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June 4, 2021
Trigger Warning: Child Loss
The first playdate was born from an infant and toddler reading hour at my local library in the fall of 2002. I had just lost my job at a dot-com company that had consumed my life. My daughter, Lily, was just 18 months old.
I felt lost, floating aimlessly in the space between unemployment and whatever came next. Suddenly, I was spending every day with a toddler.
So, there I was at the library on a Wednesday morning, Lily squirming on my lap as the librarian read a picture book to a crowded room. Those mid-morning story hours marked the start of a new chapter — a transition from a working mother filled with guilt about balancing work and home life to a self-employed mother who prioritized her child’s schedule, arranging work around playdates and naps.
I don’t recall much from those delicate early days, but I vividly remember holding Lily on the worn library rug, her bright green eyes absorbing everything, the touch of her soft curls brushing my chin. That memory feels like an old photograph, faded and worn.
The first little girl we invited for a playdate was named Emma. Coincidentally, she was born on the same day as my daughter — May 16, 2001.
“I remember you,” Emma’s mother said as we listened to the librarian read another story. “From the baby care class.” I recognized her instantly — the woman in the oversized robe, weary-eyed, standing next to me as the nurses bathed our newborns. We found joy in our shared experience, but the friendship faded after a year or two.
Now, I find myself yearning for those elusive memories of our early playdates, reflecting on the in-between time when I balanced two identities, spending days in parks and backyards where little girls in colorful dresses discovered the world.
Two girls with equal promise but unequal fortune.
On social media, the children of people I’ve known throughout my journey as a parent appear before me — grown or nearly grown. Since Lily passed away, I’ve lost touch with many — the mother of her first best friend, most parents from the small private school she attended, and all those other parents from the music school where she cultivated a love for classic rock.
Yet, I still see them in my feed — parents and children, their siblings too. Even the youngest have (mostly) outgrown Lily. I marvel at their height, studying their changed faces and longer limbs. Time has transformed them. They’re not the round-faced kids I once knew.
It shouldn’t surprise me. Four years have passed since her death, and it’s been over a dozen years since I last saw some of these kids in person. Still, I remain trapped in their childhood, just as I’m trapped in Lily’s.
These kids are nearing the end of their childhoods, moving on to new phases of life without grasping the preciousness of what they have. This is how it should be, naturally. Death should not loom over the young. It should remain a distant fear; otherwise, how could we carry the weight of living?
Around two decades ago, during the first week of May, I was heavily pregnant, eagerly awaiting Lily’s arrival. She was due on May 6, but didn’t come for another ten days. I had to be induced, and after eight hours of pain, I finally became a mother.
Why did it take so long for her to arrive? I ponder this now, as the May sun warms the yard and encourages the dogwood tree to bloom. Did she, in some inexplicable way, know her time would be short? Did she prolong her arrival to delay her inevitable departure?
Oh, to have had those extra days with her in my arms — safe, warm, and whole. My baby, looking up at me with her sparkling green eyes, absorbing the world.
In those early weeks, I felt completely disconnected from everything. I sat beside her bassinet, praying for her to sleep so I could rest, losing myself in the moment. But the world didn’t pause for long. I returned to work when Lily was just six weeks old, having fully embraced my new role as a mother. There was no turning back.
Twenty years have passed; the trees have transformed, the yard has evolved, and my body and spirit have changed too.
In that time, Lily’s room remains unchanged in layout if altered in contents. The walls have shifted from pink and purple (then blue) to white. I’ve created a chalkboard wall where I write messages to her. I now work in here, having turned it into my office six months after she died, removing the bed where she took her last breath and letting the light pour in.
My desk faces a window overlooking the yard, where I can see the bird feeders, zero-gravity chairs, and the nectarine tree.
Gone are the swing set, the picnic table, the sandbox, the tetherball, the yard toys, the sidewalk chalk, and the garden where we grew her favorite strawberries. I close my eyes and see shadows of these relics from the brief time when I took everything for granted — along with the promise of her life.
American culture offers parents an unspoken assurance that our children will survive, that childhood will always transition to adulthood. This is a falsehood.
May 16 will mark twenty years since I became a mother. It’s hard to believe it’s been two decades since I stood beside another amazed woman, watching our babies receive their first baths. The nurses showed us how to swaddle them, placing our daughters in our arms with the blind faith that they would lead long lives.
But one of us was wrong. My baby passed away on a cold March evening, just six weeks before her 16th birthday.
I’m not envious of the mothers I’ve known over the years, those whose children are thriving. I cherish the memories of every child who touched Lily’s life. They are the ones who witnessed her existence. I hope they remember her.
No, I don’t begrudge anyone their joy. But with every smiling graduate, every teenager proudly behind the wheel, every decorated college dorm room, I see a future Lily never reached. A deep ache fills the space where she should be. I can barely endure it.
For the first time since her passing, I fully grasp the weight of Lily’s absence — her absence, not mine. Her life, not mine.
Twenty years is significant. My sweet girl. This birthday should be about everything that awaits her. Instead, it’s a reflection of my memories and my sorrow.
How could I not feel robbed on her behalf? Her life seemed practically assured. “Here’s how to care for your baby. Now take her home and keep her safe.”
We are led to believe that if we are good parents — loving, attentive, and wise — we will shepherd our children safely into adulthood. There’s no room in the narrow American perspective for an alternate outcome. Yet, here I am, on the verge of celebrating my daughter’s 20th birthday by placing freshly cut roses beside her urn.
I recognize that I am wallowing in this moment. My heart feels desolate under the weight of this significant “unbirthday.” But I’ve learned to allow grief to rise when it calls for me and to carry me for a while.
I will attempt to enjoy the spring sunshine and savor its warmth, but I won’t deny my sadness. I’ve learned that sometimes I must confront my despair directly before I shift my focus to the busy task of living. The days once again feel liminal, and I sense a disconnect as I remember how, 20 years ago, the promise of motherhood awaited me beyond the curve of my belly.
Spring is in full bloom. Experiencing another blossoming dogwood tree is a gift I don’t take for granted. Nothing is guaranteed. I’ve come to understand that there were never any certainties.
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