Suffer the little children; trying to comfort the older sibs

My heart feels completely wrung out after church today. We sat in the children's room so that the younger two can putter about without disturbing other churchgoers. The downside is, of course, that the room is full of newborn babies and babes in arms as well as toddlers and preschoolers. My children were getting settled in (that's a nice way of saying they were fighting over seats, kneelers, and hymn books) as a family came in after us with a newborn baby in a carseat.

My Morris, who is five, turned to watch as several other families exclaimed their congratulations to the family with their new baby. He watched as other mothers fussed over the proud new big sister, who was about his age. And he watched, so intently, as the mother of the newborn lovingly picked up her baby and showed him off. And he turned to me and burst into sudden tears.

It absolutely and completely broke what's left of my raggedy old heart. To see my child so heartbroken as he watched this vignette of happy family life just hurt so badly because there's nothing I can do except cry with him and try to love him through his grief. He sobbed in my arms and started to ask about his brother. It hurts me to watch other mothers cradling their babies, too, I whispered to him. I know I'm blessed to have all of you, I told him gently, but we all miss George. And we're going to miss him.

He leaned against me, crying quietly. My mind races at what to say: What helps? What will hurt more? How much does he understand? We've all been robbed of that baby bliss of warm little cuddles, soft downy hair, and that lovely newborn smell. But if, as the adult, I'm struggling with feelings of envy and anger, how on earth do I help a five-year-old boy articulate his own passionate feelings?

"Where's the bear we put in his coffin? Where are the Lego guys?" he asked me and his concern that his baby be happy and have toys was overwhelming him. "I want a picture. Can I see my baby? I want to see him."

I tried to soothe him quietly and pulled out a lovely photo of our George from my backpack. He held it, tears streaming down his little face. At this point, my oldest son Gerard gently put his arm on his little brother's back. The next in line, seven-year-old Daniel, was embarrassed that the people around us were listening quietly to us rather than to the Mass that had started by this time. He hissed at Morris to stop crying over baby George. "It's been a few months now. Stop crying. Stop it."

I'm guessing here, but I think my Danno was trying really hard not to give in to tears himself. He is the quietest of all the children with his feelings and I've watched him act up more than express the strong emotions I know he's weathering. I know he was embarrassed to have Morris make such a spectacle but I also know that he's suddenly decided that he wants to be brave and big, which he equates to not crying. Even though he's seen grown men cry at our baby's funeral and both my husband and I have assured the boys that it's normal for everyone to cry when they're sad. He wants to be strong and stoic and not stand out.

By this time, Morris being so sad and me crying started my wee girl sobbing, and she and Morris cuddled in close to me. Gerard, as the elder brother, punched Daniel in the arm and ordered him to stop being so mean. Because of course brothers can be rather rough in the ways they express themselves to one another! Even if their parents don't use corporal punishment. And we remind them all the time that our family is a no hitting family. Sigh.

And there I was, trying hard to keep it together, tears streaming down my face and watching these four little people all dealing with their own grief and these horrible raw emotions. "It's okay. It's okay," I said. "We're going to be sad, and it's okay to be sad. We are sad that George died. Some of us will feel like crying and some of us won't, but it's all okay."

It was at this moment Morris gave us the old left hook verbally and had all the adults around us crying. He looked at me, his blue eyes widening with desperation, and asked with a deep breath, "Mummy, if I stop eating and I die, can I go and see our baby George in heaven and hold him again?"

Not a dry eye in the house. And no words to express how deeply sorry I am that my children have lost their baby brother, like my failure to keep this baby alive at birth has forced them to experience this despair. He's been told by so many strangers and friends that George is in a "better place" and how magnificently wonderful heaven is that Morris now wants to join George there. This isn't the first time he's decided maybe he can go and visit the baby in heaven, because of course at five no matter how often we discuss the baby's death, Morris doesn't entirely understand the permanence of being dead.

I hugged him tightly to me and said, "George is happy and with all the family members who've gone before us. Your place is here with us until it's your time - you cannot make yourself go to heaven. Right now Mumma and everyone else need you to love right here."