you would cry too if it happened to you

This is the thing about tragedy: it can happen to anyone. You say that, acknowledging the truth, and people hush you and shush you and tell you to stop being scary. It's easier, after all, to hide under some blanket of naivety and fully believe that you're untouchable. Bad things happen to other people, not you. The thing is, I had the same chance as you to have a baby with a congenital heart defect. You and I, we're all in the same 1% that the general population shares. I'm no different. I don't possess some risk factors that made me more susceptible. There was no reason why my daughter had not one but three severe heart defects that rendered her incompatible with life. Maybe that's the scariest part, the fact there was no reason for it. Something went wrong in utero and I became a statistic. Wylie became a statistic. I went from being that person everyone talks pregnancy with to the one who assists people when someone they know is experiencing an unfathomable loss.

You see so many misconceptions in pregnancy. Each time someone waits twelve weeks to announce a pregnancy, sighing in relief that they've reached this fictitious "safe zone," I have to resist the urge to burst a bubble with the pointy sword I like to call reality. After 12 weeks, it's time to line up under the umbrella of everything is fine and try not to make eye contact with those who can dispel that myth in one snap. Whenever I see someone assure a mother-to-be that her baby's decrease in movement is due to the child running out of space in utero, I have to be that person. The person who urges them to call the doctor and is then told I'm scaring the pregnant women. It's the new "don't feed the animals." "Don't scare the pregnant women."

If I sound elitist, it isn't so. I experienced two pregnancies where I was untouchable. After all, the first thing I said to the doctor when she put her hand on my shoulder and delivered the blow that my daughter was very sick was "this can't be happening to me." No, not me. I had a son waiting for his sister's arrival. I had a nursery planned out. I drink organic milk and use a belly shield for radiation and gave up coffee the moment that pee stick turned positive so you can't mean that this is happening to me. As I shed my skin and grew new layers to a new self, I realized the issue that predetermined invincibility truly is.

There's such a need for education and awareness when it comes to things during pregnancy that are often overlooked. Take the awareness you do have and use it. Read blogs and articles and scientific journals, don't rely on the there-there comfort from internet moms groups. Your doctor's job is to care for you and your unborn child and, believe it or not, they're aware of this. They're not going to scoff at you for having questions or concerns about the wellbeing of the child you're carrying in utero. Your desire to not be "that mom" shouldn't trump your baby and their needs. There are things that you need to be made aware of because that's life, and it doesn't mean that you're succumbing to worry or anxiety. It doesn't mean you're refusing to live because fear is keeping you pegged down. It doesn't mean if you overturn a stone and see something you don't like, it's going to happen to you or haunt you or ruin you. Ignorance isn't bliss. It's anything but.

In a culture that wages internet wars over routine infant circumcision and carseat safety and vaccinations and infant feeding preference, there sure is a white flag hanging over the taboo of loss. That's when everyone walks away and retreats into a storm cellar to hide from reality. Someone's advice, life experience, best wishes and care morphs into a horror story when it's something you don't want to hear. When it means that you're not totally invincible. Why should you care that the ultrasound technician didn't get any good shots of the baby's heart to even confirm there are four chambers? It's not like anything could be wrong, and shame on the person who suggests another ultrasound -- putting worry into someone like that, somewhere where it doesn't belong.

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Since losing Wylie, my life has felt a lot like a constant verse of I know something you don't know. I can't suggest someone call a doctor (and I don't mean the Dr. Google mom at your playgroup) or take a stroll into L&D for a check-up without being told I'm worrying someone. "Everything is fine, shhh, there-there." Everything probably is fine, but sometimes it isn't. And I couldn't live with myself if I patted someone on the back and told them the wrong thing when I knew -- really, really knew -- the right thing. Yet, society is quick to call me a sadist instead of a saint.

On some days, I feel like I've stepped out of The Craft and people are convinced I bring bad luck and negativity and sadness into a part of life that shouldn't have to be any of those things. Perhaps this is the most frustrating part. Pregnancy should be a wonderful experience, a beautiful one. You should be able to lay in bed and marvel at those kicks and flutters dancing across your belly. But if you sense something is wrong or amiss, I'm not going to sit idly by and let you not take yourself to the doctor if you notice a change in baby's movement because someone had this same thing happen and their kid is totally fine. I'm not going to settle for a general consensus in an online moms group when it comes to your health and your child's health. And I'm not going to settle for justification of the head in the sand thing that is far, far too common when it comes to things we don't want to speak about. I'm not going to drape you in some invincibility cloak and assure you that these things only happen to me and you're fine, totally, so carpe diem, take that risk and make that gamble. Sure, you have to think positive, but you also have to think proactively.

