The first year of parenting after loss is almost complete. My rainbow baby turns 1 on Saturday and I have learned so much from this first year.   

The year didn’t start out like I thought it would. I imagined a peaceful, natural birth where I went into labor on my own. I needed it to be so because my last birth was so traumatic. Instead, I was induced because the baby was moving less for two days in a row and my anxiety got the best of me. My doctor induced me at six Thursday night and came in a broke my water the next morning. Because I had had a c-section before and was at high risk for hemorrhage, my doctor gave me until noon on Friday to show progress before she went ahead with a c-section. She waited until one and I still wasn’t in active labor. I had contractions off and on but nothing consistent. I knew the look on her face when she finished checking to see if I had progressed. It was the same look so many other doctors had given me when they had bad news. She said I wasn’t making progress and she had already given me Pitocin, which she didn’t want to do in the first place. It was time for a c-section. I broke down and cried.    

I had a panic attack mixed in with some PTSD flashbacks in the OR. I thankfully had an amazing nurse who helped me breathe through it and rubbed my arms and talked to me as soothing as she could. The whole atmosphere was different. My husband came in when they were done with my spinal anesthesia (it’s a sterile procedure so he couldn’t be there). He distracted me by asking me how much I thought the baby would weigh and how long he would be. He’s gotten good at talking me down from panic attacks. And then I heard and single cry and a red little baby with arms outstretched and fingers spread apart appeared over the drape. My first reaction, “He can breathe! He can breathe!” (His brother had underdeveloped lungs and had to be resuscitated at birth – he was blue).    I didn’t get to hold him right away like I wanted. But I could hear my husband talking to him and to the nurse. He talked about his eyes being open. I was right about his weight and height. The doctor talked about how he had a perfect head. She said normally their heads are a little swollen and misshapen even though they were c-section babies from trying to get out. She said it meant that he probably wasn’t going to fit or just wasn’t going to come out on his own.    I finally held him in the post anesthesia unit. I just looked at him. I had expected him to look like his brother and he didn’t look a thing like him. I just stared, wondering who this person was. I had no idea. Which leads me to the first lesson I learned.   

 You may not love your rainbow baby at first. I expected to be infatuated immediately. I wasn’t. I was tired. I was in pain. I didn’t recognize him. I would just stare at him, trying to figure him out. I couldn’t. One of the nurses mistook it for me being in love with him. I smiled and told her I was. I didn’t want to lie and say I wasn’t. But I wasn’t prepared for him and who he was. And I had to learn that that was okay. Mama, you went through a trauma when you lost your last baby. Having this baby is different but also, in some ways, the same. If you knew your baby, you will expect them to look and act like your first baby. Maybe they will and maybe they won’t. Give yourself time. It came unexpectedly for me. I was lying on the couch, putting heat on my incision and the baby was sound asleep in his rock’n’play a few feet out of reach. And, I found, that I missed him. I wanted to touch and hold him and snuggle him. I was finally in love with him.    

You will cry. A lot. I’m pretty sure I cried almost nonstop for the first few weeks. It was a mixture of pregnancy hormones, being off my anti-depressant medication, and being sleep deprived. But I also cried because I missed my Judah. I was so terribly sad that he was denied the ability to come home like his brother. That he was in the hospital his whole life and put through more procedures and surgeries than most people go through in a lifetime. That this whole situation was just unfair. Yours is too, mama. Allow yourself to cry. To feel. Get the emotions out in the open. Just don’t let them become extreme.    

You will have to learn to parent even though you already were one. Parenting Judah was easy, in some ways. He was almost always in his isolette, and we would sing and read and love on him. Parenting Arthur has been hard. Because this baby can move, get into trouble, do things he knows he shouldn’t. And we have had to learn how to handle the milestones, the leaps, the tantrums, the 2AM feedings, the diaper changes, the baths, the fevers, the babysitters, and the just giant life change that is adding another person to your household. We didn’t know how. But we learned. We’re still learning. You will too.    

Every milestone will be so sweet and so sad. Grief doesn’t go away just because your baby has been born. Grief will always be there, even in the happiest moments. Every time Arthur hits a milestone that Judah never did, I am so proud and so happy but also incredibly sad. His brother’s life shouldn’t have been cut so short. For whatever reason, it was. And because of that, we have known the intricate dance of happiness mixed with grief. Learn to be gentle with yourself.    

You will forever have to dodge that dreaded question. I get it a lot. Most of the time when I’m standing in a checkout line and Arthur smiles at someone. And then they ask it. “Is he your first?” I always freeze a little on the inside. I don’t know what to say. I usually say no. But then do I tell them he is our second and not include our miscarriage in the count. And do I tell them his older siblings passed away and end up the recipient of that pitying look and “I’m so sorry”? I still don’t have a good answer to this one. I usually say he is my second born. My first, a miscarriage, wasn’t really born. My second, a baby with no kidneys, was born but spent his whole life in the hospital. And my story is long and complex and I really don’t want to bring it up in the checkout line. So I just smile and say he’s my second and let life move on.    

People will stop talking about your angel. It’s rare, these days, that someone brings up Judah. I don’t know if they’re afraid to or if they just don’t think about him. If I bring him up, they’ll talk about him but if I don’t, his name isn’t mentioned. I guess it’s that whole “out of sight, out of mind” thing. They see my rainbow and, so, they ask about him. They talk about him, talk to him, and play with him. And, Judah, it seems, is an afterthought these days. I wish it wasn’t that way, but it is. And it is something you should be prepared for.    

Your rainbow will help heal you. I have been amazed by my recovery, emotionally, in this past year. I’ve started weaning my anxiety medication and panic attacks are incredibly rare these days. I have a vision of Judah, toddling before the throne of God, and humbly and contritely asking for Him to send his grieving parents a little brother. It is truly how I believe it happened. How else do you explain the fact that it took us two and a half years to get pregnant with Judah and within eleven months of him passing away, we welcomed our rainbow into the world? But God. Arthur has healed me in ways I never thought were possible. He has helped me to fully step into the role of a mama and move past debilitating grief. Don’t get me wrong, I still grieve. I will always grieve. But every day, I have a wonderful, heaven sent blessing to look forward to. And now, so do you.    

Your rainbow is not your angel. Judah was a quiet, content baby who could be entertained by watching his dialysis machine. He was sweet, empathetic, and a good natured little soul. He looked like his daddy but with my eyes. Arthur is a boisterous, energetic, hard to entertain, highly intelligent baby always on the prowl for something new to discover. He looks like me but with his daddy’s hair color. They are two completely different human beings. As such, you should give your rainbow the autonomy they deserve. Don’t put too much on them. Don’t make them your main path of healing. Healing from the loss of a child never truly ends and there are so many different things you need to do to find your path. Your rainbow is not the only way.   

Mama, I know your very soul is wounded. I know parenting a rainbow is hard. Seek help if you need it. There’s no shame in it. Read all you can, have a go-to person to bounce your parenting questions off of and if you need a break, take it. Don’t feel guilty for needing to be away from them. You are still a parent and you will still burnout if you don’t also take care of yourself. I have learned that it’s okay to leave him with a babysitter if I need an hour or two to roam the aisles of Target. That it’s okay to put him in the church nursery so I can worship and learn undisturbed. Do I miss him? Yes. But do I come back refreshed and ready to be a better parent? Absolutely.    

You don’t have to be everything to your rainbow all at once. Take care of you, snuggle all you can, take lots of pictures, and enjoy this first year. It will be over before you can blink.