Dear Bentlee,
This time of year my mind frequently wanders back to 2011,
the year I became a mommy for the first time.
Some days it's hard to believe that it has been five years. It goes back to the short three and a half
months I had with you on this Earth. It re-lives
the hospital stay, the first few sleepless nights, all the snuggles, the coos,
the lullabyes, and all of the nights I rocked you to sleep while your daddy was
working late. I cherished those nights
alone with you – I would rock you and watch you sleep until I couldn’t stay
awake myself any longer.
You were such a content baby. Your grandma always tells me that you had the
same temperament I had as a little one.
I’ll take that as a compliment because you were perfect. You had your fussy moments, but you were
always easily consoled if I scooped you up and sang to you or simply just
rocked you in my arms.
Unfortunately, my mind also flashes back to the tragic day
we lost you, and the overwhelming guilt and regret I felt going back to work
sooner than I would have liked, and the “what ifs” I felt. What if I would have stayed home with you
longer? What if I your grandma would
have watched you? What if I would have
stayed home with you that day? The sad
reality, sweet boy, is that I could “what if” myself from here to the moon and
back again, but that isn’t going to change the past and bring you back to me. God had other plans for you, precious child,
and unfortunately, for those of us who love you dearly on this Earth, it means
we were going to have to live the rest of our lives missing you.
I still have my “poor me” moments despite trying my very
best to carry myself through this never-ending grieving process. I see
other friends and family members having babies, and it reminds me that I am technically
a mother of two, I just don’t have both of mine here on this Earth with
me. Although I know that doesn’t make me
any less of a mother, it does make me sad, angry, and yes, even jealous seeing
other moms getting to love their children in living, breathing, human form. A lot of people would tell me that I have
every right to feel that way, and although there is truth to that, what it
really comes down to is that I have a choice – I can let the grief consume and
overwhelm me, making me angry and bitter, and eventually let it destroy me, or
I can let the grief change me and strengthen me so I can create the best,
happiest life possible for your sister and I.
I choose strength – Lord knows I need it!
Let me tell you about that sister of yours, Evalee
Marie. Oh how I know you two would love
to hate each other, just as any other siblings, and at the same time be the
best of friends. Some days I catch
myself envisioning you two playing together, picking fights, and driving this
momma a little crazy. ☺️ I get an ache in my heart knowing you would
be the best big brother a girl could ask for, but at the same time can’t help
but feel blessed knowing that Evalee will always have her brother watching over
her. She’s a spit fire, that one, and
she is going to need your protective eye watching over her.
We love you, Bentlee.
We think and speak of you often, and miss you more than our hearts can
handle some days. You have impacted our
lives more than anyone will ever know.
You have taught me that my broken heart can still be beautiful, and that
it is possible to smile again after a tragedy.
You gave me the strength I needed to endure another tragic loss after
yours, and you gave me peace in knowing that there is something greater beyond
this life – for a life so young and precious as yours would not have been taken
from this Earth so soon if there wasn’t something grander waiting for you. You taught me to cherish every single minute
we are given with our loved ones, and to not take our loved ones, or our time
with them, for granted. You helped move
in me the drive and desire to be the best mother I can be to your sister. You continue to do so every day.
Thank you, my beautiful son, for lighting a fire in me.
I love you to the moon and back again,
Mommy
