Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss

Parenting After Loss: 5 Years

Five years of parenting after loss, 2 rainbow babies, 3 states, 4 homes – we miss Ginny more than ever! We bring our love for her with us on every new adventure our family undertakes. Our love only grows. Our realization of the true gravity of the loss expands when we see Chet and Addie take on each new stage of childhood. We see what she’s missing, what they are missing, what we are missing from her not being here. She’s part of our family, so 5 years of parenting other children won’t make us forget. Five years of parenting other children won’t make us ok with death. 

For anyone who feels like they should be done grieving their miscarriage, stillbirth, or infant loss, please know that it is ok to never stop grieving your child. They should’ve been with you the rest of your life, but they are gone. That is worthy of your mourning, no matter how many years and how many other children you have. Just because you grieve doesn’t mean you don’t have hope. Just because you grieve doesn’t mean you aren’t healing. It is right to be brokenhearted over death – even if you know it is temporary. 

These years later, I will say the grief has changed. The pain isn’t as sharp. The sorrow is not all encompassing. I think of Ginny throughout the day with love, but her death does not consume the majority of my thoughts as it once did. The waves of grief come less often and less intense. Noticing that happening made me sad at first, but now I am ok with it. I realize it doesn’t make me love her any less. I’ve grown strong enough to bear the reality of her absence most of the time. 

Now that we are done having children, I feel like my grief has evolved even more. Anticipating and experiencing pregnancy after loss kept my heart in a state of vulnerability that I am now free from. I will admit, it feels good that that phase is complete. I still have fear of losing my kids or other loved ones. I have to fight intrusive thoughts daily, but it is not as severe as it was with a baby in my womb. 

I worry this distances me from the beloved baby loss community I’ve been a part of since Ginny died. Can I relate to women going through loss in a meaningful way? Are my memories too distant to be of any support or encouragement? Am I more likely to say something hurtful now that I’m not going through it alongside her? I pray that God can still use me through my loss. I want to follow His will for my life whether that be in the baby loss community or elsewhere. I do know that the lessons of my suffering and hope impacts literally everything I do. It has changed who I am so whatever I do, it will be because of Ginny and the work God did in me through her life and death. I do hope my life parenting two children after loss can give others’ hope for the future after their losses. 

Aimee Jones Faith-Based Encouragement, Parenting After Loss

“Will Jesus let me fall?”

Why is it always at the most random and unexpected times that 4 year olds ask profound questions? Out of the blue in a dramatic shift in conversation, Chet called out from his 5-point harness carseat, “Will Jesus let me fall?” In a split second, I had to fight back the urge to respond in the way that would provide the most immediate comfort. I wanted to say, “If you trust in Jesus, He will never let you fall! He loves you and will always protect you and keep you safe from harm.”  I refrained. Instead I quickly searched my brain through what I remembered of the half-read book about answering kids’ faith questions that was resting on my dresser. I remembered nothing… “Uh yes Jesus may let you fall, but He will be with you and will comfort you when you do.” I held my breath for what his reaction would be. He changed topics again, probably requesting to listen to “Truckaroo” from the Cars 3 soundtrack. I hope I navigated that ok. I always want to tell my kids the truth, and the truth is that when your legs and feet are growing at the rate Chet’s are, you will definitely fall. And when he does fall, I only want his knees to be scraped, not his faith in Jesus or trust in my words. 

It was 5 years earlier during the ultrasound when the doctor confirmed with the words, “I have to tell you the worst news” that I began to realized that Jesus would actually let me fall. I was free falling. I’m not sure the precise moment when I crashed to the ground, but I do know I felt like I was skidding against pavement for the long time. Ginny, my first and only child at that time, had died. And because I believed in a sovereign God who controls life and death, I knew He let her die. I knew He was letting me suffer. I cried out to God many, many times, and He met me in the darkness many, many times. At first it was in the form of His real and palpable presence. It brought peace in moments where there should have been none. Then He met me through the listening ears and sweet words of friends. Then He met me through His Word. 

