I did it. I held a baby. Ok, not a newborn... but a 9 month old- girl. (Tiger would be 8 months had he been 'born at the right time'). And I'm OK. Yes, I'm surprisingly OK.

I walked into my friends up the street's house for some afternoon tea and there was her dear friend who, after much heartache with infertility, adopted last summer. We have exchanged some emails but I haven't been able to meet her in person... well, because of the baby. My neighbor/friend later admitted that she didn't know what do- tell me? not have me over? tell her friends to not discuss the child they were holding? I think she should have warned me... but, hell who knows what to do with me?

I played with her, I held her, I asked sleeping questions, I watched my husband (superstar with kids) play with her, I left for a while, I came back. How did I do that 10 months after losing my boy you wonder? I'm shocked really but here is what I think- and this is a response to the last post and many others about seeing friends, pregnant friends, friends with kids:

Tiger was my second loss. He was supposed to be the miracle that happened after Losing Will 3 1/2 years before him. But having been through the grieving once, I knew more what had to be done- what I could and couldn't expect of myself (sort-of). I didn't put myself in social situations that I was not in control of, or see my best friend's newborn, or hangout with friends who couldn't deal with my grieving. I move immediately away from pregnant woman on the subway, and have others take my 5 year old girl to the stroller packed playground up the street. I live in a neighborhood in NYC that is constantly in the press for its parenting website, woman breastfeeding in public places, it's tree lined streets full of 'breeders' and strollers and the excessive amount of pregnant woman. It has not been easy- I've had to prepare every day that I have left my house for the last 10 months. But I've done it... I have done whatever I have needed because Tiger told me to. Yes crazy. I do believe that Will and Tiger want our happiness as well as our love... and that they have been with me to help me get there. They have my love 10 fold.... happiness comes in moments, like a meteor- won't see it if you're not watching closely. But I'm getting there. I have days that leave me stumbling and throw me back to last July.... and I had a day where I held a baby.... and I didn't melt into a puddle of tears.

Like Kate, I'll leave here one day. I'm here less than when I found Glow. It's exactly right this place..... you enter in shock, not believing you are one of it's members. You visit over and over like it's the only water fountain in your whole world. You slowly understand that there is a distant light far off on the other side of the woods and let it exist in your periphery. And one day I imagine, you gather all the warmth Glow has given, and pick up your knapsack and start your next hike through the woods, knowing with a profound sadness that there will always be someone to tend the fire here.

But I don't know if we can move like Kate if we don't give ourselves permission to do what our heart tells us. A soul friend of mine Brian said to me after Tiger died and I lay in a hospital bed a week later- "Susan, you know that you can do ANYTHING that you want right now. You have permission to do anything you want and no one can tell you that you can't. It will be powerful. I hope it will be good".

Beautiful, Sooze. I'm sitting here in my cubicle with tears in my eyes. Have you considered becoming one of the permanent writers? I feel comforted by you mentioning that someone will always be here to tend the fires. When I read that Kate was moving on, honestly, I felt a little jab of abandonment. She started this place - what will come of it without her? I know now she started with Bon, but still I was afraid it would go away before I was ready. I don't come as often as I did, but that's only because I know it will be here when I need it. I can't imagine how much longer it would've taken me to catch my breath after losing Olivia if I didn't have this outlet.

I came here this morning praying to read a post of hope, or find someone who needed me, and I see that slowly it comes to all of us, that someday we wont need this place anymore. It makes me sad too, and sad can't even be the word.

There's such a sense of loss when we finally get over these invisible hurdles, isn't there? In a way I am disappointed when I am able to look at a newborn and not feel the kind of burning jealousy that makes me want to vomit into my tea. But it IS good Sooze, it's a good thing, just a new thing, just a change thing. I'm just sitting over here scared, I actually just wrote about this on my blog -- I'm scared of being left behind. But then I guess it's already happened, I just didnt realize it yet, after Henry died the world moved on in ways I havent and never will. I am happy to hear that you can recognize in yourself that change that is happening (which is beyond our control I think anyway) and not feel too scared, because truly, you CAN do whatever you want now, the worst has already happened, and in a way, that is freeing.

