disclaimer

I keep a running list of writing ideas on my phone. One or two words to remind me of things I want to explore a bit more. If I don't write it down, I'll for sure forget. If I do write it down, the chances of remembering go up by about fifty percent. (I just took a moment to look over my list and there's at least one item on the list that I cannot understand at all. So perhaps my system needs some refining.) 

For the most part, the list has been helpful in spurring me to write more. But I hit a bump in the last few weeks. I could blame it on sick kids or working or whatever thing sounds most believable. But the truth is I noticed a pattern and I felt a bit self conscious. 

I noticed a lot of my ideas, most of them in fact, are about Oliver. And I thought back to most of my writing this year thus far and realized that nearly everything I've written has touched on Oliver in some way. 

And I feared, what if people are sick of reading about my dead kid? 

(I think there is a general sense of this in the baby loss community, because sometimes people (strangers, family members, whoever) suggest we need to "get over it" and "move on" which is such an ignorant asshole thing I can't even fully get into here.) 

A lot of thoughts came up after I posed that question to myself and after a moment it boiled down to two truths: 

Who gives a fuck. And, they can stop reading if they want. 

Because the truth is: my desire to write about and think about and talk about Oliver is sort of a miracle to me. 

Because when he died I was unsure how anyone can continue to be reminded of someone they only knew for nine months. I thought I would run out of things to say about him. 

I was so wrong. It's weird and maybe unbelievable but I have just as much to say about Oliver as I do with the two living kids I get to spend my days with. I am reminded of him every single day. Sometimes by the normal Oliver things, owls or OMG or pictures or clothes I wore when I was pregnant. But sometimes the memories even surprise me, when I'm see something I binged on during that pregnancy (I'm talkin' about you Cap'n Crunch). Or when I look at these obnoxious little postpartum hairs I have right now and I'm reminded of my hair lady telling me she was remembering Oliver because she saw them growing around my hairline months after he died. 

And there's no important person in my life that I could write about here without referencing how they were there for me when Oliver died. Everything in my life changed that stupid, awful, beautiful day and one of the best, for lack of a better term, silver linings that occurred will always be the presence of solid, loving, generous, honest family and friends. 

So I guess what I want to relay in this moment is this disclaimer, not because it's necessary (because remember, who gives a fuck) but because it will free me to write more: 

If you don't want to read about my dead kid every once in a while (or more), move right along. Nothing for you to see here.