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Perfect

I like things to be neat and tidy.  I like my spice drawer to be in alphabetical order.  My husband says I am a "pocket perfectionist," meaning I have certain pockets of life that I like to keep just so.  I like to have things figured out and to have myself together.  I am a rule follower.  I can't help but look at situations that turned out badly and try to extract a 'rule' I can follow to prevent it from happening again.  There is no rule that I can come up with for this.  I cannot figure it out.

I am a mess.  My babies are coming and I am flailing in a sea of grief.  My nursery is ready, but how can I be?  I thought at the beginning of this terrible journey that I had to have all this "worked through" before February so I could be a good mommy.  Yes, I go to counseling, but I laugh now at the notion that I could  "fix" me.  No one can.  A friend recently said to me that after Jacob wrestled with God, his walk was permanently affected.  He always had a limp after that.  So I, too,  will always walk in a markedly different way because of this struggle... this wrestling with grief, with death, with God.

The morning she was killed, Makiah came tottering into my room with wild hair and silly faces. Sweet Makiah, Mommy brushed your blond curls and pulled back the front with a sparkly, yellow clip.  We put on your pink princess shirt and khaki shorts with sparkly flip flops.  I washed your face and carefully put sunscreen on your soft cheeks so you wouldn't burn by the sunny window in the back of the car.  After we ate breakfast, you crawled up next to me on the couch to watch cartoons.  Then you rolled over towards me and started rubbing my face.  I pulled away a bit because I had just put my makeup on, but you said quite insistently, "Mommy, I want to touch your face!"  I was a little surprised at your tone and said ok.  You rubbed my cheeks and chin and nose and forehead- almost feeling them like a blind person would.  Then you put your little right hand up against my left palm.  Your tiny fingers didn't quite reach my first knuckle.  I thought what beautiful little hands you have; they looked so pretty with your tan.  You pretended to make them grow against my hand.  We laughed, and I said it would take longer then that!

Then out of nowhere, with your palm against mine, you said, "Mommy, you are perfect."  I was caught off guard and replied, "No baby, Mommy is not perfect.  Sometimes I make bad choices and sometimes I make mistakes, but I try."  Then you said. "When you try, it's perfect."

Now in my room staring at the beautiful ballerina painting of Makiah hanging over the two waiting bassinets draped with white eyelet, tears are streaming.  My little Abby and Alena, mommy is not perfect.  In fact, I am a total mess.  I cannot change our circumstances.  I wish I could make things the way they should be, but I cannot.  I wish I could go back to who I was before for you.  But I am the messy mommy you were given to, and I love you already with all of my heart- with every piece of my broken heart.  No, mommy is not perfect, but I will try.  Yes, sweet Makiah, mommy will try.


Abigail Kaitlyn
Alena Kaitlyn

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