Prior to Ginny’s death, I thought that if I had faith enough and prayed hard enough and trusted God enough, I wouldn’t have to face this kind of sorrow. I maybe wouldn’t have said it out loud, but in my heart I thought that because Jesus loved me He would give me a happy and comfortable life. It was wishful thinking disguised as faith. I read the Bible, but I read it blindly. I was blinded by assumptions engrained so deep I confused them for obvious fact. I looked but did not perceive and listened but did not understand (Mark 4:12). Everyone has biases when they read anything, including the Bible. Now that my eyes have been opened to the fact that faithful believers do experience suffering, I see it everywhere in the Bible. How could I have missed such an important part? 

Jesus is the center of it all, and He is known as the Man of Sorrows. Christ suffered through temptation, loss, betrayal, and death. Although Jesus suffered on our behalf, that doesn’t mean that we will not also suffer on this side of heaven. If He suffered, we as His followers will also suffer (John 15:20).  We are not immune to the hardships of a messed up world (2 Timothy 3:12). But when we suffer, we know we are not alone. Jesus is with us; He truly understands (Hebrews 4:14-16). We are given peace that transcends understanding (Philippians 4:7). Jesus even blessed those who go through life’s challenges in His most famous sermon (Matthew 5:3-10). Jesus did NOT say “Blessed are the faithful, for they will never mourn.” Instead Jesus did say, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” 

The entire Bible is full of stories of God followers who faced hardship and examples of what to do when we feel betrayed by God. We are invited to bring that betrayal, anger, questions, pain, disappointment to God. God doesn’t just tolerate our grievances; He encourages us to bring them to Him. At least 30% of the Psalms are songs of lament. Even from the cross Jesus cried, “My God, why have you forsaken me?!” God’s chosen nation of the Old Testament is named after “one who wrestles with God”. Faith does not mean denying any doubts or confusion; faith means not being afraid to face them with God. And God shows up! 

Just as we see throughout the Bible, when someone encounters suffering, they are not left unchanged. God uses our suffering to bring transformation in our hearts and lives. He reveals truths. He builds our character and hope. That’s exactly what happened and continues to happen to me in my grief. Patient and hopeful endurance is something that takes time and pain to develop, but it is vital for a Jesus follower and ultimately a gift from God. This suffering comes alongside abundant love, joy, and hope (as well as lots of protection, provisions, healing, blessings, favor). It is all part of the full life we are promised as Christians (John 10:10); we get it all. If Jesus does let you fall, remember this time of hardship is only temporary. We are also promised a future of eternal life with no mourning, crying, or pain (Revelation 21:3-4). 

“When I thought, ‘My foot slips,’ Your steadfast love, O Lord, helped me up.” Psalm 94:18

“Yet if any of you suffers as a Christian, do not consider it a disgrace, but glorify God because you bear this name.” 1 Peter 4:16 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Matthew 5:3

“My brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of any kind, consider it nothing but joy because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance; and let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing.” James 1:2

Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss

Parenting After Loss – Having a Girl

When I was pregnant with Ginny, I would imagine what it would be like to raise a little girl. I dreamed of the baby stages, toddlerhood, a little girl growing to a teenager, and even spending time with her as an adult. When Ginny died, my imagination didn’t stop, only now I was thinking of everything I would be missing. I have grieved and am still grieving the loss of every stage. When I walk past baby girl clothes sections, I grieve. When I see a mom and her daughter walking around the neighborhood, I grieve. When I see a mother-of-the-bride look with pride at her daughter, I grieve. I don’t just grieve my baby, I grieve a lifetime of moments together. 

Now that Addie is here, I get to actually experience raising a little girl. I get to experience all those stages I imagined – but with a different daughter. I get to experience everything I thought I never would – but not with Ginny. I’m thrilled and grateful to get this chance. And it has taken me 9 months to realize that I haven’t even thought about it. During Addie’s pregnancy and her first 9 months, I have not sat and dreamed of what it will be like to raise her. It’s just now occurring to me that I haven’t allowed myself to really imagine her growing up. I guess I was trying to protect myself. Just as she is reaching milestones does it start to sink in that we get to raise this beautiful, adorable, sweet girl and that she is truly here with us. I can hold her and see her and kiss her and make her smile. I keep underestimating how fun it is to dress her and watch her learn new things. In the best way, I feel surprised realizing she’s growing and developing. I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew what was coming. We’ve experienced these same stages with Chet. But somehow having a girl still hasn’t truly sunk in. The longer Addie is with us, the more my heart slowly believes that my dream of being a girl mom is actually currently coming true. I can let myself believe it. I do cherish it. I cherish Addie so much. 

