I love babies.

As every mother should, I especially love MY babies.

They make me happy, content and I could snuggle, rock and hold them endlessly.

Getting my children here is not easy on their mama.

Along with other stuff that occurs when pregnant, I walk around with a blood disorder that can be a bit scary.

(Leiden V factor, for those that are curious. It is a clotting disorder that makes people more prone to throwing blood clots.)

Risk of complication or death increase greatly when I am pregnant.

(So many mothers die of this silent killer every year it breaks my heart.)

I will not say that I love my babies any more because of this, since we were unaware of my condition with my first and I loved him to BITS.

I WILL say that it makes me appreciate that I have them more as so many with this disorder suffer miscarriage after miscarriage.

They mean everything to me.

I have such a difficult time with my babies growing up.

Each time they grow out of a size of clothing my heart breaks a little.

I always want them to stay in that phase just a little longer.

Lots of people don’t overly care for the newborn stage but I love it.

In fact, the first year of their little lives is my absolute favorite time.

I love and adore everything about it.

When I dress them, I like them to stay looking like babies.

Not mini-adults, BABIES.

So, I usually dress them in soft one piece clothing that is comfortable, snuggable and like soft pajamas.

Eventually, they start walking and I have to face the fact that they are no longer infants.

And (SOB) that time has come for my little Butterlump, Aaron.

He is not a baby anymore–he is a toddler.

This is so HARD for me.

Aaron is my youngest.

My baby.

Possibly the last baby I will have.

I have treasured and soaked up every single stage of his little life.

Putting away the stages, the outgrown clothing, has about done me in every time I have to do it.

But even though he has gotten bigger, he has still been A BABY to me.

I have to let him grow up.I put it off as long as humanly possible, but the time came where Aaron has gone from baby to toddler.

So, I bit the bullet and we went and our little 15-month-old wore his first pairs of jeans.

It was tough but he looks so adorable that it made it all a little easier.

I’m glad I survived yet another moment of letting pieces of Aaron’s babyhood go.

I just want him to hold my hand and toddle along side me forever.

As much as I wish I could freeze time and keep him my little one, I know that can’t be.

I know that my children have to grow up.

But like millions of other mothers in the world, I look at Aaron and know that he can grow and grow and we can buy him endless pairs of jeans over the years…

…but he’ll be my baby forever.

Photo Credit: Brigitte Ballard-Smiles Portraits, Logan Utah

*Don’t forget about my $100 give away and 6-month supply of 8th Continent ($50 ERV) where we cop to our individual moments of “fail” as parents. (I had to write this to counter balance my big, fat, parenting FAIL that I wrote about over there. Would love to hear what yours is. :) )

**Edit: I may have to concede and say that Neptunux Lex just *might* have readers that equal mine because holy lovely comments and emails, Batman! (And thanks for the add to the blogroll. :) ) I was a little worried that we didn’t quite get off on the right footing (my fault entirely) but y’all are just wonderful and welcome at my fire ANY TIME. :) xo

I need to say thank you to you all for being so kind to me and my family on Matthew’s anniversary.

It never ceases to amaze me how simply lovely people online can be. There continues to be such a loving outpouring of support and caring for us about Matthew and I have been pondering how to tell you how I feel about you all and your generosity and love over the years.

I am convinced, hands down, that I have the best readers on the Internet.

For example?

The other day I was on a site that I pretty much lurk on.

I lurk because 98% of the time I am intimidated as hell and frankly, lack the knowledge to utter anything useful.

It is definitely not a mommy or personal blog.

It’s written by a guy named, Lex.

Someone I knew from college pointed me there some months ago and I discovered I really enjoy hanging out there on occasion.

Not just because it’s utterly different than my regular Internet world, (And I mean UTTERLY) but because I have an interest in a lot of the topics he posts. The conversation that people get going on the things he posts is  intriguing and well-informed and a good read to me. I like it. I know you may be a bit taken aback if you click over there as it seems very “not me”,  but if you’ve been around long enough you’ll realized I have many surprising, contradictory aspects of my nature.

