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As a babyloss mom, I’m always bewildered by the idea of “mommy wars.” I was recently inspired by the formula commercial showing mothers from many walks of life trying to put down one another for various reasons. In the end, they all come together for one reason…the sake of a child. Knowing we’ve all lost so much, I can only hope we avidly avoid getting sucked into the hype of this phenomenon.

Valentine’s Day is a few days away, and I got to thinking, how can we offer our sisters in motherhood a loving, new perspective with which to view each other? We who have lost the most precious of gifts could be a catalyst of change for the current state of these battles. But how? How do we share what we know, what we have experienced, with a gentle sense of love and even joy while staying true to our pain, that will not frighten away those who have not known our emptiness, our sadness, our devastation?

Every morning I look in the mirror and see that 5 inch long, slightly smiling scar on my lower abdomen, the one I was so frightened of having, the one I wanted to avoid. If you remember our rainbow’s birth story, you may remember that I wanted the natural birth I had when Rowan was born. I wanted to feel every ache and pain, every sharp twinge, every take-your-breath-away moment while giving birth to his little brother, Homer. In the end, his birth was radically different, but I had embraced what was unfolding because in the end, I was looking into the eyes of my healthy, beautiful, living baby boy. And that is the only thing that matters. I loved him the moment I knew he was inside my womb. That love grew stronger the moment I was able to look into his black eyes and hear his tiny wail that seemed to say, “I’m here, Momma; I’m here!”

My love for Homer is a love that is equal to the love I have for his big brother, our angel, Rowan.

It is a beautiful testament to the power of love, the power of hope, the power of God to renew a broken spirit. Every moment, of every day, I know it to be true.

It doesn’t matter if I have bottle or breastfed him. I have fed him always with a warm and loving embrace, soothing voice, and tender looks upon his sweet face with the goal of nourishing his small body so he will grow and be healthy.

It doesn’t matter if I have used cloth or disposable diapers. I have changed his diaper carefully, with a soothing voice and gentle touch, ensuring he is clean and content so he will be comfortable.

It doesn’t matter if I will purchase his food in jars or if I will buy organic food and make it myself. I will feed him the appropriate foods for his age and development, experimenting with new flavors so he will experience a healthy variety of nourishment as his body grows and develops.

It doesn’t matter if I’m a stay at home mom or a working mom. I will nurture him, spend quality time with him, contribute to his development as a person. I will cherish the time and experiences we have together. I am a mom. That’s what we do.

There are so many paths to achieve the same goal: a healthy, happy, well-adjusted, loved child.

If every person knew what it was like to have this taken away suddenly, unexpectedly, or inexplicably (and I PRAY this is never the case) perhaps the mommy wars wouldn’t exist.

I love my first son. I was never able to be his momma in the sense that may, at times, be taken for granted. I also never knew I could love another being as much as I loved–as much as I still love–my sweet Rowan. But I look at this scar, I look at my precious Homer, and I know the truth.

Nothing else matters–not the diaper he wears, not the method of nourishment he’s given, not the way I choose to carry him. All that matters is that we love him, and we are doing the very best we can for him under any circumstances.

And this, too, is love.

 

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