Subsequents was a term I learned from my online searches the week after Aaron died. I guess it was an easier way of saying “having another child after losing a child.”

But there was something about this clinical-sounding label that lent a controversial tone to the chat rooms in the various bereaved parent sites.

I never weighed in on any of these conversations. I’m not the online chatting kind of person, frankly, which makes this site a bit ironic for me.

The issue of subsequents had a long response chain, with parents, mostly mothers, offering their perspectives on how they were preparing for (and worrying about) their next child, and on their process behind considering the “right amount of time” after their child’s death.

There were also practical considerations: what to do with their baby’s clothes, the crib, their fears, the statistics of having it happen again in the same family.

And then there were the naysayers. The ones who interrupted these discussions with haughty, holier than thou (can you hear my bias?) diatribes against their decision against having a “replacement child.” I wondered how families whose firstborns died from SIDS felt about that.

Part of the grieving process is coming to terms with your own changes as a mother, as a family, as a woman.

We were a family of five and then we weren’t. Not technically, anyway. Aaron still held his position in our family, and we loved to rehash the special moments with him: his perfectly timed grunts in church, the magical effects of “Yellow Submarine” that would stop his screams in his car seat.

We talked about how much we missed him, but we acknowledged this loss as a move to a different location, not as a removal from our family. Tyler, who was only three when his brother died, was Aaron’s ardent supporter and would quietly correct me with, “Mommy, you have two boys” when people asked about our family.

But Aaron’s memories didn’t count when we were in line for movie tickets or planning a family vacation. I couldn’t let go of the reality that we were supposed to be a family with three children gathered around the Christmas tree, driving to Disneyland, arguing in the grocery store about who could sit in the cart.

Call it zone defense, call it one man down, call it slightly out of control -- I was desperate to return. I felt like a fraudulent mother of two.

By Kimberley Kwok

Labels: a child's death, artistic daughter, cute son, Disneyland, family, first-time mother, grieving, grieving process, Kimberley Kwok, SIDS, subsequents, Yellow Submarine

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Asa is six and a half months old.  A boy in the house, amidst all of Adeline’s girliness.

Such a solid little person, in every sense.  Physically, he is dense.  Fruitcake dense.  Nearly off the charts in the percentiles the pediatricians give you.  If he’s in the 98^th percentile for height and weight, what do the other two percent look like? 

When you pick him up, it’s a commitment.  Not like other kids, who you can carry and continue to buzz around, picking up toys, making lunch.  Holding Asa with one arm is sustainable for only a short period of time before your wrist begins to ache and your shoulder starts slumping forward in a way that can’t be healthy. 

He has this enormous head and cheeks so full that it’s hard to tell what shape his face really is beneath all that flesh.  I think the rule is that if you still have blue eyes by the time you’re twelve months old, they’re here to stay.  I hope Asa’s do, because they’re gorgeous.  They’re a deep blue, and I can’t stop dressing him in blue—navy, turquoise, azure… every shade of blue makes those twinkling eyes of his shine.  His eyes really do twinkle, Santa-style, when he smiles, and man can this kid smile. 

He is my cherub baby, here on earth to snuggle into me, chuckle his deep, earthy laugh, and flirt with the world.  Some babies favor mesmerizing ceiling fans, most are drawn to sparkling lights.  Mine lives for eye contact.  When we’re out and about in the world, he stares at strangers until they finally relent and look at him.  The moment they lock eyes with him, he grins crazily and jerks around in my arms in spasmodic joy.  It’s not so different from holding an excited puppy—a strong one, a lab maybe.  No poodle, this kid. 

So what will all of these qualities add up to in a few years’ time?  A jolly, people-oriented, lady-killing linebacker? 

I’m in no rush to find out—I like him just the way he is right now, though I’ll be grateful when he’s able to put his chubby legs to use and move under his own motor, saving what’s left of his mama’s back.

By Eliza Harding Turner

Labels: 98th percentile, baby, blue-eyes, cute son, Eliza Harding Turner, girliness

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