Everyone thinks I'm better. I'm not. I'm just really really talented at pretending, apparently. This morning has started out rough. Claire didn't want to wear pants to school. She wanted a dress, I guess. But it was cold, so pants were totally happeneing. She melted down, melted into this angry ball of pissed offedness, and ire. Red faced and screaming, I held her tiny foot in my hand and put her socks on for her. I dressed my 6 year old much like a baby. The whole time, she was keening. Socks, Pants, shirt, sweater. Each item making her more and more mad. Ponytail, barrettes, brush teeth. I quitely crooned to her the whole time. And that, that is not how I normally would have handeled it. I would have been enraged with it! I would have yelled, and fought and been so furious. I didn't get angry. Sure I wasn't turning cartwheels that my 6 almost 7 year old was acting like a baby. But I wasn't mad at HER. I understood. There are days where if you could see into my heart, my mind, my soul, you would see ME screaming and yelling and hysterically crying. You would see me throwing the mother of all tantrums. I'm angry! I don't want to do this thing anymore, be the mother of a dead baby. I want to go back to the time where I was happy. Life was good! I want to be ME, before. It's not at all fair that I lost Leta. It's not at all what is supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to give birth to a dead child. One with broken bones. I wasn't, am not at all equipped to handle this.
And so, Today I dressed my 6 year old, and crooned to her. I hugged her, and held her and wiped away her tears. I walked her onto the bus.
Sometimes, we all need some patience and understanding. Maybe in doing for Claire, I was doing for me what no one seems able or willing to do.