My sister-in-law gave birth yesterday. Her first child - a daughter. A baby who evens up the number of boys and girls on Emma's daddy's side of the family. Of course, outside of the family, it looks like we have more boys than girls ... sigh ...
We went to the hospital to visit with them. She is a beautiful, beautiful baby girl and I got to hold her and watch her frown and dribble and dream sweet baby dreams. It isn't the first time I've held a tiny baby girl since I had to let Emma leave my arms. My other niece was born a few weeks before Emma (I think I might have mentioned this fact a few [hundred] times.) The first time I held her was blissful. I scooped her up over the enormous swell of my 37 week Emma belly and enjoyed breathing her sweet newborn baby scent.
The next time I held her was at my daughter's funeral wake. I, honestly, can't remember how I found the strength or desire to do that. It's one of my few clear memories of Emma's burial day. Maybe because it's the last time I ever held that little girl in my arms and she'll be 3 next week. Things are a little easier now but, when the film of denial and numb disbelief wore off, I found my other little niece virtually impossible to be around. We tried, the Christmas afterwards, when she was three months old and Emma would've, should've been 2. I wasn't ready - I see that now. I wasn't ready to do family Christmas. It's the nearest I ever came in my grief to having a breakdown. Every time, my sister in law came into a room holding her baby, I had to get up and leave. I spent a lot if time crying in bathrooms and being horrifically difficult to be around.
So, yesterday wasn't the first time I have held a baby girl since Emma died but it was the first time it didn't almost kill me and I am so pleased she is here - safe and sound and whole and glorious.
