Sleeping Babies

When I was in elementary school (I don't remember what grade) my class read on of the "Little House on the Prairie" stories.  In it Papa Ingalls was not home overnight and a bear (I think) came too close to the cabin and Mama Ingalls had to scare it away.  After the incident the mom picked up her sleeping baby and rocked with him.  My teacher explained to us that holding a sleeping baby can be one of the most comforting feelings.  I didn't understand it at the time.

Now I do.

There is just something about having an innocent child tucked in your arms that can calm almost anything.  Their rhythmic breathing, the sound of their tiny snores and sighs, and the complete and utter trust that they put in you when they sleep while you hold them seems to make everything else melt away.  This is one of the reasons I love to check on my boys each night before I go to bed.  No matter how tough of a day we have had, no matter how much yelling I may or may not have done, no matter the number of time-outs, the frustrations, or stresses, even just watching my boys sleep is incredibly comforting-- bonus points if I get to snuggle one or both of them for even just a few seconds while they snooze.  And during those quiet moments I can sometimes catch glimpses of Ethne.

The first time I saw Ethne after the accident was when we went to the funeral home to dress her.  I thought she might look like she was sleeping, but I was wrong and it made things so much harder than I thought they would be.  We were told that we could hold her if we wanted to, and before we saw her I did, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it once I saw her.  Her precious body just lay there on the table, stiff and cold, no sweet breaths, no tiny snores or sighs, she didn't even smell like herself.  Her head, face, and body looked bruised and pale and her perpetual mischievous grin was gone.  It hurt my heart so much to see her that way.  We slowly dressed her--with me bawling and Lawrence doing most of the heavy lifting (and work)-- in her sparkly Christmas dress, with Disney princess panties, tights, black shoes, and an elephant necklace.  I held her cold hand for most of the dressing, too lost in my grief to recognize that the body on the table wasn't really my little girl, but only her mortal vessel.

The funeral was different.  Before the funeral I took some medication that left me a bit dazed.  Add to that all the people and the whirl of activity and I was in a very different state.  I was still very sad, I cried through all of the viewing and funeral.  Our funeral director tried to allow for us to have time alone to hold her, and I was very much looking forward to it, but because of the throngs of people who came we ended her viewing late.  So during the family prayer I held my baby girl's body for the last time.  It wasn't near long enough.  It was the most alert I had felt since the accident, she was wrapped in a blanket made by loving hands and holding her Ariel doll.  As long as I didn't look at her face, covered in makeup, I could almost believe that she wasn't gone.  It was almost like she was sleeping in my arms.  Then it was over-- someone took her away from me, despite my protests-- and I had to accept that that was it.  It didn't go over well.

Since then I have come to realize that the body I held that day, the one that we put in the ground in the white box, was only Ethne's mortal vessel.  She still lives, just on a different plain, as a spirit.  She is with us often and instead of me holding her while she sleeps to calm myself, she holds me in my times of need.  It is strange, as a parent, to have that role reversed, but one day it will be the right way around again-- because we are an eternal family.