Photo at pumpkin patch is a moment mom waited for
There are things I always envisioned doing once I had a child of my own in tow. One of them was sitting my baby on a hay bale at a pumpkin patch and taking a photo.
It seems simple and maybe not such a necessary step on the path of raising a baby, but it was a club I wanted to be a part of, the club of moms and dads bundling up their children, pulling them along in wagons, picking out the best pumpkin in the patch and celebrating a season change with a forced photo or a hay ride or a chaotic walk through a corn maze.
I wasn't naïve enough to think that the real-life scenario looked like the pages of the Better Homes and Gardens magazine. I knew it was likely more in line with mini-meltdowns and arguments about not wearing shorts in October and bribes to smile for the camera, but I didn't care. I was happy to pay my mommy dues if it meant I got to be a member.
Last week I finally got to sit my baby on a hay bale and take that photo. A group of moms in town got together to create our own community pumpkin patch in the park, and I made plans to go, despite the snow covering the ground that morning and the chill in the air that afternoon.
I picked up my little sister and we drove down to the park. I forgot Edie's mittens and her stroller and cash for admission, so one of the moms supplied the mittens and, after my little sister paid, the two of us took turns shifting the bundled up, rosy-cheeked baby from hip to hip as we walked around in the chill, visiting with friends and watching the neighborhood kids jump in bounce houses, paint pumpkins and run wild like kids do.
And then I set my own baby down on the ground next to a formation of square hay bales, cornstalks and gourds, and we clapped and squealed and coaxed her to smile that smile I've been waiting so long to capture.
She didn't let me down.
And while that pumpkin patch photo wasn't a huge milestone for my rosy-cheeked daughter, watching her bobble around in her knit beanie and new winter jacket, trying to take a bite out of the little pumpkins propped beside her, it was a huge milestone for me, who finally gets to be her obnoxious, obsessive, photo-taking mother in the pumpkin patch after so many uncertain Octobers.
I'm thinking of this now because this month has been designated as Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. And I admit in the past, after nine years, six miscarriages and the loss of any hope of carrying a pregnancy to full term, I wasn't much for being reminded of those heartbreaking moments in my life. I didn't want a day to feel obligated to shout it from the rooftops.
No. You were more likely to hear me telling my story in the everyday quiet exchanges between strangers, the ones where I found myself answering the question, "Do you have any children?"
It's that question that sits like a rock at the bottom of many hearts. It's that question that gives us a reason to dedicate some time to remember, to understand and to find compassion.
And while I can answer it more easily now, while I can say, "Yes, I have a baby daughter," and then I can whip out my phone and show you the photo of her, while I'm now part of the pumpkin-patch club, I won't ever forget the other club in which I also belong.
And for the sake of the families who have suffered such loss, the ones counting the years and wondering what she might have been for Halloween, the ones who felt him kick but never heard him cry, the ones quietly hoping for their chance to forget the mittens and the money and the stroller at the pumpkin patch, I don't ever want to forget.
So I won't shout it from the rooftops, that's not my way, but I will send up a quiet prayer that some way, somewhere, I hope they get their picture.