Rainbow babies. That’s what people call them. They are the babies born after the storm of the loss of a child. I’m not a huge fan of this term. It seems like a lot of pressure, being a family’s rainbow. But there are times that I don’t know what other term to use. Like yesterday.
Paula is in town. We met up for dinner. All of us. And our rainbow babies got to meet each other for the first time.
“Do you sometimes find yourself calling her Sofia?” she whispered to me, not wanting her daughter, husband, mother to hear.
“Oh, yeah. It used to happen all the time,” I said.
“Oh, thank God!” she sighed. “I’m not crazy.”
“You’re not crazy,” my mom reassured her.
I’m also grateful that Anna and Julian will have each other. I can imagine a future in which one texts the other to complain about being called by the wrong name. Again.
It was a dinner in which there was a rainbow after the storm of the past two years of our lives. We swapped babies. Our mothers held both as well. We talked babies and life.
It was a rainbow day, and our babies were rainbows without having to try.