(You know, like the fact that I am a fan of firearms n’ stuff.)

(And don’t recycle.)

(And am still a Democrat.)

(Oh, my!)

I like the way Lex writes. And the atmosphere of his blog. And he has a story, which is completely different than mine but that resonates with me. Even though I have limited knowledge I am able to (mostly) follow what he’s saying. (“Mama always had a way of explaining things so I could understand them, Jenny”).

So, even though I feel eleventyhundred times too silly to even be lurking on a site like that, I stuck around.

I think I’ve commented, um, twice in 7-months.

Until the other day.

There was a big brouhaha going on (The bickering that occurs sometimes in the comments section can be amazing to observe. Kind of like mommy-drama wars and infighting, only, um, armed and on steroids.). I usually don’t stick my oar in, even though it is tempting because I am often at odds with the majority of them politically. But the other day some dorknozzle was spouting off and threw out information I knew to be utterly untrue about aforementioned person I knew from college, so I piped up, clarified things for him and then prepared to shut the hell up again.

I checked back on the fray a little while later and saw a reply to my comment.

Being the wuss that I am, I cop to feeling a bit sick when I saw it. The feeling lasted a nanosecond when I saw this:

“Loralee! What a pleasant surprise to see you here. Two of my favorite bloggers in one space. Very cool.”

WTH???!!!!

SOMEONE HERE IS A FAN OF MY BLOG?!

AND IS WILLING TO PUBLICLY COP TO IT?

SERIOUSLY!?

I was utterly shocked in the most awesome way. Finding someone who reads my blog and also loves and is a fan of it on a site like that is pretty much like the odds of Justin Beiber finding a fan in bassoon enthusiast circles.

(Dude. Not that I am comparing myself to Justin Beiber, because, EWE.)

(And yet I sort of just did.)

(I feel dirty now.)

(Hold me.)

I was beyond flattered.

Because I think Lex’s place is grand.

The comment was from a reader named, Stephen. And he is rad. I squeed at him and how happy I was to see him in such an unexpected place and that it was a bit intimidating for me at times, so it was beyond lovely to see a friendly face AND THEN HE DID THIS:

“Loralee, Lex is gracious enough to allow me to hang around and occasionally work up the courage to profer a tidbit of a comment. The folks round these parts inspire me and always give me different perspectives to contemplate. To be in the company of honorable warriors is a privilege. For those of you who don’t know Loralee, here’s a good starting point. Highly recommend. http://loraleeslooneytunes.com/2007/11/29/her/”

AWE!

The man pretty much stood up in an equivalent of a room packed with cops, feds, pilots, military types, gun enthusiasts, and big, tough dudes (and a few pricks, if I’m honest) and said, “I LOVE READING THIS MOM BLOGGER FROM UTAH THAT IS ENTIRELY SILLY AND USES WAY TOO MANY EMOTIONS, CAPS, (AND PARENTHESIS). BUT IS EFFING COOL ANYWAY AND I PINK PUFFY HEARTS LOVE HER, Y’ALL!!!”.

(Only, you know, said in a much more manly and dude-like way.)

It was the coolest blogging moment EVER.

(Ok, getting invited to The White House was actually the coolest blogging moment ever, but THIS WAS SUPER CLOSE.)

Stephen rocks. I love that he is so diverse and tough enough to wear pink. (With little Loralee emoticons and glittery puffy hearts all over it. :) )

I grinned my head off all day long.

And I haven’t stopped.

And things like that happen all the time with you lovely people.

You never cease to amaze me .

Remember how I said I am a tangible, ‘gifts’ person?

It’s my nature.

When someone means something to me or shows me a kindness, I want to show them what it meant to me and that I care and those feelings often manifests in some sort of bit or bob or beribboned little token.

Or you know, tied up in a WalMart bag and left on your porch.

(I know.)