As I process this reality, it becomes even more clear how one child cannot replace another. Even though I am experiencing with Addie what I fantasized about with Ginny, I still definitely grieve for her everyday. These moments aren’t fulfilling what was lost because what was lost was an entirely different person. I may not know what Ginny would’ve looked like, but I know what her presence felt like. Addie is just as loved, just as precious, and just as wanted as Ginny, but she is not Ginny. She is her own amazing person. I look forward to every moment with her, but I will still always miss and yearn for her older sister. Addie does complete our family, but she doesn’t fix what is broken in our hearts. I never have and never would expect that from her or Chet. Daniel and I love all our children with all our large, soft, broken open hearts. 

Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss, Pregnancy After Loss, Uncategorized

Self-Doubt / My Preeclampsia Story

One simple question- one kind and thoughtful question- was enough to gather a mountain of self doubt in me. “How are you feeling?” Pregnant women get asked this everyday. And the further along you are, the more the question comes up. In the last days of my pregnancy with Addie, I was asked in every encounter. How am I feeling?  I would even ask myself. It shouldn’t be a hard question. But when I pondered this question, I could feel my blood pressure rise.

Because of my personality (Enneagram 9 if you are into that), this question is naturally hard for me. My answer is usually dependent on the moods of those around me. When it comes to deciphering your own emotions, that’s challenging for a lot of people. But most people could easily tell you how they are physically feeling. Not me. Not in the last days of pregnancy and early days of postpartum. And that’s a bad time not to know how you feel. 

I think my trouble stems from how much I didn’t feel during the end of Ginny’s pregnancy. Shouldn’t I have felt that something was wrong? Shouldn’t I have known Ginny was struggling? Shouldn’t my body or my motherly instincts have given me a signal? Did I ignore something? Did I fail to notice red flags? Or do I lack motherly instincts? Can I be trusted with this?

On top of that, during the last month of pregnancy with both Chet and Addie I suffered from prodromal labor. That means I had strong contractions frequent enough to warrant going to the hospital without much, if any, significant progress. I would have hours of painful contractions every 3-5 minutes, and then they would go away to come back in a day or two. So many times I felt I was going in labor to only feel crazy at the next appointment when my cervix hadn’t dilated more. I remember crying to a labor and delivery nurse after being sent home the 2nd time when I was pregnant with Chet. She said, “You aren’t going to miss an 8+lb baby coming out.” But she didn’t understand; I needed my baby to be monitored! How would I know that he is handling the contractions well? My last baby died without me knowing! How would I know if this baby was dying too? I learned to lean on God and to basically ignore how my body was feeling. I would monitor the baby’s movements, but try to ignore my pain. In those moments, how was I supposed to answer “How are you feeling?” When I answered honestly, family and friends would get excited, believing that the baby was coming soon. I had to explain that my contractions don’t mean much, and I would feel so frustrated. I wished everyone would just stop asking me, but I knew they were just being thoughtful. 

I was so relieved when Addie was born. But little did I know that answering about how I was feeling wouldn’t get easier. In fact, it would become a lot harder. 

Besides the normal but excruciating post-birth contractions, the first few days after delivering Addie I felt fine. We came home from the hospital, and breastfeeding was going relatively smoothly and Addie was gaining weight back. My milk came in with the bitter-sweet reminder of postpartum with Ginny. All was well. But slowly I noticed my chest feeling funny. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what felt off. I felt sort of anxious, and I felt very aware of my heart and my breaths. I took my vitals. My blood pressure was slightly elevated and my pulse was lower than it had ever been. I didn’t feel right. But then again, I just had a baby. Was I supposed to feel “right”? I called the doctor. They were most concerned about postpartum preeclampsia. The only symptom I had was high blood pressure, and that was only borderline. I continued to monitor my vitals. I became worried and so anxious that I couldn’t sleep, even when Addie slept. Being anxious wasn’t helping my blood pressure. I tried to calm myself before taking my blood pressure, but the numbers were slowly rising. What helped the most was holding Addie to my chest. But it was the last day my in-laws and my sister would visit, so I had to share the cuddles. The next day family hesitantly left. As the day went on, I felt worse. My blood pressure got up to 170/94, and my doctor sent me to the hospital. Since family had already left, we had to rely on our amazing friends to care for Chet. Daniel and my hearts broke to leave him during an already uncertain time for him. Thankfully Daniel and I could bring Addie to the hospital with us.

