Not Every Child Has the Opportunity to Grow Up

Parenting

Not Every Child Has the Opportunity to Grow Up
by Sarah Thompson
June 4, 2021

Content warning: loss of a child

The first playdate I arranged stemmed from an infant and toddler reading hour at my local library in the fall of 2002. I had just been laid off from a dot-com job that had consumed my life. My daughter Mia was just 18 months old.

In those days, I felt lost, floating between unemployment and an uncertain future. Suddenly, I was spending every day with a toddler, and my world shifted.

I found myself at the library every Wednesday at 11 a.m., my little girl wiggling on my lap as the librarian read aloud to a crowded room. Those weekly story hours marked a transition from being a working mother plagued by guilt about balancing work and family, to a self-employed mom who prioritized her child’s routines, weaving my work around playdates and nap times.

Although I don’t remember every detail from those early days, I can still picture holding Mia in my arms on the worn library rug, her bright blue eyes wide with wonder, her baby-soft hair brushing against my chin. The memory is like a faded photograph, sepia-toned and fraying at the edges.

The little girl we first scheduled a play date with was Emma. Coincidentally, she was born on the same day as my daughter — May 16, 2001. “I remember you,” Emma’s mom said as we listened to the librarian read another story. “From the baby bath class.”

I recognized her instantly. She was the woman in the oversized bathrobe, her eyes heavy with fatigue, standing by my side as the nurses washed our newborns. We were thrilled by our shared experience, but our friendship faded after just a year or two.

Now, I find myself reaching for the fading memories of those early playdates, the time when I existed between two identities—when Mia and Emma explored the world together, both brimming with potential but luck not equally bestowed.

On social media, I see the children of friends I’ve known throughout my parenting journey, now grown or nearly grown.

Since Mia’s passing, I’ve drifted apart from many—Emma’s mother, most of the parents from the small private school Mia attended, and all those stage parents from the music school where she discovered her love for classic rock. Yet, their lives unfold in my feed. I observe as the children who were once toddlers have grown taller, their faces changed, their limbs elongated. Time has transformed them into entirely different beings.

It shouldn’t shock me anymore; it has been four years since Mia died and over a decade since I’ve seen some of these kids. Still, I am stuck in the past, just as I remain trapped in Mia’s childhood.

They are nearing the end of their own childhoods, moving toward adulthood without a complete understanding of the life they’ve been granted. This is how it should be, of course. Death shouldn’t intrude on the young; it should linger as a distant fear, otherwise, how could we bear the burdens of life?

Twenty years ago, in the first week of May, I was heavily pregnant, eagerly awaiting Mia’s arrival. She was due on May 6, but she took an extra ten days, leading to an induced labor after my water broke. After eight hours of intense pain, I became a mother.

Why did she take so long to arrive? I often wonder, two decades later, as the May sun warms the yard and encourages the dogwood tree to bloom. Did she instinctively know her time on Earth would be brief? Had she delayed her entry into the world to postpone her inevitable departure?

Oh, how I longed for those extra ten days with her—safe, warm, and whole in my arms. My baby, gazing up at me with those vivid cornflower eyes that absorbed everything.

In the early weeks of Mia’s life, I felt utterly disconnected from the world. I sat by her bassinet, praying for her to sleep so I could, fully immersed in those moments. But soon, reality intruded. I returned to work when she was just six weeks old, and by then, I had embraced my new identity. There was no turning back.

Over the last 20 years, everything has changed: the trees, the yard, my body, my mind, and my soul.

Mia’s room remains unchanged in layout, though the contents have shifted. The once vibrant pink and purple walls are now white. I’ve painted one wall with chalkboard paint for messages to her. Six months after she died, I transformed her room into my office, discarding the bed where she took her last breath, opening the curtains to let in the light.

My desk faces a window overlooking the yard. I can see the bird feeders, the zero-gravity chairs, and the nectarine tree.

Gone are the swing set, picnic table, sandbox, tetherball, yard toys, driveway chalk, and the garden where we grew string beans and strawberries (her favorites). I close my eyes and remember the shadows of those relics from a time when I took everything for granted, along with the promise of her life.

American culture offers a silent assurance that our children will live, that childhood inevitably leads to adulthood. This is a comforting myth.

May 16 will mark 20 years since I became a mother. I can hardly believe it’s been two decades since I stood beside another awestruck woman, watching our babies receive their first baths. Nurses taught us to swaddle them and placed our daughters into our arms with the naive belief that they would have long lives ahead.

But one of us was mistaken. My baby passed away on a cold night in March, just six weeks before her 16th birthday.

I don’t envy all the mothers I’ve known over the years, those whose children are safe. I cherish the memory of every child who impacted Mia’s life, those who knew her and witnessed her journey. I hope they remember her.

No, I don’t resent anyone their happiness. However, with each smiling graduate and every teenager proudly behind the wheel, I see a future Mia never got to experience. A profound ache fills the space where she should be. It is almost unbearable.

For the first time since she died, the weight of Mia’s absence has struck me—her loss, not mine. Her life, not mine.

Twenty years is significant. My sweet girl. This birthday should be about the future that awaits her, yet it is dominated by my memories and my sorrow.

How can I not feel robbed on her behalf? Her life seemed all but guaranteed. Here are the lessons on caring for your baby. Now go home and keep her safe.

We are led to believe that if we are good parents—kind, attentive, nurturing, and wise—we will ensure our children reach adulthood. The limited American imagination leaves no room for alternative endings. Yet here I am, almost celebrating my daughter’s 20th birthday by leaving freshly cut roses beside her urn.

I am indulging in my grief. I recognize this. My soul feels desolate in the shadow of this unbirthday. But I’ve come to understand that sometimes I must let my grief wash over me before I can refocus on the task of living.

The days feel liminal again, and I feel detached as I remember that, 20 years ago, the promise of motherhood awaited me beyond my pregnant belly.

The fullness of spring has arrived. Experiencing another blooming dogwood is a gift I cherish. Nothing is guaranteed. I’ve learned that there were never any certainties.

This post originally appeared on Human Parts.

For more insights on the emotional journey of parenting and loss, check out this blog post. If you’re exploring options for family planning, you might find this resource helpful. Additionally, for a deeper understanding of the IVF process, this article offers excellent information.

Search Queries:

Summary:

In this poignant reflection, Sarah Thompson shares her journey of motherhood and the heart-wrenching loss of her daughter Mia. Through reminiscences of early playdates, the passage of time, and the unfulfilled promise of childhood, the narrative explores themes of grief, memory, and the societal expectations surrounding parenting. As Sarah navigates her sorrow, she confronts the stark reality that not all children get the chance to grow up, leading her to cherish every fleeting moment while acknowledging the weight of her loss.

Keyphrase: Not all children get a chance to grow up

Tags: [“home insemination kit” “home insemination syringe” “self insemination”]