Teaching and Tears

So, I've grown pretty strong since Caitlin's death. I carry my grief pretty well. But these last several days have kicked my butt. I begin with my economic stimulus plan day, then the holding a baby day, then ignorant-unthinking hurtful comment day (I didn't write about this one at length, but will as soon as I make sense of what happened), then Phoebe Snow story day, and then a brief hibernation (literally, we had a snow day), and finally today--the day of teaching and tears.

During a lecture that I've delivered a hundred times about the importance of singing to infants, I tear up in class. I see Caitlin in my arms. I hear our songs. I feel that hope that physically hurts me--the hope that she live, that she gets better, that we get to bring her home. It was all so sudden and extreme that I tears welled, and I had to turn away from the class. I choked out more of the lecture until it passes enough to go on. But the rest of the lecture offered more outward evidence of my grief, the stuttering and the slumped shoulders of defeat.

I am sick of the snow here, but long for a cave of quiet to hibernate until spring truly decides to join us.

[And in my cave would be a video phone with a direct line to my parents, because I owe them a phone call and I feel so crappy guilty about it, and yet in my state, I can't bring myself to call anyone. It just feels like I suck as a daughter, you'd think bereaved mother of a daughter would know better! Love you mom and dad. I'll call soon.]