When we arrived at the hospital, I was again faced with the question “How are you feeling?” from every nurse and doctor I encountered. I hated using phrases like “my chest feels weird” or “I just feel really off”. Nothing felt concrete enough. And I was only 4 days postpartum, so I knew it was normal to not feel myself yet. I kept doubting myself. Am I giving myself high blood pressure by needlessly worrying so much? Do I feel weird because I haven’t slept? Is this just anxiety? But my blood pressure was high, and I have two kids who need me. It’s better to be safe than sorry. They checked my levels for other indicators of preeclampsia. The doctor came in and made it seem like he wasn’t concerned with the results. He asked one last question, “Do you have a headache?” I froze. Do I have a headache? This is a yes or no question. It shouldn’t be hard, but my head felt really fuzzy. I couldn’t tell if I was manifesting a headache by thinking about it so much or if I truly had a headache. I explained my disclaimers to the doctor, “I have a newborn so I haven’t really slept in 4 days. It’s really hard to tell. I do have a slight headache when I shake my head, but honestly I wouldn’t even take a Tylenol for it.” His response felt like something that would happen in a nightmare. “Well since you answered my question wrong, I’m going to have to admit you.” I said, “Uh ok. Are you going to just monitor me or treat me.” He said, “I’m treating you with magnesium.” I asked, “Are there side effects?” He said, “You’re not going to like it.” Then he left, and the nurse proceeded to recite a long laundry list of horrible side effects from feeling really hot, to stomach flu-like symptoms, to inability to move, to trouble breathing, to not being able to nurse your baby. She left me to change into a hospital gown, and I started to panic. What have I done?! Why couldn’t I just chill the hell out and enjoy being home with my two beautiful babies? Why oh why did I answer that question “wrong”?! 

The first night of magnesium treatment wasn’t too bad. And thankfully my sister was able to come back to Auburn the next morning to take care of Addie in the hospital with me while Daniel was able to give Chet a little bit of normalcy. My blood pressure had come down. But then as the morning proceeded, side effects started ramping up. I had trouble holding my head up. I had to focus a lot to breath. I couldn’t sleep for fear I would stop breathing. I could barely lift my arms. Eventually my eyes could no longer move in coordination with each other, and I could hardly see.  I was so grateful the wonderful OB who delivered Addie was the next doctor on call. The nurses explained how I was having an awful reaction to the magnesium, and thankfully she decided to pause my treatment.  It didn’t take long for the magnesium to leave my system and for me to feel much better. Since my case was borderline, I was able to go home once my bloodwork came back good.

The nurses had such a hard time drawing my blood. After being poked by the nearby nurses, the charge nurse, the “vein whisperer”, the one who trains everyone else to draw blood, and finally “the big guns”, I was stabbed 20 times. But honestly God gave me so much grace for that. It was amazing to get to meet all those incredible nurses. One of the last attempts, there were multiple nurses in the room. The one trying was praying out loud, “In the name of Jesus!” I said, “Yes!” in agreement. She got it! The results came in, and my calcium levels were critically low. I was given a couple bags of calcium, and then was finally able to go back home after two nights. 

When I got home, I hid my blood pressure cuff. I didn’t even want to look at it. I would be seen for a follow-up in a few days. I was going to just focus on resting, recovering, and snuggling my babies. Thankfully my blood pressure went back to normal after a few weeks. And when I saw my primary care doctor a couple months later, she told me that my labs did look like I had preeclampsia. I felt validated. I finally felt like what I was feeling was not in my head and that I went through wasn’t for nothing. In the first few weeks when I thought back on that experience, I felt so much self doubt and shame. But when I take a step back and think about how I recognized when I felt something wasn’t right, spoke up about it, and got treatment to protect myself from something much worse, I am proud of how I handled it. It was awful, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And I am so grateful that both Addie and I are safe and healthy.

I still struggle to know how I feel and whether what I feel is fear, instinct, or the Holy Spirit. I pray that God gives me wisdom and discernment in my feelings, especially in parenting after loss. 

Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

Addie’s Birth Story

Welcome Addie Mae Jones! She was born on September 21, 2023. We are so in love! She is the sweetest little girl. She looks so much like her big brother but has her own precious spirit. She is a good gift from God. Our family feels complete now, and we are overcome with gratitude and love for her. 

