Mommy friends

I wrote this back in September, but never published.  Better late than never!

Over the summer I joined a stroller boot camp. We met once or twice a week in a park in my town and an instructor led us in a mix of cardio and strength training. Everyone had a stroller with one or two kids and the exercises often involved the stroller or a song. Even when the exercise had nothing to do with the stroller, it was a place where a crying baby is met with knowing glances and understanding.

I did lots of bootcamp classes when I was pregnant with Mabel and continued after she died into my pregnancy with Felix.  I was able to return to a few before they changed their pricing and class structure making it no longer feasible for me to stay a member. Plus with a kids who didnt sleep, my fatigue was making it very hard to find the time or motivation to make it a regular thing.

When I learned of the stroller boot camp- I was thrilled. I didn’t have to worry about childcare. There was a class that met on my day off, so I didnt have to choose between exercise and sleep or worry about childcare.  I thought that since it was in my own town maybe I could even make some mommy friends!

The first class was fine- it was a little weird because since Felix had a fever I showed up sans baby and stroller.  During our warm up we would circle up and introduce ourselves while we lunged and squatted.  The instructor was very nice and super chatty.  A pregnant woman was there who was about 35 weeks and pushing a stroller with a toddler.  She was talking with the instructor about how she hoped this exercise would help her go early.  I chimed in “I ran a road race when I was 37 weeks with my second and he came that night, so you never know!” It’s a fun fact that I hoped would start some conversation. It was well received and talked a tiny bit more until it was time for a new exercise.

The next class we were all lined up after the warm up for an exercise behind the strollers. As we worked, the instructor stood in front of us asking questions, engaging with different people in the group. “How long have you lived in this town?”… “what made you move here?”… then she looked at me. “Who’s watching your older child, Meghan?”

I was caught a bit off guard and I must have shown it in my face because before I could formulate an answer, the instructor felt she had to explain. “You said last week that Felix was your second… so is you older child in day care or at home or….?

It was weird being asked that question, but not unmanageable. I was trying to think of how to best answer without making it awkward. It was also weird to be asked that question with so many people listening.

Finally I said simply, “she died.”

I was ready for the usual response- the i’m so sorry- and honestly was kind of shocked when I didn’t get it.

I got nothing.

The instructor literally was looking directly at me when I responded and she quickly turned away from me and asked another of the women in the class a question.


No acknowledgement, No awkward response. No well meaning but painful platitude. Nothing.

I think it was the worst possible response I have ever gotten. I know that she didn’t know what to do or say and I understand that it was not at all the answer she was expecting. I don’t think it was even in the realm of possibilities for her.  A part of me felt sorry for her- sorry that I couldn’t give her a warning, that she was forced to deal with the unexpected response in front of an audience.

But I was also a little frustrated and mad.  By not acknowledging what I had said gave me important impression: Talking about my dead daughter was not welcome here. I understand that the group is made up of moms and no one wants to have to think of how it would feel to lose one of their babies, but it’s my reality.  I can’t talk about so many of the common mom things without at least referencing the fact that I gave birth to another child.  It is interwoven with my every day existence. It is one of the things that defines me- it’s just as important that people know that I am a midwife as it is for them to know I am the mother of two children.

From that class on I accepted that I was not there to make mommy friends, I was there to get exercise.  The fact that the interaction was witnessed by most of the class also gave the class the impression that my dead daughter shouldn’t be talked about. But how can I make friends if people don’t know about Mabel? Argh. Another loss- the loss of “normal” parenting and friend making.

I was able to make a connection with one woman towards the end of the classes. She and I used the same midwives and those who choose the midwives I go to tend to be a self selecting group of people- likeminded in many ways.  Once I learned that I (perhaps a little biasedly) liked her instantly. We talked for a bit about birth and our midwives; it was nice.  What normal friend making must be like. Sadly it was in the second to last class and so nothing more ever grew from there.  I suppose it was good practice.

