The Toughest Job

It is often said that parenting is the toughest job and at times it can feel that way, but I love my salary of hugs and "I Love You Mum"s.

Sweet Dreams Little One


Recently a lady I know lost her little boy. He was taken away to sing with the angels when he was only a few weeks old. This beautiful, warm, pain struck lady has blogged about her loss and the effect it has had on her, her husband and her family. It is with shame that I look back on my life and realise just how self centered I have been. That I have never known real loss and the pain and the suffering that go hand in hand with that and yet I still dare to feel sorry for myself and my lot in life. My brother lost his little girl when she was only 4 months old, I was devastated when I heard the news, but I was so wrapped up in my own grief at the time I never once stopped to consider how much worse it must have been for him and his wife.

So I have followed the posts that this lady has written and cried at every one, knowing that the pain I have bottled up inside me is only a mere shadow of what she must be feeling. The loss I have experienced is like a handful of dust blown into the wind in comparison to the raging whirlwind of emotions she must be experiencing, and yet I read her posts and it brings back the memory of my time of suffering and my brothers. The times when my little one went to sing with the angels and so did his. This didn't happen simultaneously, I was only in my teens when my niece died and my little one was taken from me around 10 years later. I didn't get to see or hold either of the little ones. I never got to hold their hands or to see their little faces.

I was over the moon when I knew I was pregnant. The bump-to-be was nicknamed Doris, I don't know why but I was sure it was going to be a little girl. I used to talk to her and sing. I remember leaving the office in my lunch hour to walk around the park in the sunlight, my hand stroking my belly where I knew she would be growing underneath and I'd be singing an old Doris Day song in my head "You Are My Sunshine".

The plans I made, the dreams I dreamed, the longing I had to hold her in my arms. Yet within weeks of conceiving her she was taken from me. Oh God I loved that little baby so much. I still don't understand why she was taken. I still cry when I think of losing her and yet it has been 16 years.

I have 5 other beautiful children now. I love them all, more than I could ever adequately express with words, but I feel guilty. Guilty that I still feel the pain and loss of the little one who I never got to meet. Guilty that I still grieve and morn for her. Feeling, at times, overwhelming hatred at a life that can be so unjust and so unfair. Having had a little one as such a total part of my life even for such a short amount of time. Yet never being able to feed her, hold her, change her nappy, or dress her. Never being able to take her for a walk in the park, or to feed the ducks, bounce her on my knee or rock her whilst she listened to me sing her song.

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You'll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away
The other night dear
As I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you
In my arms
When I awoke dear
I was mistaken
and I hung my head and cried

And baby, I still do hang my head and cry. And I bet you would have been beautiful, and clever, and just, oh, so wonderful. I love you sweetness, and I always will. One day, we will be together again and I will give you that hug and that kiss and all my love.

Sweet dreams little one. Rest in peace.