You Were Supposed to Be a Football

Dear Jordy-Bug,

Last year at this time, just after we found out you were a girl, I started thinking about what costume you'd wear for your first Halloween (one of approximately 10 million plans I had for you.) I guessed you'd be around 8 months old when the holiday rolled around in 2012 because, for some reason, Daddy and I both thought you'd be a Leap Day baby and come a little earlier than your March 10th due date. So, I started scouring the internet for the perfect 9-month costume for Trunk or Treat at church. It didn't take me long to find the ideal match. What could be more perfect for a big, hulking football coach than to carry around his little Jordyn "TD" under his arm, as everyone giggled at our little baby girl "football?" Yes, you were supposed to be a football. Not a fairy princess, not a ballerina, not a cute little butterfly or bumble bee. A football. Because that's how Daddy and I roll. We thought you'd have plenty of time to wear what you wanted as you got older. And, although I guessed you'd be like Mommy and avoid dresses at all costs, I also didn't think you'd go for the football idea later. So, we were intent on doing it our way for at least a year or two. Hence the big ol' bows you donned in the NICU. (A friend of mine told me that you are probably still cursing me for making you wear them, by the way. Lol.)

You never got to be a football. Or a princess. Or a ballerina. Or anything else. Grandma Nockerts lovingly ordered a ladybug costume for you, but because your life was cut short 7 months before Halloween ever arrived, your Jordyn Bear will wear it. Silly to some people, I suppose. But it's all we have now.

We didn't go to Trunk or Treat last Saturday. We didn't even go to the annual meeting at church after Trunk or Treat, because I didn't want to be surrounded by cute little babies all dressed up in adorable costumes. Some of our friends graciously dressed their little ones in ladybug costumes in your honor, but I just couldn't do it. I couldn't go see them. So, Daddy and I grabbed a pizza and then came home to watch shows we had recorded on the DVR. Not at all what either of us pictured last October.

Now here I sit on the eve of what should be your first Halloween, wiping away tears as I think about how there's no little football crawling around our house. No "oohs and aahs" from neighbors, friends, or family about how cute you are in your costume. No stash from which to extract our Mommy and Daddy "candy tax" (I guess that's better for our waistlines anyway.) No Halloween at all. Tomorrow night, we'll be at Daddy's playoff football game. I'm hoping and praying there won't be babies in costumes, but I doubt I'd get that lucky. So, I'll deal with it the best I can. Maybe I'll picture you in heaven trick-or-treating. My, what a grand-scale Trunk or Treat that must be! Since you get to choose your own costume, what will you be? Whatever you choose, you'll be the cutest one ever. I just know it. I just wish Daddy and I could see it.

We miss you, little Bug. More than anything, we love you.

Love,

I Am Not Okay

Dear Jordy-Bug,

Every day people ask "How are you?" I usually say, "I'm OK, how are you?" Every day I lie to people. The truth is...I cry every day; Jordyn Bear is matted with tears. I don't sleep; or I sleep too much. Food is tasteless. My motivation is gone. Our house isn't clean and I don't care. I cook only so Daddy doesn't starve. I don't want to go to work. I can barely get out of bed most mornings. I'm exhausted emotionally, mentally, and physically. I don't have the energy to cope with others, much less serve them or even love them as they deserve to be loved. I'm uncomfortable trying to be social with friends or family. Seeing baby girls, especially those with dark hair or those wearing bows, sends me into a tizzy. Encountering pregnant women, or learning someone is pregnant, makes me irrationally grumpy. Church is joyless. Everything is joyless. I see a counselor every other week and attend a support group with Daddy once a month; I'm still ridiculously sad and angry. I'm a 40 year old woman who sleeps with a 7 lb, 6 oz teddy bear, writes a blog to you, and sends balloons up to heaven because I can't hold you or tell you I love you in person. I am not okay.

I want to see you grow up. I want to kiss you, hug you, and tickle you. I want to see you smile. I want to hear you giggle. I want to take a million more photos of you. I want to watch you dance with Daddy and dress up like a cheerleader while he watches football. We can't do any of those things. And it's killing me.

This morning, I was wide awake at 2:30am thinking of you. By 5am, I couldn't fight back the tears any longer. Daddy held me and told me he loves me. He asked if I was going to be OK today. I told him I was going to "be." That was enough for him because he knows...I am not okay.

I love you, sweet girl. I miss you like crazy. I want to be okay again, but I don't know how. Realistically, I don't think that will happen until I see you again. Until then, smile at the goodness all around you in heaven, giggle until it hurts, practice your dancing so you're ready when Daddy gets there, and please grow up slowly. We don't want to miss everything.

Love,