I have a little girl who sits in an urn atop my mantle. She cannot speak but I can be her voice, and I'm going to be her voice. I'm going to be the only voice she has. Until there are no more parents bringing home their children in urns or burying their babies, I'm going to be speaking for her. The Lorax of loss, or something. The mom desperate to turn I know something you don't know into I know something you don't know, but I want you to know it so that you can take care of yourself and your child.

our palm beach zoo aldabra tortoise experience + a family 4-pack ticket giveaway

Ethan and I love the Palm Beach Zoo. If you follow us on Instagram, you've probably noticed we're there a lot -- once a week at least, usually. Ethan and I are on our second year of being zoo members and our special days spent at the zoo are some of my most cherished memories. We're at that point where Ethan knows most of the animals by name and I'm only minimally skeptical of his claims that the Singing Dogs recognize him when he walks up. The Palm Beach Zoo is monumental in our memories and family adventures, so I was really excited to throw Ethan for a little loop and surprise him with a new take on our usual zoo trip.

On Wednesday, Ethan and I were able to go behind the scenes and get to interact with the zoo's amazing Aldabra Tortoises as part of the zoo's animal experiences feature. We were met with an off again, on again rain storm and a cold front we weren't expecting, but that didn't stop Noto the tortoise from making quick friends with Ethan. Seeing the glimmer in Ethan's eyes as he excitedly waited to feed and pet Noto made me forget all about how chilly it was for our South Florida blood.

Many people have negative perceptions when it comes to zoos. The Palm Beach Zoo does a good job at squashing the negativity in one visit. No, you won't see whales or penguins or elephants or other animals that couldn't possibly thrive in our South Florida temperatures or in limited space, but you will find an ethical zoo with zookeepers who love every last animal as if they were family (and, if you ask Ethan, Mardi the white alligator is totally part of our family at this point!). The Palm Beach Zoo is all about conservation and sponsor many conservation programs as well several on site programs. (We even learned the animals get acupuncture treatments which is just about the coolest thing ever!).

The love the zookeeper had for Noto and the other tortoises was so apparent from the moment he began talking to us. Not only did Ethan and I get to experience these beautiful animals up close and personal, but we learned so much in our time with them. Through talking with the zookeeper, Ethan learned the differences between tortoises and turtles as well as what tortoises liked to eat, how the weather can affect their digestion and activity and how old they can live to be. He also learned that tortoises can feel you touch their shells, so it is important to always be gentle when petting them. Perhaps his favorite part was being able to feel the skin on Noto's head and neck, not just his shell.

I like to say I'm a "homeschool nerd" who advocates for the importance of play as a learning tool. In the same sense, children learn so much from the world around them. In his short visit with Noto, Ethan was able to take away so much knowledge and experience -- more than we give children credit for. It was a completely magical visit and I am so honored to have had the experience alongside Ethan to meet Noto up close. When I get to be Noto's age (humor me), I still will never forget the glimmer and excitement in Ethan's eyes as he stood in front of Noto for the first time!

Ethan has also decided that he's going to be Noto for this year's Boo At The Zoo, so I've got my costume-making work cut out for me.

For more information on the Aldabra Tortoise experience, check out the zoo's website!

A particularly fun new "zoo fact" is that the zoo is planning a new eco-friendly garden to grow fresh food for the animals. Twice a month, the zoo also has a fresh produce market where zoo goers and South Florida residents alike can do some shopping. Perhaps my favorite new addition to the produce market is the zoo's new coffee.

What's so great about the Palm Beach Zoo's new coffee? It's actually a bird safe blend which means that it was harvested in a way that has no negative impact on bird habitats. (It's delicious, too!)

With a commitment to sustainability, to the animals and to education, I simply have no choice but to fall in love with the Palm Beach Zoo a million times over each time we step through those front gates (which is a lot).

The folks at the Palm Beach Zoo also graciously offered one of my readers the chance to win a family four pack of passes to the zoo! Enter below and, if you decide to give Noto a visit (and I would totally encourage you to do so), tell him his buddy Ethan says hello!

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what ethan's reading: valentine's day '15 edition

One of my favorite things about the holidays are the themed books. Ethan and I love making early morning trips to Barnes & Noble to read them all. Old favorites that exist already in our home library and new ones that become a favorite before we even finish them. Because it's almost Valentine's Day which has always been one of my favorite holidays, I thought it was only fitting to compile a list of our favorite Valentine's Day titles!