How do you make new friends after loss?

so I’m not perfect…

I was out for a run with Muppet and came across a lemonade stand- some neighborhood kids raising money for cancer. I was running by at just the right time, with several families approaching the stand. When the kids asked if I wanted lemonade, I regretfully said I didn’t have any money, but I’ll try to come back when I was done with my run.  Just as I was about to take off, I saw you there. My smile brightened with recognition- a fellow professional in my field and a someone who chose my practice for care.  You have a son a few years older than Felix and I was reminded seeing you there that you live in my town! Since I”m not attending births and you work in a different practice, I haven’t seen you in a while- in the past I crossed paths with other OB professionals on the labor floor, a place I don’t often visit these days. Seeing you with your son, gave me pause. We should be friends, I thought.

I stopped and chatted with you, saying hi to your husband and letting your son pet Muppet.  I learned your son had some developmental delays, something I hadn’t known before.  I straight up blurted out- “I need local mommy friends,” a truth so prevalent lately. I find it a little hard to make mommy friends easily… something I’ll elaborate in another post…but since you’re in my professional community, I’m pretty sure you know my story. You know I’ve lost a baby.

You given me your number and tell me how you have a good group of local moms who get together every now and then. You warn me that the moment you say you’re in the OB field, everyone likes to tell you their birth story.  I laugh in total understanding. You roll your eyes and we talk briefly about yours- how you tried so very very hard for a vaginal birth but it just wasn’t in the cards despite everyone’s best efforts. I could see how frustrated you could get hearing other’s stories especially when you felt frustrated with your own. It’s like hearing how someone has a beautiful birth when yours was traumatic. It hurts a little.

And then I blurted out something I wish I hadn’t.  “Well did you hear about Felix’s birth story? How I didn’t make it to the hospital?” You smiled and laughed a little, telling me how you read it in the paper.

I realized shortly after I said it, that I did exactly what you had just said was hard. I told you my birth story. I’m sorry.

I wanted to tell you, that I often blurt out Felix’s story because I can’t so very easily with Mabel’s because no one likes a story that ends with a baby dying. Blurting out his story makes me feel a bit like a normal person. I wanted to tell you that Felix’s birth story is a tribute to Mabel, because there is no way he would have come so fast had he not been my second child. I wanted to tell you that when I learned your son had some delays, I felt a small kinship with you because Mabel would have had delays too and I imagine parenting a child with special needs is especially hard, but it’s just what you do, isn’t it? I wanted to tell you I shared Felix’s story with you because I assumed you knew about Mabel.

In that brief exchange we had, I am reminded that I am not perfect and sometimes says things I wish I hadn’t. It was a good reminder that others do the same and to give them a little leeway.

Have you ever said something you regretted? Do you hold yourself to a high standard of always saying the right thing?

Sunday Synopsis

Two Friends with Down Syndrome Kickstarter: This is beyond awesome!  Try not to fall in love with these kids, I dare you!  The best part is what you’re gifted when you pledge.

Our Mommy Problem. This article was posted by another blog I follow and felt the urge to comment.  Part of me wanted to be bitter and say, “at least people recognize you as a mom!” but I knew that wasn’t fair or productive.  I was compelled to comment, though and so I wrote something else.  I’d be curious what some of you moms think- those with living children and those without.   Here’s my comment: “think this article was well written- I appreciated how it seemed to tackle an issue that many women face (how to integrate the mom identity into her other identities and not let it take over) without being whiny (I have no patience for whiny). To throw another perspective in the boat- I adore being addressed as mom. It is a part of my identity that people don’t see because i don’t have a living child to prove it. But being called “mom” or better yet “Mabel’s mom” is like Christmas to me. And I know of many people who would do anything for that title but life circumstance hasn’t given them the chance. I comment not in any way to say that women shouldn’t complain about being called mom by certain people- the comment in the bar about mommies night out irked me too!- but I wouldn’t want people to stop using the term either- I’m sure the woman with a child after years of infertility might still glow at even an insensitive use of the term. I think this article has made me more mindful of how I use the moniker mom.”  

Who Has it Worse? This hit home hard for me.  No one has said it out loud so much, but I often feel like people think it’s easier to know ahead of time.  This article does a good job of saying it’s not.  It’s not easier to know and it’s not easier to not know.  Both are hard.  Both suck.

Have you read anything that has really hit home this week?  Any thoughts on these articles?


Parallel Lives

She was telling me about a problem she’s had since her baby was born. To get a better sense of the duration of her symptoms, I asked when she had the baby.

February 15, 2014.

