I wish I had something profound to say about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., or about the baby boy we lost two years ago today. But the words aren’t coming, try as I might to pluck the right ones from the air, to grab them and set them down here. Mostly, today, I tried to work, and I watched the snow falling steadily.

We observe the birth date of Dr. King, not the date that he was assassinated. I wish I could do the same for my son, but he doesn’t even have a birthday.

I think one of the hardest things about grief is the way life goes on. A door closed for me on January 17, 2009, and for a long time I sat in front of it, waiting for it to reopen, trying to break it down. After two years, that door has receded. Try as I might, I can’t reach it any more. It’s still there, but it is too far away to touch.

It’s not better or worse. It’s just different.

Photo from my dear friend Sue, Hannah’s mama.

Not too many people even know it, and fewer still dare to say it aloud. But my littlest boy, lost one year ago today, has a name. It was important for me to give it to him, because it’s one of the only things I know about him. He was a boy. He sucked his thumb. His name is Simon. I have no pictures, save a few blurry ultrasounds. No clothes or toys or locks of hair. Just his name, which I whisper to myself at night. I tell him I love him, and that I’m sorry. And that I wish he could come back to me. I call  him by his name.

The name is one that was rattling around in my head during those few short months I had with him. It amused me that it is one of only two that I happen to know my late grandmother hated … and the other one is Opie’s name. A friend mentioned it just a few days before everything started to fall apart, which I suppose is why it kept coming to mind during that awful time.

After he was gone, I thought about what I wanted for his name. I like  Gabriel; maybe an angel name would be right. Or one of the boy names I loved but my husband didn’t, like Theodore. Did I want something common, so I could hear it often and think of him? Did I want something unusual, so I wouldn’t have to be reminded so very often (I know now that doesn’t matter; I think of him constantly, reminders or not)? Did it need to match my other children’s names, or not really?

In the end, Simon kept coming up, so Simon it was. Is.

For months, he didn’t have a middle name. I’ve always liked the family name Anton, but didn’t quite dare use it. It doesn’t work with Simon, but Anthony does. Then I learned that January 17 was St. Anthony’s Day. Anthony was a protégé of St. Francis of Assisi (I loved the Franciscans at my parish in Manhattan, and they are known worldwide for their work on poverty and human rights issues). Anthony is often depicted holding a little boy–the baby Jesus–in his arms. And he is the patron saint of lost items.

My Simon Anthony is not an “item,” but he is surely lost, as am I without him.

I read an absolutely searing memoir recently: Without a Map by Meredith Hall. The story begins when Hall becomes pregnant at age 16 (in the 1960s) and is suddenly, wrenchingly rejected by her school, friends, neighbors, siblings, and parents. Her son is placed for adoption–she’s given no choice on this–and the book outlines the repercussions as they happen over the ensuing years.

While I lost my son under different circumstances, I related so utterly to Hall’s pain and grief. About six years after she gives birth, she travels to Europe, intending to meet a boyfriend there and continue to India. Instead, she simply walks, alone and without a map or a plan or any money, for months, finally ending up in Israel with nothing but a knife, a bedroll, her passport, and a simple dress she’d made herself after selling the rest of her possessions.

Now, no one needs to worry that I’m going to take off on foot and end up in Patagonia or something. But I got it. I got why she walked. Why the only right thing to do seemed to be just to go and not stop. Why something that makes no sense can also make perfect sense. Walking let her escape her past, present, and future all at the same time. And sometimes, that feels like the only way to go.

[I did this on the wrong day, but I wanted to participate in some of the #best09 prompts and this has been on the brain.]

Mommy, why did Jo and I not die?

Everything worked just the way it was supposed to and here you are.

We were born.

Are you thinking about your baby brother?

Yeah.

He was very sick and he couldn’t be made better.

Why?

He was just too little.

I wanted to see a real baby.

Me too.

…

Mommy? Why is Darlene the leader of the G-Force?

Captain Obvious reminds the world to never ever ever say:

• Are you pregnant?
• When are you due? (unless preceded by a voluntary announcement of pregnancy)
• Are you planning to have [any more] children?
• Don’t you want [any/more] kids?
• I thought you had more than two children. Are you sure?*
• Are you trying?
• Are you sure there’s only one in there?

Captain Obvious notes that one can comfortably say:

• I love your [hair/shoes/necklace/spinach dip].
• How about this [weather/local sports team/lovely venue]?
• How do you know [host/mutual friend]?
• I’m going to the bar, can I get you anything?

*Yes. Personal experience with this one. I wish I were kidding.