Addie’s was the easiest pregnancy of my three kids, but it was still very very hard. The first trimester I was bogged down by fatigue, nausea, and grief. The second trimester I felt good physically but had so much fear to overcome. During the third trimester, I had COVID, tons of appointments, unplanned ultrasounds, a hospital stay, prodromal labor, impatience, vulnerability, self-doubt, fear, excitement, and hope. I had consistent and painful contractions that convinced me that I was in labor for days prior to my scheduled induction date. The same thing happened at the end of my pregnancy with Chet. But despite packing and unpacking my toothbrush several times, I made it to the induction date. 

Daniel and I drove up to the hospital just as the sun was rising. It was beautiful, and we were so happy to have made it to that day! I felt so ready and excited. We checked in and were led to a very nice and spacious room. The nurses who greeted us were welcoming and warm. I felt grateful that the doctor who had been monitoring Addie the past several weeks was on call that day. She arrived and since I was already dilated 3cm, I was able to start pitocin right away. We brought a speaker and put on Jack Johnson to create a chill atmosphere. Daniel is the best partner. He was there the whole time talking with me, getting anything I needed, and supporting me. I never felt alone. 

The contractions increased throughout the morning, so by lunchtime I was contemplating an epidural. In the moment, I felt hesitant about getting the epidural, but since it was what I had planned, I proceeded. The anesthesiologist was swift and assertive. The epidural was uncomfortable, but the relief was quick. Soon after he left, my blood pressure dropped. I started feeling so strange. I suddenly became super sleepy and out of it. The nurse quickly administered epinephrine, and my blood pressure came up only briefly before plummeting again. She gave me more epinephrine, and my blood pressure finally stabilized. That was such a bizarre experience. My body had never felt like that before. My epidural felt really strong – I could not feel my legs at all and couldn’t move at all. My legs were so so heavy, and I got creeped out to look at them or feel them with my hands. I had epidurals with both Ginny and Chet, but neither of those were as “effective” as this one. At one point I asked my nurse if we could turn it down or off. She discouraged that because then I’d be able to feel the pain. I know feeling labor pain would’ve been worse, but I sure didn’t like the epidural this time around.

I felt a bit discouraged that I had only dilated 1cm (4cm total) the entire morning. My doctor came and broke my water at 1:20pm. I was hopeful that things would move pretty quickly from there on out. Since I couldn’t walk around or move my lower half at all, the nurses helped place and rotate a peanut ball between my legs to encourage Addie to move down. Thankfully Addie’s heart rate was great the entire time. My cervix dilated a little more than 1cm an hour for the next several hours. At 5pm my nurse asked if I felt any pressure. I told her I had but couldn’t tell if it was real or in my head. She checked me and I was fully dilated! I was surprised and so excited! She had me do a couple of practice pushes to make sure we were ready. She could tell right away that we were ready and Addie was on her way! She called the doctor. 

Soon the room was full of women buzzing around getting things ready. It felt comforting to have my doctor’s familiar face right there monitoring me and Addie and encouraging me. Daniel was by my side as always cheering me on. I was just so relieved to be in this moment. I didn’t feel any pain and felt so thrilled to get to push Addie into the world! I pushed during about 4 contractions over 15 minutes, and she arrived! It was 5:24pm, 11 hours after arriving at the hospital. They placed her on me, and I held my breath until I heard her cry. Her cry was music to my ears! Feeling her body warm and wiggling filled my heart immediately. I looked over at Daniel and we both were smiling and sobbing. The room was full of so much love and so much joy and so much excitement! It was such a contrast to the solemn atmosphere of my first birth. I got to hold her on my chest for the first hour. It was such a special time nursing and admiring her. She weighed 8lb 14 oz and was 21 in long. She was and is perfect! Thank you, God! She has been the most awesome baby and such a joy to take care of. She’s the best addition to our family, and Chet loves her so much! I can’t believe we are now a family of five! Thank you to all those who prayed for us and loved on us during the pregnancy, her birth, and afterward! 

