nothing compares to this

From Jodi

Last week something pretty incredible happened, or at least I think so. I was outside doing chores, and after finishing, I entered the kitchen from the back door. I stopped and observed from the doorway. Our three month old daughter sat happily in her bouncy seat on the floor near the pantry watching Timaree bake. The room was filled with a comforting aroma, banana bread I think, baking in the oven. Music played from the iPad on the counter, “Friday, I’m in Love” by the Cure, one of her favorite bands since adolescence.

And she was singing.

My heart swelled. My breath caught.

Timaree hasn’t sang since our son died over two and a half years ago. Not in the car, not in the shower, not in church. Not at concerts. Not a note.

Grief manifests itself in so many ways, and one of them, for Timaree anyway, was the loss of her singing voice. It makes sense as music is pure emotion; it is joy and sorrow; pain and release. To sing is to feel, and in her case, to feel pain (more than she already feels).

I stood suspended in a moment I didn’t see coming, but I immediately recognized it as a significant shift. You see, Timaree and I had our concerns about certain things during her pregnancy: would we overreact to every cold and be suspicious of every bruise? Would our baby learn how to smile and laugh if we rarely smile or laugh? Would we be able to love her as much as we love our son?

Of course, some of these questions seem ridiculous now because of course we are crazily, ridiculously in love with our daughter. She makes us smile and laugh all the time—not the strained obligatory smiles we memorized for social acceptance—and our smiles are now being rewarded with big, lopsided toothless grins of her very own. Each of these smiles expands us, heals us, and brings us back to life.

And, as it seems, the music of our baby’s newly discovered laughter has returned the gift of music and singing to her mommy. Thank you baby girl. Now I get to see both of you smiling and singing, cooing and laughing, and, I can say with some certainty that absolutely nothing compares to this.

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12 thoughts on “nothing compares to this

  1. Emily

    What a wonderful moment. From those still caught behind stilted smiles, thank you for the ray of hope and peek into the beauty of your family 🙂

    Reply
  2. Sheryl Davis

    glad you all are doing well and enjoying your little one. I think of Caemon and his cute smile and brave heart often.

    Reply
  3. Leslie

    I’m so glad there is singing happening in your kitchen with delicious smells coming from the oven. Toothless grins are the best!
    Leslie

    Reply

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