Kaila Mugford

When I write, I'm very deliberate with my words. I'm painting a picture with vocabulary, invoking emotion through little squiggles on a screen. People regularly thank me for my rawness and honesty. They tell me I am strong and they are grateful for my words because in some ways they help them love others better. My friend circle, my faith circle, they fill my bucket with words of affirmation. I will always be thankful for this safe place to share my real-time raw feelings as we go about this journey of grieving half of our children. Always thankful. I wrote the most vulnerable piece I've ever written last Friday .  I read many of the comments. Not all, but many. Some got pretty ugly...and I had to skim right on by. Other comments and shares, I saved. Not to be creepy, not because I know them. But because they'd experienced healing because of my words.  Some were forced to take a step back from the black and white that paints their worlds. ...a

Imagine that you're holding your baby. Gently, carefully, making sure nothing happens to him. Imagine all the dreams you've wished for him. Think about how dearly you love him. How your heart might explode. Then imagine taking a polishing rag. Dusting him off. And setting him back on your shelf. I think sometimes it's easy to think of our babies gone on to Heaven in the abstract. They're not really here, they weren't here that long...and they're nothing like the ones running around the house now. Few people met them. Fewer people think of them most days. All of that is understandable. I get it; I do. I don't fault a single person for not having my boys at the forefront of their minds (my goodness, Mira and Edward keep me busy enough that they are not always  at the forefront of my own.) But then some days, the gravity of it all hits me. My perfect, sweet, beautiful boys. I dust them. I worry that when their brother and sister run arou

I've never been one to enjoy sleep. I know, I'm in the minority here. I abhorred napping my entire life (just ask my mother), and I never understood why anyone would ever want to waste time in the afternoon with their eyes closed. I never drank coffee, (Edward changed that for me) but even when I started the coffee, I still never napped. Until last May. I've absolutely needed regular naps since Gabriel died. My brain has refused to function without more sleep. Grieving takes an immense amount of energy that no amount of coffee can fix. I've learned that I don't hate naps anymore. In fact, they connect my heart to a little bit of Heaven. Shortly after lunch almost every day of the week, I tell Edward, Okay buddy, it's time to go upstairs. Every day, he responds, "NO! I don't yike it." I know, but we need to go. We need rest. Do you want me to carry you? "Yeah. Caywehyou. Pee Peese?" We lay down in my bed, and I grab the b