Even though Addie won’t have her big sister here to teach her and play with her, I want her to always know Ginny as part of our family, as someone who loves us and who we will see in heaven one day. For Addie’s baby shower, I wanted something there to honor and remember Ginny, so I wrote a poem as if it were a note from Ginny to Addie. We framed the poem and displayed it at the shower…

Big Sister to Little Sister
We won’t grow up together but please see
Knowing you’re there makes me happy as can be
Big brother is with you and will take good care
Mama and Dada have so much love to share 
I’m cheering you on and watching you grow
I love you little sister more than you know
Heaven and earth won’t separate us forever
One day you’ll see we will all be together 

Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss

Invisible Daughter

This morning Chet and I were standing among a small group of moms and toddlers whom I hadn’t met before. We were in a park at a playdate that was kindly coordinated by a mom leader in our community to give us something fun to do on a Monday morning. The topic of birthing came up. The moms were swapping stories of epidurals, home births, and whether or not it was actually true that you forget the pain. I could feel my pulse rising. Was I feeling triggered by the topic of birth? No, I don’t think so. I love talking about both Ginny and Chet’s birth stories. I searched my brain for why my body was reacting. I think I was  nervous because I had to decide whether I should drop the bomb of stillbirth on this perfectly pleasant morning. I really wanted to. For me, it wasn’t a bomb; it was my motherhood story. I wanted to talk about my beautiful but invisible daughter. When would be the right time? Maybe I should let everyone else share first. I knew that once I spoke, the faces of laughter would transform into faces of compassion and concern. No one else will want to share their birth stories after that. I could feel my heart beating as I was summoning the courage to drop the bomb. But before I was able, someone changed the subject to carseats or preschool or something else for which I have no Ginny story. I felt both relieved and disappointed. 

One of the hardest parts of leaving North Carolina for Alabama was leaving our friends who were with us when we lost Ginny. With those friends, there is an unspoken (and sometimes spoken) understanding of how our lives were impacted by Ginny’s life and death, and that is comforting. When our NC friends see me as a mother or Daniel as a father, they see as us the parents of both Ginny and Chet. People here in Alabama only see Chet.

Now with each new person we meet, we need to figure out the best way to share our story with them. I love talking about Ginny. I love sharing memories of her pregnancy and birth. I love sharing about how God was with us through our sorrow. I love including her as part of our family. She is such a huge part of who we are. But it is not always an easy topic to bring up. 

One of the first friends we met here has a daughter named Ginny. What a great segue! – “We have a daughter named Ginny too!….” Opportunities don’t normally present themselves that easily. One of the next friends we met was 33 weeks pregnant; that was trickier. Although I don’t believe my story should require a trigger warning, I also want to be sensitive to the heightened hormones and natural fears that pregnancy brings. We held off on telling that friend until after her baby was born. It was hard to wait and sort of felt like lying. 

Being a stay at home mom, I often find myself standing among groups of moms at the playground, in Chet’s nature class, or in our stroller group. The other moms may ask me, “Is he your only one?” or “Is he your first?” I usually hesitate, which is awkward because it shouldn’t be a difficult question. I may have literally met this woman just seconds ago. I try to make a quick assessment based on who else is around, how much time we have, the likelihood I will ever see her again, etc. I may answer a quick “yes” with a smile and return the question. In these moments, my heart breaks just a little more and I feel a tinge of guilt. I feel like I denied Ginny and a huge piece of myself for the sake of comfort or time. I try to give myself grace and remind myself that it is okay to answer this way. Other times I respond by saying, “He’s actually our second. We had a stillborn daughter before him. He has a big sister named Ginny in heaven. We talk about Ginny a lot.” I also deliver this reply with smile. I try to show that we are hopeful and comfortable talking about her. That is completely true, but it also helps minimize their discomfort or regret in asking a usually harmless question. 

The responses I get vary. Most people say, “Oh I’m so so sorry. How hard! I can’t imagine.” This is perfectly appropriate. Some others don’t say anything and might just nod, which is not ideal but understandable. It’s hard to know how to respond, and I am not offended. I love when I get follow up questions about Ginny or my experience. I also love when people share their own stories of loss or friends’ losses. It helps to talk about this to know we aren’t alone and to dampen the stigma.