Be My Valentine, Charlie Brown by Charles M. Schultz

Ethan is on a Snoopy kick. He and my husband must have checked out every Snoopy book in the library, but this was a new one for him. It's a cute story (am I the only one who is always rooting for poor Charlie Brown?) with flaps to lift as you go.

Happy Valentine's Day, Curious George

Always the George fan, this one has topped Ethan's favorite Valentine's Day book list for the past couple of years. It, too, is a lift the flaps story about Curious George and the Valentine's Day party he throws for his friends.

The Biggest Kiss by Joanna Walsh

Ethan really loved the illustrations in this book. It's a sweet story about how there's someone for everyone -- a kiss for everyone, rather -- from ants to elephants.

Did You Know That I Love You? by Christa Pierce

This is a sweet story that isn't specific to Valentine's Day, but is all about love. The underlying message of this story is that you can't outgrow love, or go far enough away where love can't reach you. Love is always with you.

The Shape Of My Heart by Mark Sperring

This is a beautiful story all about the shape of love. Ethan loved the illustrations and pointing out the shapes he could recognize as the story went on.

I Love You Night And Day by Smriti Prasadam-Halls

This is a beautiful story all about unconditional love. Again, not specific for Valentine's Day but perfect for reading while snuggled up with your little valentine. This one will tug at your heart, I can guarantee it.

Always by Emma Dodd

There's a gold and silver foil trend going on right now and I love it. This book contains gold foil that brings so much life and warmth to the beautiful illustrations. It's a sweet story about a mother's unconditional love.

I'd Know You Anywhere, My Love by Nancy Tillman

This one is always a classic, not just on Valentine's Day. Still, it's the perfect addition to any Valentine's Day book list. Such a sweet story about the connection between parent and child.

Love Monster by Rachel Bright

Ethan and I discovered this title last year on a Valentine's Day display and instantly fell in love. It is a story we read tirelessly throughout the year, but was the first title Ethan sought out when we walked into the bookstore. It's a beautiful story of love finding you, of never losing hope, of staying true to yourself. The illustrations are gorgeous and unique and, well, we think Love Monster should be on everyone's bookshelf at home!

Do you have a favorite Valentine's Day children's book?

feet.

When Ethan was born, one of the first things I noticed was how soft his feet were. Impossibly soft. Almost unreal. As I fit his tiny newborn feet into my hands, I remarked how it didn't feel possible for a human's skin to be this soft.

At three and a half, those feet are different. They're rough and dirty and calloused. Blades of grass weaved in between toes, uneven toenails painted with mud. Those same feet are bigger now, awkwardly sized and disproportionate to the rest of his body. One day his body will catch up to those massive feet, the ones that seldom see shoes.

"Where are Ethan's shoes?" Usually in the car. They're always in the car. Ready for those places we go where shoes are mandatory, a buzzkill for Ethan who dreads these places for that very reason. These feet feel water and mud and grass and dirt under them at all times, most times, exploring the Earth below them.

This afternoon after a bath that removed mashed potatoes from the crevices in his thighs and watercolor paint from his elbows and earlobes, I took those feet into my hands again. This time to scrub them clean, but admire them all the same. How impossibly perfect they still seem.

the ones who didn't know what to say and so they said nothing

When we learned Wylie was sick, I took a hiatus from social media. This prompted concern as, on a normal day, I happily flood my social media accounts with copious amounts of Ethan photos and statuses documenting every waking moment of our day. By the third day without any new Ethan pictures being posted, the text messages, phone calls and e-mails began to come in. People were concerned, of course, but I was just trying to figure out if my baby would live or die while being shuffled around from specialist to specialist listening to them throw terms at me that I only vaguely understood. The last thing I wanted to do was ensure friends, acquaintances and neighbors that I was just fine or attempt to explain to them something that I was still trying to grasp. By the time Wylie died, I had too many voicemails to even check. At this point, people knew something was wrong and wanted to reassure me they were there for me even without knowing what happened. It's a sentiment that I am grateful for, but it all became very overwhelming. As we settled on the perfect place in our living room to set our daughter's ashes instead of easing into a routine as a new family of four, I felt smothered on top of everything else. Drowned in sympathy and, yes, support. I don't mean to appear ungrateful because it's exactly the opposite. I was and am grateful for the outpouring of support that we received. It wasn't possible to thank everyone individually and, for the most part, people understood. I bought a stack of thank you cards that I had intended to send out to everyone who had sent something to our family or made donations in Wylie's name, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. People reassured me that I was crazy to even think about thanking people who simply wanted to send us love and sunshine during this dark time and I was, again, grateful for the understanding. And then there are the people who didn't say anything at all.