I just wrote about this on my blog this weekend.

Sooze, that is so good. You did so well.

And you are right. At some point we'll move on. And that is good and necessary and as it should be.

I am really happy for you, Sooze. You have been through so much and it great to see that you have emerged stronger.

And, I agree-- what a beautifully written post. I want you to make the leap beyond this place but, until that happens. I look forward to reading your insight.

Very early on, when I was talking to my SIL (she's a social worker so good to talk too) I said something about support groups and the online forum I'm part of and she said 'eventually you'll pull back from those places'. Even then it made me sad - deep down I knew it was true. And it's sad but true that places like this will always exist.

Very early on I read blog after blog desperate to find others that had lost babies at the same time as me (coming up 6 months). In the start, I couldn't find many. But now I find them all the time and find blogs of those who's losses are much newer than mine.

I physically had to sigh that big sigh when you put something terrifying behind you after reading this, Sooze. While we fret over "that moment" when it happens it is just sort of there -- leaving us blinking in the bright light, exhilarated and yet calm. I'm thrilled for you that you've reached that place and wish you a smooth path as you continue. Thank you so much for sharing!

Beautifully put, sooze. Really. I will say, though - I've been grappling with this a bit tonight on twitter and it's got me up past midnight (again) writing for my own blog - I wish we could outlaw the words 'move on'. And 'peace', too, which strikes me as such an unreachable racket.

I don't feel particularly like a graduate, and I'd hoped this came across in the post. I feel conflicted and strange and weirdly empty. Part of me knows this is exactly how I'm supposed to feel. Part of me feels panicky and tantrummy and guilty. The biggest part.

I wouldn't describe any of it as moving on. That implies too much of a linear thing, which we all know it's not. It's much simpler and much more complex than that, all at the same time. I ran out of words - at least on a regular, scheduled basis. I'm feeling quiet. That doesn't mean peaceful or resolved. There's just something in me that's telling me that it's time. Some of it's practical - there are other things I need to get done, and there is limited time. Much of it is emotional. Coming here and feeling like I have nothing to say is a terrible exacerbation of the guilt and the emptiness. It cracks open the scar and right now, I need to leave that scar be for a while.

Does it make any sense? I hope so. I'll still be here now and then, and helping out - just not writing on a regular basis. And I'll still write about Liam and being bereaved on my own blog, when I feel the urge to.

I don't want anyone fresher or more raw than I am (for now) internalizing this as "I should be moving on" or "she's moving on and I'm not, what's wrong with me?". We are all exactly where we need to be right this second. Some lost, and some a little less lost. Others just having had more time to become accustomed to and functional within the state of lostness. But it's still a kinship, different weather systems on the same continent.

I can see you there, sooze, and I love what your friend Brian said to you. Thank you so much for this tonight.

All kinds of 'moving-on' I suppose. Maybe just 'moving'.... we keep moving.

With my baby cuddling on Saturday there was the weeping around Will's tree this morning in the park. There is the strange discomfort of good days or days that aren't entirely filled with grieving... the guilt and sadness over seeing another way of grieving, of being in the world. It's grieving that gets more and more surrounded by LIFE is all.

Four and half years later I weep for Will while I am inspired by him, long for him, am better because of him, struggle without him, call to him for guidance. But I have integrated him into my world- he is a part of the life I eventually re-entered. And Tiger? My post was only explaining my first glimpse of that eventuality. I remember missing the days of mourning my dream of Life with Will. I know I will miss these days with Tiger.

For those of you who just joined this grief I imagine it is impossible to imagine that you could miss the rawness. It's very dicey- I found that I longed for a 'just-ok' day, then I would have one and wonder if I would ever feel that raw closeness to my boys again. Of course BAM it would (and still sometimes does) hit me, and while sinking into it, I would long for the 'just ok' day all over again. (And if I am going to be really honest- there are still those moments when I am angry. Just pissed off at the whole devastating reality of it all). Now I just try to BE with whatever day I wake up into.

You are right Kate here is no real 'moving-on'. Certainly no expectation of it but more than that -wherever we go, they go with us. Our children are always our children.

Love to all of you and to all of the ways you find yourselves grieving.