It’s amazing how much I can tell about people by their response to my sharing Ginny. I can usually quickly tell if this is someone that I will be able to have a deep connection with or someone who may want to stay more surface-level. There’s a place for both types of friendships. I can usually also quickly tell if someone has experienced hardship or sorrow in their own lives. Most of the time, when someone has experienced grief, they receive the gift of empathy. You can sense the difference between true empathy and more common sympathy. When I sense the empathy, I wonder what sorrow that person has had to bear. Sometimes they share, and sometimes they don’t. When I receive sympathy, they remind me of myself four years ago. I’m happy for them that they haven’t had grief, but I also know it will eventually come to them. Maybe my story and the hope I share will help them when it does. 

The more time we spend with our new friends, the closer we get and the more they understand how much Ginny is a part of our lives and hearts. I’m seeing it already. This weekend we had a sweet friend and her little girl over to watch football and play with Chet. We were talking about pregnancy, and she asked me about my pregnancy with Ginny. It meant so much to me to be able to talk freely about my daughter. It made her (and me) feel much less invisible.  

Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss

Parenting After Loss – The 2nd Year

In the baby loss community, you’ll often hear the phrase “My heart is fuller than my arms.” This is certainly true for me. Don’t get me wrong – one toddler keeps me very busy, but I’m definitely not as busy as I would be if Ginny were also here. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t take my time though. In fact, I spend way more time grieving Ginny three and half years out than I thought I would. She is still in my thoughts all throughout the day everyday, and I still devote hours a week to mourning her. What I’ve learned is that this is healthy and normal life after loss. 

Grief does not resolve on its own. Time itself does not heal. It takes work and devotion and Jesus to heal – and that does also take time. I think of it as tending a garden. If left ignored, the garden of grief will become overgrown with weeds and pests. Nothing fruitful will grow. For me when I ignore my grief, I feel very heavy with tension in my shoulders. I get irritable and irrational; I may lash out at those I love. I am not able to have as much fun or laugh as I normally would. In some others, neglected grief manifests itself in far worse ways such as addiction or violence. To prevent this, I must spend time “mothering Ginny” by mourning her. I tend to my grief garden by journalling, talking to those who care, praying, looking in her memory box, thinking of heaven, walking, reading passage of lament, listening to music or relevant podcasts, and crying. These activities are like pulling weeds, planting seeds, fertilizing, pruning, and watering. It is hard work but the result is peace, hope, and compassion for others. My heart is light and I can be my best for Chet, Daniel, and my community. 

A loss mama does not stop mothering her child once her child dies. So now I’m left trying to figure out how to balance parenting one living child and one child in heaven. As with all of parenting, it takes prioritization and intentionality. I do what I can to parent both kids at once. I tell Chet about Ginny, and we look through the special photo album from her pregnancy together. We thank God for Sister Ginny in our prayers. I think of her on our walks or in the car. I try to devote more time during Chet’s naps, after he is asleep for the night, and on the weekends with Daniel’s help. It’s hard to prioritize time to mourn over doing chores or errands that need to get done. It feels selfish to take this time. So occasionally I will put it on the back burner and focus on other things. Then slowly I feel the weight growing; I become weary and easily frustrated. Daniel sometimes reminds me that I need to take the time alone to mourn. I remember that this isn’t optional. This is a mandatory part of my life. I’m not sure it will require this much time forever, but it does now. It’s not selfish – it’s mothering my sweet Ginny and it is essential to be the mom I want to be for Chet. This is parenting after loss. 

Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss, Uncategorized

Release

Sometimes the grief builds up and needs to be released. It feels heavy on my shoulders and on my heart. A good cry or journalling session usually does the trick to lighten the burden. If I go a while without being able to release the pent up grief, it just builds and builds. If it goes too long, I don’t have the energy to go about my normal day. 

One day a few months back, I was feeling this way. I knew I needed to cry, but I had to care for Chet. All morning I was feeding him, reading to him, and playing with him with a heavy heavy heart. I finally made it to nap time. My plan was to bounce him to sleep on a yoga ball while singing a lullaby (the ONLY effective way to get him to sleep at that time) and then go to my room and bawl my eyes out. I was looking forward to it; I needed the release. 

I started bouncing and singing, bouncing and singing. It wasn’t working! I kept bouncing and singing for what felt likes ages. He just kept looking up at me, refusing to sleep! I was getting frustrated. Ugh! Just sleep! I need to cry! I kept trying and trying. I called out to God, “Please help Chet sleep! I need to go cry! Please!” God responded, “Rock him.” I rolled my eyes. That will not work! He doesn’t sleep when I rock him. I’ve tried that a thousand time. It doesn’t work. I kept bouncing and singing, bouncing and singing. Nothing. “Ugh! God, please help Chet sleep! This grief is so heavy. I need to cry to release it. Please!” He responded, “Rock him.” That won’t work! I was getting so frustrated! Bounce! Bounce! Bounce! Nothing. Ahhh! Fine! 

