Quinn is three months old today. In a way, it feels like she is three years old. In most ways, though, she still feels brand new. I wonder if she will always feel that way to me. I am so in awe of her, and I can't help but feel a weird sense of magic when I look at her. Not to put too much pressure on her, but Quinn is a miracle in my eyes. Not because it was difficult for me to get pregnant with her (because it wasn't...at all), but because she has given us a sense of hope and purpose that I felt convinced was not possible after Max died. She gives us this simply by existing. Every breath she takes is a miracle to me. Every contagious smile she displays is a miracle. That her little heart continues to beat is a miracle. The past three months have been, hands down, my happiest in the last thirteen months. Quinn is such a happy, easy baby, but I honestly think I would feel the same way if she were colicky and difficult. Her demeanor is just an added bonus to the other joys that she brings me. I cannot help but be amazed when I watch her reach milestones that are meant for much older babies: rolling from her back to her side (she's been doing this for weeks), grabbing at toys, rolling from her back all the way to her stomach, and even trying to sit up on her own (I said trying, not succeeding...). I look at her and see so much of Max and Ethan in her. She is long, like Max, and could have been his identical twin (minus the luscious black locks) at an earlier point in her life. She is stoic and curious like Ethan, although Ethan was never in a rush to try new things like Quinn seems to be. I watch Ethan treat her with the same love and gentle touch that he treated Max with, and I am reminded of how lucky we are to have a 7-year-old boy who still has a soft, loving side that he openly displays. I am, to put it simply, happy. Very happy. Sometimes, I think too happy.
After Max died, I would have scoffed at the idea of someone being too happy. I welcomed any opportunity to laugh for a few fleeting seconds at a stupid joke. I must have watched that Wally World video on YouTube hundreds of times because it made me laugh. For that four minutes and twenty-two seconds, I could feel some sense of happiness and forget all of the pain. Thank you, Mr. Ghetto, for providing me with a welcome distraction. I still haven't mastered the dance moves in the video, but I have mastered the art of using the one-liners in it. Our house was a constant gathering place for friends and family after Max died, and I remember one of our "sleepovers" better than the others. It was the Friday after Max's funeral, and we had five or six friends sleeping over. We sat on our back porch, like we did almost every night, until it started raining. We moved to our garage, and hilarity ensued. I let loose that night and laughed until my abdominal muscles ached. Paul and I still talk about our friend "Bobby" fondly on occasion. I remember thinking to myself that it was okay to enjoy this because it wouldn't last very long. I tried to soak up every second of that night, which led me to stay up way too late. I was right, though: the happiness didn't last. I felt so guilty the next day. How could I be laughing and having a good time when my son was dead? I still struggle with those feelings, but I try to remind myself of exactly what I did that night: the happiness won't last forever, so soak it up and don't feel guilty for doing so. Still, sometimes I have to fight back the urge to suppress a smile or laughter because I think it's just not right to feel any happiness after what we've been through. These feelings have evolved a little bit. I no longer feel guilty for laughing, smiling, or having a good time. Instead, I find myself feeling suspicious of these moments. I feel like I'm being set up sometimes, like something bad is just around the corner. I try to temper my happiness because maybe if I don't let myself feel too happy, then nothing bad will happen to bring me back down to reality. This has been more difficult lately because Quinn does bring me so much happiness. I have these moments when I look at her and wonder for a split second if she really is real. And sometimes I look at her and think my heart might burst with joy and pride. I think about how perfect my life feels right now, and then I begin to panic a little bit. What if I don't deserve this? What if it does all go away? I hate feeling like happiness is temporary or that it comes with conditions. I am so scared that there is some puppet master somewhere measuring my happiness so that he knows just how hard to pull the strings of pain when I let the happiness outweigh the sadness. I wish I could go back to just allowing myself to feel joy without telling myself that it might cost me later on. It's strange for me to think this way, and it takes real effort for me not to give in to the voice in the back of my head telling me to tone down the happiness.
I have no doubt that my reflection on these feelings has a lot to do with a dream that I had a few nights ago. In the dream, I was holding Quinn while she cooed and wiggled in my arms. I walked around with her for a while and showed her off to various people. I finally came to a person who looked at me with pity in his eyes instead of the admiration and love that the others had shown. He said to me, "It's time for us to take her." I was genuinely confused and stared at him wordlessly. "She's dead, Lindsey. It's time for us to take her." I felt shocked. I looked down at Quinn, and she looked up at me, still wiggling in my arms. I kept insisting to this man that Quinn was alive. I tried to get him to see that she was still breathing and moving, that she was not dead. His expression never changed, though. He still looked at me with pity and spoke gently to me, insisting that Quinn was dead. I realized at some point that he must be right; I must have deluded myself into believing that Quinn was still alive and wiggling around in my arms. I remember feeling that crushing sadness that I felt when the fire captain told me that Max was gone. I felt like I'd just been punched in the gut, like I felt waking up on June 11, 2011 and realizing that Max really was dead and that it wasn't all a dream. In my dream, I bartered with the man to let me spend a few more minutes with Quinn, but he wouldn't allow it. Before I gave her up, I woke up. It was very early in the morning, and I was physically and emotionally shaken. I was very confused at first, not quite sure if I had been dreaming or not. Luckily Quinn still sleeps in her bassinet beside our bed, so I realized pretty quickly that I had woken up in a world in which she still existed. I'm no dream expert, but it doesn't take one to see that my dream about Quinn has everything to do with Max and my fear of losing her too. Even though I don't always feel stressed or worried about Quinn on the surface, it's clear to me that I am scared. Terrified, really. I know it's not healthy to suppress these feelings, so here I am, acknowledging them. I'd be lying by omission if I didn't also acknowledge that a small part of me hopes to ward off these types of dreams by digging them out of my subconscious.
To bring this all full circle...am I happy? Absolutely. I am incredibly happy. Does that happiness come with conditions? Absolutely. And it probably always will.