On or about my 38th birthday, my little girl’s appendix ruptured, which pretty much ruined the rest of our summer.

About three months after my birthday, I quit the job I’d had for almost eight years, not entirely voluntarily. I struggled to adjust to freelance life.

A few weeks later, I got pregnant. That was good! Except I felt horribly, horribly ill. That was bad (that post does not, in the least, do justice to the utter misery of 24/7 nausea, heartburn, and migraine).

About six months after my birthday, everything caved in.

Since then, I move tentatively, afraid of blindsides.

39, you are going to have to bring it. And 38? Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

Tuesday’s Act III (everything after 5 p.m.) was a tragedy. Or a misery, or whatever theatrical term means “sucky.” We discovered I’d made a frustrating, and probably costly, mistake regarding some home repairs. Opie moped and whined; he’d had a minor, but uncomfortable medical procedure done earlier in the day and the pain was breaking through. Neither Jeff or I have the slightest interest in making dinner lately, so we’d done the usual stare into the fridge, sigh, feed kids “how about some canned soup.” Even absent all of this, my general frame of mind these days is snappish and cranky; I knew June would be hard and it is, very.

Wednesday, the sun came out after days of cold and rain. Our peonies bloomed. I spent the whole day alone with the kids and didn’t lose my temper. We caught some caterpillars. We ate frozen pizza (with spinach). I set my expectations low.

It still wasn’t exactly a comedy of a day (there was no wedding at the end, for starters), but I’ll take it.

Recently I had a Bad Day, of the grieving subset of Bad Days. I had to go to the dentist and I just knew there would be an awkward moment when the hygienist asked me if I’d had my baby or why I wasn’t pregnant. I was dreading it utterly and it happened almost exactly the way I had feared, except I hadn’t predicted the part where I spent the entire appointment willing myself not to cry, then lost it in the car afterward.

As I told Maggie after her post IVF Shoes, I only want to talk about our loss with people I really care about and trust. Everyone else, it’s a need-to-know basis only. I know they don’t know what to say. I don’t either and I don’t feel like comforting them because I suffered a loss.

Like Maggie did, I bought a necklace as a tribute to my son. And what I like best about it is that it’s meaningful to me–the two taller flowers sheltering the little one, each representing one of my three children–but I only need share that meaning if I want to.

We won’t be leaving for my brother’s place for a few days, but yesterday Opie packed a bag. Stuffed it, actually: “So I’ll have choices, Mommy.” Here is what he wants to bring:

• 2 pairs shorts (how optimistic)
• 1 pair pants (also optimistic, given the limited success of potty training thus far)
• 3 short-sleeved shirts
• 2 long-sleeved shirt (it goes without saying that none of the above articles of clothing actually match each other)
• 1 pair football pants (from Halloween costume)
• 1 football jersey (from thrift shop)
• 1 Superfriends coloring book
• 1 rubber dog-nose mask
• 2 pairs faux pilot goggles (a spare is important)
• 1 string Mardi Gras beads (turquoise)
• 1 6-inch-long piece of grosgrain ribbon (striped)

I guess I’ll be packing the socks and underwear in my luggage.

*

Like Mrs. Chicken, I feel strange posting something frivolous today. I’ve been unable to write about Maddie (and now Thalon) in part because a silly, petty feeling weighs on me–that every mention of them is a tacit, although certainly unintended, exclusion of so many others: other babies who have been lost (yes, including my own), other families suffering other tragedies, too numerous or too unknown to mention. None of it is fair, none of it. But all I can do is enjoy the children I have.

I am not talking about the real kind of spring cleaning (heaven forfend). I am lucky if I remember to change the sheets regularly, and our windows haven’t been washed in at least two years.

But even though it’s still freezing cold, with snow predicted for the next two days, I am on an out-with-the-old roll lately. I am mercilessly cutting Bloglines subscriptions; I just can’t follow over 100 blogs anymore (but I’m sure yours is still on there). We are meeting with the accountant today to finally wrap up our 2008 taxes. I am changing my habits by shredding every day and being more thoughtful about what I eat. I am actually keeping alive the two new plants that recently came to live in our house. I am itching to put away my sweaters and corduroys in favor of skirts and t-shirts.

I can’t decide what to do with all of the baby and maternity clothes, though. I know I am placing a lot of pressure on myself to make a decision, but it’s driving me crazy to have all this stuff around. If we’re done, I’d like to try to move on, to celebrate the new time and space it might create in our lives while also mourning the babies, real and imagined, we’ll never have. If we’re not done, well, time’s a-wasting, you know? Limbo is just not a place I like to be.