Signs

With a nudge from our rabbi via our cantor (who happens to be one of my favorite people and closest friends) we ended up at the congregational potluck dinner last night. And the craft activity beforehand.

I was hesitant to go; I was bracing myself for a "so did you finally have that baby?" question from an unknowing person.  Its already played out at my front door, from well-meaning neighbors. I'm not sure if it will ever get any easier to say it, but the reactions are like reliving it again. The confusion, panic and denial all rolled up into five seconds of explanation. It's not anyone's fault, but it's not like they make those signs to go across your door as a heads-up.  Beware of dog. Private well.  Grieving family. Dead baby.

We did okay. Thanks to a few years of playgroup, my kids are ridiculously comfortable at the synagogue.  They run off with their friends and the other parents always look out for each other's families. There's a sense of collective responsibility.

I thought about not going. Hiding. And the came to the conclusion that not much would be different between this Friday night and another Friday night.  I'd still be the woman who lost a baby. And it reminded me strikingly of the same realization I came to when I was reading from the bima during my bat mitzvah.  Looking at all those people, feeling nervous?  Hey wait... I already know them. They know me. Its really not such a big deal what happens now because there's no turning back.