It is true that grief comes in waves. I sometimes approach something impossible that Kit is missing–her Easter dress, a birthday, a time of the year she’s never seen or one she has–and I think that when I get to that milestone, I will be devastated. Sometimes I am, but usually grief sucker-punches me–like a stranger tells me she’s heard about Kit and is so sorry, or I’m sitting outside where I once held her outside and something about the weather is similar, or B is looking out the window where he once looked out the window with her. Such very small things. Yesterday I found myself there–B was working that evening, a rare thing, and the girls were watching Lady and the Tramp while I made Z’s favorite chicken pot pie. Then I was just weeping for her–that feeling of “I should be” taking care of a baby right now, where is she? Sometimes I desperately do not want all of this to be part of my story–I want Kit, but I don’t want this story–and I don’t want to be changed the way that I am changed. Then after the crying, comes the guilt–that I don’t appreciate what I have enough, that I’m not a good mom. I go through the list of failures for the week–the time I snapped at J, the time I forgot this or that, the time I didn’t want to play Shopkins. It is a weird time right now–caught between the despair of losing a child and the joy of gaining another, quarantined at home in the middle of the pandemic, cut off from coffee with friends and liturgy at church and dinner with family, those very, very necessary things. God planned this though, too. I have to trust it is all somehow good.