Sunday, February 3, 2013
When we were counting bags for our vacation J said, "Wait, we don't have the laptop. What are we going to do with that?"
"I'm not taking it."
"Really?" He stared at me. "It's not a problem ..."
"No. It stays."
I didn't want to bring the laptop with me because I wanted to focus on our family while we were away. I didn't want to think about blogging or tweeting (though I did Instagram plenty!) or catching up on Facebook.
I didn't plan on blogging while away but when I woke up at 5 am every morning I couldn't stop the words from forming. So I dashed off quick posts while waves crashed against rocks outside the windows and my boys softly slept.
I am guilty of getting so caught up in recording the moment I forget to live it. I'm (slowly) learning to set down my phone, put aside the camera, look deep into my loved ones eyes and find contentment with recording a memory only we possess. A memory just for me to pull out and look over whenever I realize how fleeting and fickle time is.
Yes, those memories will fade. Having a memory tucked somewhere in my scattered mind is not as secure or tangible as a photo, but it is the faded, tattered quality of memories that make them so special.
I can't capture every sweet or cute thing B does. I can't bottle the joy I see in J's face when he looks at B. It's incredible how J's entire body exhales thankfulness when he looks at his son, but it's also too sacred to capture, or explain, or try to convey in 140 characters.
This life is short, people. It's short, and it's sweet and it's sad, and I have to stop pretending that a quick Instagram update is going to stop time. Sweet B is nearly 17 months old and he has laughed more throughout his little life than I have in nearly 30 years. My baby boy loves life with a passion I can't conceive of and it's my job as his mother to spend some time each day setting down everything that distracts me so I can focus solely on him. So I can inhale his laugh and let it wash the grief anchored to sadness and shackled by grief from my soul.
That's a huge weight, and if I can just let go and stand firmly as someone who understands letting go of the heavy negative emotions doesn't mean letting go of Charlotte I'll be in a better place, and I'll be a better mother. If I can do that, if I can let go of the thoughts of unworthiness and shame over Charlotte's death I won't need to capture every moment so someone else can tell me how good it is. Or how good I am.
I'll look deep in my soul, inhale that sweet, high laugh of my baby's and know I'm doing okay. And when I share a picture, or post an update it will be from a place of security, rightness and contentment.