June 24, 2011

The Weeks Turned Into Months

I remember when Stella turned three months old. My best friends were in town and it was the last time I used weeks to describe how old she was to the world, just as I stopped counting in days when she hit number seven. On 5.21.09, she was no longer twelve weeks old. She was three months old and it blew our minds at the time. And it kind of felt monumental, a milestone in her little life.

Even though only ninety some days had passed, the three of us had already been through so much together. Her birth was a thirty-six hour saga that left us in a state of blissful exhaustion. We parented with total abandonment and lots of sleep deprivation. We kept a detailed diary of her feeding and sleeping and pooping and watched her change from day to day. We saw her first smiles and coos and watched television during her three am feedings. I bathed with her in the tub every single day, studying her little limbs as I gently cleaned her on a nightly basis. When she spent a week straight in collicky hell, I had to hold her like a football, her face down in my hands, her legs straddled around my forearm, and take her on long walks around the city. I would sing You Are My Sunshine on repeat until she finally fell asleep, somewhere between our loft and Pershing Square. The camera lived around my neck in those three months and we constantly found ourselves repeating to one another, look at her, look at her, look at her.

We took this photo on her three month mark and quietly congratulated ourselves for making it that far. She was so big and mohawky and full of independence. This was the only way she would let us hold her those days. Girl needed some space.

If it is possible to miss Margot more than yesterday, I miss her even more today, three months to the day since she was here and then wasn't.


still life angie said...

Three months. It seems like so much time, but really it is just a blink. I remember thinking that 12 weeks was some magic number for me, both with my living daughter and the grief after my second daughter died. And it wasn't. It is just as you said, Impossible that it could feel more painful, inconceivable that I could miss her more, love her more, and then 12 weeks and one day later, and I miss her, love her, ache for her more. Abiding with you and K and S.

Hope's Mama said...

I distinctly remember this happening as well. I know it was around 15 weeks. Suddenly when asked how long it had been, I could no longer remember. So then we counted months, but if you asked me now, I'd be hard pressed to tell you the exact number. All I know is, three years is almost upon us. I suppose at some point, when I'm old and craggy, it might even get hard to remember how many years it has been. I know one thing though, and that's that I'll never forget.
15 months after she died, when her brother was born, I remember the same thing happening. No longer remembering what week were in and then counting his monthly milestones. And I also remember the contrast of it all. Watching him grow, change and evolve in those weeks and months - all the things she never got to do. And will never get to do. Our newborn, frozen in time.
Thinking of you guys, and baby Margot.

brianna said...

I think the missing only grows as time goes on but it does get more manageable.

Love the mohawk, BTW. That is some serious style.

Mary Beth said...

It is all so hard, and the missing just goes on. Having gone through it as you are, with my older child with me, I couldn't help remember where he was at the same point in time. As in, "I should have a little girl here who's starting to roll over, starting to laugh, because that's what E was doing at this point."

And yes, three months seems like some . . . thing. Some milestone. And it is--I just wish you were having a different one.

Sending lots of love and peace your way.

Josh Jackson said...

Thanks for the perspective and love guys. It does seem like so little time in the grand scheme of things - less than 100 days - even though some days it feels like a lifetime ago that Margot was kicking her little heart out.

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