In True Irish Fashion: Gone But Not Forgotten

Have you all heard about a traditional Irish Wake? Leave it to the Irish to come up with a tradition that involves “lots of food and plenty of drink to be consumed.” The body would be laid out in the deceased’s home, and family and friends “would come and socialize and remember the departed person’s life. This wasn’t a time for tears to say the least; it was more of a party than a funeral. It was the traditional Irish way of celebrating one’s life and ensuring that they had a good sendoff (information from Ancestry.com).” My own grandmother had such a wake, and what wonderful memories we all have of it. If making a point to remember loved ones who have passed away with joy, along with the sorrow, is particularly Irish, then add it to the list of the million reasons why I love that so much of my family came from the Emerald Isle. This particular Irish trait is significant to me recently, as I’ve had a deceased loved one on my mind this winter, more than usual, but in only happy ways. I lost a baby several years ago—six years and five months, to be exact. Even though I was only six weeks along, we’d already told our family and friends our happy news. Our oldest was not quite 3 years old then, and we’d told him, too. In some regards, this made the loss harder; in other ways, easier. We named the baby Ignatius. We never knew for sure if the baby was a boy or a girl, but I only ever sensed “boy,” and since I’m the baby’s mom, I figured that counted for something. As the years have passed, it’s just become accepted among our other boys that they have a brother who “died in Mommy’s tummy,” and they talk about him often. When people exclaim, “You have five boys?” one of the boys inevitably says, “We actually have six boys! One in heaven!” It melts me every time I hear that, even while I scramble to explain to the understandably confused other what it means. I should also note that sometimes the boys even say “seven boys!” because, as my seven-year-old keeps telling me, “I really hope the new baby is a girl. But I’m sure it’s a boy.” Certainly a mother never forgets her baby, but I love that my other children also keep in mind the baby that only I knew. I love that he’s remained an important part of our family. I love that his short life has provided many opportunities for us to talk about death with the boys, and life, God and heaven. I also love, in a sad and wondering way, having heard about so many other loved-and-lost babies other moms told me about when they heard of my loss. So many women have suffered through so much hope and sadness, and so many have lost multiple babies. My own mom lost two. Several others I know have lost two or three; my grandmother lost five. I know one woman who lost six and another who lost nine. As someone I know who recently suffered her first miscarriage and also experienced the outpouring of love and shared grief said, “What a crowd of beloved babies there must be, waiting and praying for us!” I know it might seem strange that this is what’s on my mind now, when we’re eagerly awaiting our sixth born baby, but a mother’s heart never stops beating for her babies, no matter how short a time they have lived and how many others she might have, and Baby Ignatius is as much my child as the others. And this Irish girl finds it easy to see the connection between life and death, this world and the next. So this is what’s been happening recently that has Baby Ignatius on my mind more than usual: Taddy, our toddler, loves Thomas the Tank Engine, so I often sing one of the theme songs to him. At the part where the song says, “Thomas, we love you,” since our oldest boy is Thomas, I add in all the other boys’ names, too. “Gabey, we love you! Johnny, we love you! Xavey, we love you! Taddy, we love you,” before ending with, “All the engines, we love you!” I’ve always done this when I’ve sung this song to the boys, adding in the new brothers’ names as they’ve come along, but it wasn’t until recently that they reminded me to add in, “New baby, we love you!” and, of course, “Baby Ignatius, we love you!” Tad just loves the song, and asks for it often, and has started singing along with me. I’ve heard him say all his brothers’ names before, of course, except for Ignatius—and how delighted I was to hear his pronunciation: “Baby Natey.” “Natey” is just the sweetest rendition of Ignatius I could think of, and how much sweeter coming from a 2-year-old. “Baby Natey,” I say sometimes now, and I love how familiar and affectionate it sounds. That’s it. That’s my big story. But it has affected me in such nice and significant ways the last couple of months. Because of it I’ve been thinking how to be remembered and loved after we’re gone is something we all hope for, and how Ignatius has that, not through anything he’s done, just because we refuse to stop remembering and loving. Six years ago I remember wondering how I could possibly ever stop crying; six years later I can see the extra joy and depth Ignatius has brought to our family. I came across an Irish prayer recently that had this lovely part in it: May God give you—for every storm, a rainbow; for every tear, a smile; for every care, a promise; and a blessing in each trial. These are my hopes for all of you on this St. Patrick’s Day! Kate Towne Sherwin is a stay-at-home mom (SAHM) living in Saratoga Springs with her husband and their sons Thomas (9), Gabriel (7), John Dominic (5), Xavier (4) and Thaddeus (2); they expect their sixth baby in spring 2014. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..