I angrily stood up and walked over to the glider, knowing that rocking him was futile. He never fell asleep when I rocked him. We sat down. I looked Chet straight in the eye and started rocking and singing the lullaby. He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and started… laughing. He laughed a huge belly laugh and didn’t stop. I couldn’t help but laugh myself. The two of us rocked and laughed, rocked and laughed, rocked and laughed! Soon I felt my grief releasing and my heaviness falling away. 

Chet didn’t take his nap that day, and I didn’t cry that day. But we both felt refreshed. God saw my burdens and decided He didn’t want me to mourn with tears that day. He wanted me to mourn with laughter! Thank you, God! 

“He will yet fill your mouth with laughter.” Job 8:21

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” Ecclesiastes 3:4

“Blessed are you who weep now, for you shall laugh.” Luke 6:21

Aimee Jones Parenting After Loss, Pregnancy After Loss

Parenting After Loss: The 1st Year

Over a year has already passed since we brought Chet home from the hospital. I still look at him in disbelief. I am in awe he is here! He keeps getting cuter and cuter, and I just can’t believe my eyes when I see him. 

One year is a big milestone for a lot of reasons. For loss parents, we are hyper aware that one year marks the end of the possibility of infant death. What a relief! According to the CDC, in the US more than 1 in every 200 people die in their first year of life (not including miscarriage or stillbirth). After having experienced baby loss, those odds seem monstrous. The chances of death greatly decrease for children over 1 year. Our boy is strong and healthy, and I’m so grateful! I wish I could say I have no lingering fears, but that’s not reality. COVID daily reminds us of our human fragility. Anything could happen, but that is also what helps us embrace every moment. 

We do embrace every moment and rarely, if ever, take a minute for granted. Time seems to be racing by, so I try to slow it down by rocking him for one more minute, putting my phone down (when I’m not taking thousands of pictures and videos), and having nightly family dance parties to the song Un Poco Loco from the movie Coco. We have a lot of fun together. My heart stings a tiny bit every dance party. Ginny’s not here. 

As more and more of Chet’s adorable personality comes out, I enjoy imagining the two of them playing together. Chet is so smart and interested in everything. He has a longer attention span than I thought possible for a baby. He spends time trying to figure out how things work and is very determined. But he is also very goofy. He never gets tired of laughing at our funny faces or sounds, and he loves making us laugh. He growls, roughhouses, makes loud noises, and throws things – all things I’m not used to, having been raised with two sisters. He LOVES music. It’s a privilege to learn these details about my son. I got a sense of who Ginny is, but I do mourn not knowing the details. I do know she is playful and goofy and fun. So I know she and Chet would have a blast together. 

Each milestone that Chet hits makes me so grateful to experience this. I’m proud of how far we’ve come, all we’ve been through, and who we are as a family. I’m hopeful for all that’s to come, here on Earth and in heaven. And my heart breaks…

My heart breaks in all the normal ways a mama’s heart breaks as her baby grows up. Recently Chet stopped breastfeeding. One day he just lost all interest in nursing. It was around when I was planning on weaning anyway, so it was actually great timing. Even so, I was on the verge of tears for three straight days afterwards. I know it was hormones, but it was also just realizing that Chet is not a baby anymore. He is growing up and that chapter of our relationship is closed. That time was so so precious. I will be forever grateful, honored, and proud to have been able to nurse him for so long. And for some reason, it made me miss Ginny. I felt like it triggered another wave of grief. Why would Chet’s weaning make me grieve Ginny? I asked a friend. She said that anything that marks the passage of time is hard. I think she’s right. Our family is moving forward, and Ginny is still missing. I think it’s also because now I’m taking the time to think back on this past year – all those sweet moments, cute smiles, precious snuggles – all the babyhood. Now I know what we are missing. Well I know the first year of what we are missing. And my heart breaks. 

Now we’ve started the second year. We are going to keep embracing every moment, making each other laugh, and remembering big sister. I’m excited to learn what else we’re missing!