As I typed the date into my note, I my fingers began to freeze. They understood the significance of that day. For the woman in front of me, it was the best day of her life. For me it was the worst. We were in the same hospital, on the same labor floor at the same time. We both held our first borns that very day, changing our lives forever.

My family came to meet my lifeless child, while hers came with balloons and teddy bears.

While she changed diapers in the middle of the night, I slept in an ambien-induced haze.

She woke to the sound of a crying baby; I woke to the sound of my cell phone, a call from my credit card company to inform me of some fraud that happened while I was listening to the nurse ask us if we wanted to call the chaplain.

A day later, I was leaving the hospital empty armed and she stayed learning how to nurse her child.

Her milk came in, as did mine, but she had an outlet for her brimming breasts.

While I planned a funeral, she learned to care for a baby.

I sat on my couch, staring mindlessly at the tv; she longed for the free time she had pre-baby to catch up on her shows.

She watched her baby grow into an infant, learning to smile and respond; I placed photos of my dead baby around the house, knowing that I would never see her smile.

She raised a baby while I got a puppy.

She is a mom and I am the shadow of one.

She lived the life I was supposed to have.

At the end of her visit, I slipped into the bathroom and cried.


Have you come across someone living the life you were supposed to have?

Part of the club

As I hurried back to the group from a quick bathroom trip, I took a shortcut through the pavilion.  Weaving my way through the picnic tables, I paused momentarily to let another person pass.  A woman with a kind smile took the opportunity to say hello.

“This is Easton.  He decided it was too hot to walk.” She introduced me to her son, who looked about 11 and had the classic features of Down Syndrome.  I sympathized with the kid, because the forecasted temperate 70 degree day soon morphed into a hot 82 degrees.

“Hi Easton,” I said.  “I’m Meghan.  Today is a big day for you, huh?”  He smiled and nodded in response, proud of the day, the day of the annual Buddy Walk, a fundraiser for our states Down Syndrome Congress, the day where he is center of attention, celebrated in a way he should be everyday.

Easton’s mom looked at me and asked, “Are you a mom too?”

I was wearing a light green shirt that announced my membership in team “Jenna’s Journey,” supporting a little girl who I had the privilege to help bring into this world six years earlier, surprising her parents with a Down Syndrome diagnosis at birth.  I had also run into another patient who had a huge team walking for her son, another boy who surprised his family at birth with features consistent with Down Syndrome.  Both these families rallied support for their children, creating teams with t-shirts and raising money. Having been distracted by the live, in person children with Down Syndrome that surrounded me, I was caught of guard, by this woman’s question.

“Yes,” I said confidently, realizing that I too was a mom to a child with Down Syndrome.

“How old is yours?” She said smiling, happy to know we were both members of the same club.

“She died shortly after birth.”

Her face didn’t fall, revealing the typical horror at the mention of a dead baby.  Instead, I saw a shadow of sadness cross her; she was sad because she knew what I was truly missing out on, the joy of raising a child with Down Syndrome.  We exchanged a few more words before I departed to rejoin my team.  I left her, with a little extra gratitude for opportunity to parent her son and she left me, with the reminder that I too belonged. I am a mom of a child with Down Syndrome.  I got to be part of the club!


It was the highlight of my day.


Where do you fit in?  What new memberships have you gained in your loss?


I got to be a mom… for a moment

Last week, she gave me condolences about my loss. It always warms my heart for a patient to take a second out of a time that is really meant for her and say something. I have a sign at the check-in desk, informing patients I had a loss. Some days I receive no comments and my daughter’s existence remains silent, other days I could have three or four people say something. But this patient became special, when she went a step further.

“How big was she?” she asked.

My heart swelled! It’s didn’t end, when I said my usual, “thank you. And thank you for saying something.” I got to say more!

“Five pounds four ounces,” I announced proudly. “She was born at 36 weeks, so she was a little early.”

“She was beautiful.” She had not only taken the time to read my sign, but she had looked at the photo beneath the words.

“She was, wasn’t she? Thank you! She looked big for her weight. She was a little chunker!” I grinned.

For that moment, I got to be a mom. Those four little words opened me up, allowing the pride and love I have for my daughter spill out. I hope she knows how much her extra effort made my day.

Have you had any experiences like this, where you felt more like a traditional mom than a babyloss mom?