I wish that I could be like Jay and Silent Bob and fly all over the country to each of you to say thank you. (Ok, I know that in the movie, Jay and Silent Bob flew all over the country to kick the crap out of pre-pubescent little trolls that spent their days mocking them online and likely playing D&D in the basement of their mom’s house and eating Funyons and Chocolate YooHoo but I would rather just hug you and give you your tied up WalMart bag of love if it’s all the same to you. I am not a violent person, yo. :) )

But saying “hey, thanks” just feels inadequate.

But I came up with something as I was pricing and shopping for an iPod today. (No, I don’t own one. Yes, I am remedying that. I will hopefully own this sucker sooner rather than later.)

After Matthew died, I couldn’t tolerate many things; it felt almost like acid burning my skin.  I couldn’t watch television or listen to much music. I had a small handful of pieces that I could tolerate and I listened to them over and over and over again.

I was in the wings literally crying with how beautiful it was.

And I do not cry easily.

(Just so you know? You can TOTALLY sing after you have snotted your head off. If you are phonating correctly, you should be able to completely plug your nose and not have it alter your sound. If you take a deep breath and sing “AH” and then plug your nose your sound should not change at all. If it does? You’re doing it wrong. :) )

This bit of music has soothed my tattered spirit countless times.

I put it on repeat last night when I was writing about my boy.

It is simply one of the loveliest (though MOST UNFORTUNATELY NAMED) pieces of music ever written, in my opinion.

And I want to share it with you as a thank you for everything you have given me.

So, please…listen.

Really listen.

(And try to ignore that the conductor freakishly resembles a hoity-toity (and orange) Gil Grissom from CSI.)

Let it give your soul a warm bath.

I hope you like it.

I wish it were nearly as wonderful as everything you all have given to me through the years.

xo,

Me.

P.S. Is this the lamest thank you gift ever?

Dear Matthew,

Every year I make a pact with myself and swear that the anniversary of your death will be easier to deal with. And every year I usually sit here in the still hours of the night realizing that I am such an idiot for thinking this could (or should) get easier.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen your sweet face.

You would be 7 this year.

James was 7-years-old when you died.

He looks so little.

Your casket looks littler.

A casket should not be that small. It’s so very…wrong.

I know that I never talked to you like this when you were here, but it’s nice, every so often, to do. Because I have to believe that you are here somewhere. No matter how bitter, how filled with rage and despair and anger I have been, I have always believed that you still exist.

I refuse to believe otherwise.

Refuse.

You were too wonderful to just end.

So, here I sit.

Alone in the middle of the night with a lake of tears on my keyboard.

Aching to talk to you.

Hold you.

Kiss you.

7 years have passed since that horrible night I held you in my arms in a trauma bay and broke into more pieces than I will ever be able to put back together.

I feel like I have lived several lifetimes since then, held completely still and gone around and around like a broken record all at the same time.

I look at other 7-year-olds and think about what you would be doing, how many teeth you would be missing, how you should be going to school next door and how I should see you from our kitchen window waving at me from the playground at recess. You should, and would be doing all the things other 7-year-olds are doing. (Only you would be much better looking and talented than them all. What can I say? You were utterly adorable, son. I am just speaking the truth, here.)

I try to picture what you would look like and I am usually at a loss because I keep picturing you as my sweet little baby.

I miss you so much it physically hurts, Matthew.

I’ve been ok, really. Most of the time it is doable.

I laugh a LOT.

Ask anyone.

:)

I just…I feel so tired tonight.

Just worn to bits.

The things I think about and remember would make anyone tired.

Sometimes, not often, I look at photos from then.

In some ways it was easier right after I lost you because how I felt is obvious just by looking at me. I see my face in these photos and see a girl who could crumble to pieces with a gust of wind. Raw emotion is all over me. (And usually everyone with me. Especially your dad. He loves you so.)

When we were at the Mortuary with you–

During your funeral–

And the day after your funeral and I went to help your cousins get ready for Homecoming–

We all carried the weight that was your loss in every inch of us.