Something happens in the days following loss. After the initial bombardment of support (and, let's be frank, there are people who truly care and people who simply want to know what's going on for the sake of their own nosy curiosity), the world began to feel quite empty. People asked me to call them if I needed them and, at 2 a.m. as I sat in my bed wondering if my chest was collapsing and if this is what dying felt like, I knew I needed someone but how do you decide who or what you even need? Reassurance that life goes on, sure. But how do you make that phone call? You don't. You lay in bed and watch the ceiling fan spin and realize the silence and vast emptiness of the world is haunting at best.

Sometimes, there is the silence that surprises you. It's the silence that comes from those you consider close to you. It's the silence from family members or close friends who continue to exist, Facebook shows you, but don't seem to be existing in your world. It's the silence that screams the loudest, the silence that pulls open your wounds that time is trying desperately to heal. It's the "why don't they love me?" or "why don't they care?" at three in the morning when you're so sad about so many things that you feel disoriented. It's the thought of the people you would want to call at 2 a.m. if you were going to call anyone, but the confusion that they seem to have dismissed themselves from the grieving process completely.

"People don't know what to say," my mother says. "They don't know what to say, that's all." Each time I bring up my shock, horror and heartbreak over the family member or friend who excused themselves from the time I needed them most, this is how I am reassured. Not just by my mother, but by anyone who tries to justify the silence from the sources I needed the most. People don't know what to say, I'm told, so they just don't say anything. It's supposed to make sense to the point where I'm in the wrong for letting it hurt me, where I'm in the wrong for bringing up my daughter and the tragic, painful, devastating events that led to her diagnosis and death. I'm supposed to hold it together for their comfort, of course, lest I forget that this isn't all about me but about how everyone else is coping. My grief counselor warned me about this, her hand on my wrist as I stared holes into the carpet and let the tears burn my eyes. "People are going to think this is about them, they're going to make this loss about them but it is not about them," she promised me.

People didn't always have the right thing to say, which is important to mention. The grocery bagger at Publix who awkwardly embraced me in a side hug and told me she lit a candle for me fumbled over those words. The barista at Starbucks who told me she was so sorry and would keep our family in her thoughts came up with that line on a whim, somewhere in between me ordering my coffee and her realizing that I was no longer pregnant and had no baby in my arms. The mom group acquaintances and friends from high school who exist in my life only on Facebook, well, they tried, too. They sputtered out condolences and offers of support that were sometimes awkward at best, but they said something. There was a stack of cards and letters on my dining room table for a month before I took a breath and tucked them into Wylie's box of things in her room, a stack of cards and letters so massive but none were sent from some of the people who I needed the most. I sifted through the stack daily in hopes I was wrong, in hopes I missed the letter or card from the person I so badly needed to hear from, but I was never wrong. "It's not that they don't care," my mother would assure me, "they just didn't know what to say." Anything. Say anything. Say that you care. After all, I'm not going to be grading your performance or words or sincerity and understanding. I'm likely just going to need some arms to crash into and someone to listen as I sob about the injustices of the world and other things that I couldn't fix, just as no one could fix Wylie's heart.

It's the silence of those you need, those you feel closest to in this world, that screams the loudest. It's what halts the healing process and slows it up. It's the silence of those who you need the most that pushes you further away from the support you're receiving, the support from people who are supposed to care about you less, think about you less, be there for you less than those who have spent so many years invested in you and your friendship. When a Target cashier sends me a smile and a well wish, letting me know that Wylie was on her mind today, but a beloved relative or close friend still has yet to offer condolences or speak Wylie's name, it's ten steps back in my healing journey. It's a slap in the face that sends me spiraling out of control and into a world that I'm unfamiliar with. It's a reassessment of everything I know when I'm already trying to put the pieces back together, at least enough to function.

May will be one year since we said goodbye to our daughter and with her loss came a tangled mess of reassessed relationships and confusion, of hurt and despair. Of appreciation for those whose friendships perhaps I hadn't prioritized enough. It was a reassurance to myself that I can get through despair, I can get through trauma, I can get through pain without those who I thought I relied so heavily on.

But, still, it would be nice if they said something. It would be nice if they let me see the rough draft of their thoughts, the awkward words and fumbled promises of care and support as we navigated the world without our daughter in it. It would be nice if I knew what their words sounded like, if I could at least try them on and piece myself back together with the glue of their love that had held me together for so many years up until now. Up until when I was the most broken that I have ever been.

They didn't know what to say, so they said nothing. I will always be scarred by that nothingness, no matter how my new life goes on.