Spoilt

Over the holidays I had a couple of more or less amicable discussions with various members of my family about my parenting of Jessica.

Most of these went something along the lines of . . .
'you let her walk all over you'
'you spoil that child'
'you are making a rod for your own back'
'she has to learn . . '

I honestly don't know how to respond.
Personally, I don't think you can spoil a child as young as Jessica.
She only asks for what she needs. Nothing more.

They don't understand that when I look at Jessica, a part of me still sees a child who looks like this.

Edited to say that ventilator noises and alarms are audible in the soundtrack of this video.

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Part of me is still that person in the video.
That shell-shocked woman. Part of me will always be her.

Obviously, I understand that Jessica doesn't look like this anymore.
She isn't ill.
She isn't likely to die.
Well, no more likely than any of us in reasonable health are at any given moment.

But when I look at my daughter, I see a composite image.

A sturdy one year old with a ready smile.

Jessica's fragile, delicate body. Weighing less than two pounds.
Her dusky colour as yet another vain attempt was made to abandon the ventilator.
Her chest falling still. No rise and fall. The tiny ribs motionless.

Georgina's puffy hands and chest. Vibrating with the motion of the oscillator.
Her skin splitting as the fluid accumulated.
Her last breath.

All of these blur my vision when it comes to being Jessica's mother.
A kaleidoscope of images, falling down one on top of another.

I know that I am probably doing it all wrong.
Perhaps I am raising a spoilt brat? I really have no idea any more.
I've never done this before. This being a mother.
I can only muddle through as best I can with this experience of death, life and the bits in between.
This is how it happened to me.
Not like it usually happens but I'm far from the only one.
As my husband keeps insisting this IS normal.
Hmmmm.

I messed up the first bit pretty damn well so perhaps I'm horribly overcompensating for that in all the wrong ways?

It is no surprise to me that I bought Jessica enough presents for two, that she has enough clothes for two, that I fuss over her enough for two. I do all of these things for myself.
Not for her.
She doesn't want presents.
She doesn't ask for toys.
She doesn't care if she has a fancy outfit on or a plain vest.
But it is all I can do. I feel so helpless.
Battering away against things that I can't change for her.
I can't unwind the past. I can't fix it.

Whenever I am exhausted or fed up, those images start to interpose themselves and suddenly . . I simply can't.
I can't ignore her cries.
I can't deny her a cuddle. It will be all too soon and she won't want her mother's hugs.
I can't be the sort of mother they seem to expect me to be.
They were there too. My family. Have they forgotten?

Not my little sister.  Who made these.

But the sight of that stocking, all on its own.
That tiny, tiny pink stocking.
I wish I could have unglued it and pegged it next to the others.
I wish that, by that action, I could change reality.
That, by moving that cardboard cut-out stocking, I could conjure my daughter back into being.

I missed her this Christmas.
More than I thought I would.
I missed my Georgina.
Some things seem to change.
But not that.
Not the missing of her.
That seems to have become part of me, an extraneous limb that flails around uselessly.
Valiantly, steadfastly it waves about.
But to no real purpose.
Missing Georgina.


How about you?
Did the death(s) of your child or children change the way you feel about parenting your living children?
Do you (or do you imagine that you would, or will in the future, or might have in some hypothetical world where things worked out) do things differently now? In the after?