Platitudes not welcome here

Another lostbaby mama on a discussion board I frequent posed a question that has me thinking. She wanted to know the most heartfelt and helpful words we were told after our loss. I'm going to answer the question in this space, too. Right after Baker died, it was the people who expressed rip-snorting anger who were most helpful for me. They were angry for us, with us, and with this impossible situation. In my state of complete shock, it helped to know that I had good reason to be STINKING, RAVING MAD. Also, a friend who I didn't expect to be especially eloquent, said that he didn't understand why something so awful would happen to the best people, with tears in his eyes. And several dear friends who stared and stared at Baker's pictures for a really long time. And anyone who expressed that THEY were hurting, too...that THEY missed out on meeting and knowing our son. Basically, anyone who let me be in the throes of grief and didn't try to talk me out of it. So, if you are reading this and are one of the aforementioned, thank you.

Australian sand

Many thanks to Carly, mother of Christian, for honoring Baker on a seashore far, far away from here.

Footprints

Ever feel like you have so much to say that you could never get it all out? That's how I'm feeling about blogging and part of the reason I've been quiet lately. Something that I'm currently stewing about is that we have no marker at Baker's grave. I'm stuck in indecision and don't know where to start. Perhaps I fear the finality of seeing his name engraved in stone? In my mind, I pictured an unveiling of the stone on his first birthday in April, but Chris reminded me that the ground could still be muddy after this very snowy winter. So for the time being, we have the tree to mark the spot. A flat marker would have long been buried by now-instead his tree stands tall next to a similar tree for a young man killed in a car accident in August, just weeks before he was to start college and continue his accomplished athletic career. After the first big snow, Gabriel's parents brought a shovel to the cemetery and dug a path through the snow to their son's resting place. Most Sundays, we gratefully travel the same path to our own son's grave and now, after many snowstorms and many Sundays, the path is well worn by our collective footprints. Other than Christmas wreaths, there has been very little winter activity in our section, no other footprints to graves of people who died older and have been dead longer. Although I don't know Gabriel's parents and won't touch the "which is worst" question, I feel like we're in this together. I greet Baker, I greet Gabe. Chris trimmed Baker's grass, then Gabe's grass, in the fall. I watered their annuals. When we leave, we say goodbye to both Baker and Gabe. I like knowing that Gabe is buried next to Baker. From what I've read about him in the newspaper, he seems like the kind of kid who likes babies.