We still do.

I still do.

I am still this–

Whether I want to or not, I still carry this woman around with me every single day.

I probably always will.

(For the record, I think she could stand to lose a pound or two to give my back a break. And can someone tell her that the cast of Friends called and they want their hairstyle back. Just sayin’.)

I have found small ways to cope, though.

(Like inappropriate humor, for example. ;P)

Little things that don’t seem like they would help comfort anyone and yet they do.

I’m such a tangible person.

‘Things’ matter deeply to me.

I don’t know why this is and often, well, it kind of makes me feel shallow.

Even though I know I’m SO not that way.

Gifts make me feel like I am important to someone. It doesn’t matter overly what it is, it could be as small as a letter or a pack of my favorite gum. It’s what is behind it. Objects make me feel tied to someone. It’s almost like all my memories of them in something I can hold, touch and smell. In high school, when he was at one of his endless rehearsals or football practices, I used to spray my boyfriend’s sweatshirt with his cologne and wear it while slow dancing with a pillow in the dark to a mixed tape of “our songs” before writing poems about my pain.

(For the record, I am aware that I was a total tool in high school, son.)

Things can bring me a lot of comfort.

I went to a conference this week. It was a big change for me. I’ve never been away and around a lot of people near your anniversary. It was actually very helpful. So many people were kind and listened to me mention you a bit. They were all so lovely.  After confessing to everyone how much I loved her handmade ruffled bags, a lovely lady told me to come by her booth and pick out any bag I liked. It was a good thing she did, too because your father would have hit the roof if I purchased one. more. handbag.

(Somehow, Bug, I know if you had been given the opportunity to grow into a man and marry a wonderful girl with a penchant for red hair you would have been TOTALLY understanding about a girl’s need to buy fabulous handbags. Because you are awesome.)

This is the one I picked.

(Photo courtesy of The Fancy Farmgirl)

It made me so happy when I saw it.

I bet you know why, don’t you?

And why I chose this particular bag this particular week?

Yup.

It’s orange.

Or as I like to call it, “Bug Orange”.

It reminds me of you, Matthew.

I could never find an orange outfit to dress you in and it was frustrating, but I would have dressed you in orange every day of your life if I had the ability.

There was so very little I cared about after you died, but I knew that I wanted orange at the funeral. And as I look at the photos from that day, I see it peeking out everywhere-from flowers, to clothing to your little things that we brought with us to hold and love on as we said goodbye to you.

It’s kind of like that book and movie, Pascal and the red balloon when I look through your photo album, only with orange.

Even the bag piper that we had play the pipes in Celtic tradition to guide your soul off to heaven wore his plaid with orange in it (though it looks more red here, it.was.orange.)

I know it seems like such a small thing, but I am so tangible and this color has given me so much comfort over the long years here without you.

I buy orange as often as possible.

When I wear or use something orange it is like having a little bit of my sweet Little Bug with me.

And I always, always, ALWAYS think of you when I see it.

The same goes with ladybugs because well…that was your nickname.

We put lady bugs and orange all over where you are now.

Because they are YOU to me.

And they have brought me a lot of joy.

And so have the people that loved you.

And if they didn’t know you, they love you through me.

Those people loving you has helped save me, Bug.

I love them.

It’s why I sobbed my eyes out today when I opened a package and reading the sweet note enclosed from a dear, sweet, lovely friend. She is lovely and listened to me talk about you and orange and lady bugs this weekend. And then she flew home and made this little bug I can wear with “Always” stamped on the bottom.

And it’s true.

It is for “Always”.

Because you will always be here with me. I may be the most tangible person alive, but I don’t need one single object to remind me of my unending love for you, Matthew. You are my son. My little one. My light and life and love that will never stop being a part of me and a part of the people that love you so very, very much.

I miss you.

I think about you.

I love you.

ALWAYS.

Love,

Mama.