort of sign from the universe. Is it the universe telling me to let go of that name because it exists for this other little happy, healthy being? Is it the universe’s way of telling me my boy says hi from somewhere? Do we drop the name and potentially use our backup name in the future or did we pick exactly the right name and hold onto it?

In writing it all out, I’m starting to think maybe it’s our baby saying hi. A little wink from somewhere. I believe there are signs from those we have lost all around us, all the time.

A few years ago, on the anniversary of my dad’s death, I saw a rainbow in the sky and felt that was my dad’s way of saying hi in that moment. Shortly after seeing the rainbow, I had to interview people for work and happened to interview a man named Bruce. I almost choked and then asked him “I’m sorry…Bruce, did you say?” “Yeah,” he replied. After the interview, he walked away and I turned to my cameraman to tell him “That guy’s name is Bruce. That was my dad’s name. And today is the anniversary of his death.” We were both in awe. It was most certainly a sign — my father saying “Hi, lovey. I miss you.”

I’m moving along in processing the grief of losing our son. I’m starting to have moments of acceptance. I am still sad. Mostly angry and resentful. And then realizing this rage is not only a result of grief, but of postpartum hormones. Ten days out from surgery, and I am still bleeding, still producing milk from my breasts and having crazy hormone imbalances, resulting in massive mood swings and irritability. The milk is a very harsh reminder of what could have been. I’ve stopped saying what should have been because this pregnancy was obviously not meant to be. The blood and my small belly are reminders of that.

This weekend, my three-year-old asked me the following questions:

“Mommy, why is your belly small?”

“Mommy, why did my baby brother die?”

She then told me “Mommy, I’m happy.”

“Aw, why are you happy?” I asked her.

“Because my baby brother’s gone.”

My heart stopped.

“Why does that make you happy?”

She went on to say something like “because then he’s at home and he’s at school.” I have no idea what she was talking about. Maybe she feels him in some way. Regardless, she is obviously processing this the best way she can. She has had some of the worst temper tantrums she’s ever had in the last few weeks. I’m not sure if it’s because she’s three years old or if it’s because of everything that’s going on but I’m assuming it’s a combination of both. And I don’t have the patience for it. I am mindful enough to recognize that and having an incredibly hard time. I’m losing my temper, yelling at her, feeling fire running through my body every time she doesn’t listen. I have to keep reminding myself that my responses are coming from a place of postpartum hormones and grief, and that I am not, in fact, a terrible mom, even though I feel like it 99% of the time. I hope that the way I’m reacting to her has no long-term impacts on her, just as I hope that I will become pregnant again and have another healthy baby. But the book I’m reading right now keeps reminding me not to hope at all, to instead sit in the uncertainty and accept that.

So I’m sitting. And writing. And crying. And yelling. And reading. And feeling. And meditating. And staring at the picture of someone else’s Baby L that appeared on my Facebook feed this morning, not wondering “what if,” but instead saying “hello, sweet boy.”