Processing the Baby Storme News While Riding Out a Real Storm

It was 2:14 AM on a Tuesday, and I was wedged between a vacuum cleaner and a giant cardboard box of winter coats in our windowless hallway closet, trying to keep a four-year-old, a two-year-old, and a four-month-old quiet while the Texas sky tried to rip our roof off. The thunder was so loud it was vibrating my teeth. I had my phone brightness turned all the way down, just mindlessly thumbing through social media in the dark to keep myself from checking the local radar for the fiftieth time, because my Etsy shop inventory was sitting in the living room and I was convinced the ceiling was about to cave in on it.

That's right about the time the algorithm decided to serve me the video from the musician Baby Storme. If you haven't been on the internet lately, she recently shared the absolutely devastating news that she lost her little boy at seven months pregnant. I just sat there in the stale, dusty air of my coat closet, smelling damp dog and old shoes, holding my three breathing, sticky, terrified children, and I started silently crying into my oldest son's unwashed hair.

The comments section makes me want to scream

I'm just gonna be real with you for a second because somebody has to say it. The way people talk to grieving mothers online—and in person, honestly—is completely out of control. I made the mistake of looking at the comments under the news articles about her, and it was a masterclass in toxic positivity. People love to drop a "God needed another angel" or "everything happens for a reason" like it's some kind of magical emotional band-aid that's going to fix the fact that a mother has to leave a hospital with an empty car seat.

Bless their hearts, I know most of these folks are just desperately uncomfortable with the concept of grief and they're trying to fill the horrible silence, but it's so damaging. When my sister had her miscarriage a few years ago, some lady at our church actually told her that at least she knew her body was capable of getting pregnant, and I swear to you I nearly caught an assault charge right there in the fellowship hall. You don't tell a grieving mother to look on the bright side. You don't try to silver-lining a stillbirth.

If you want to help someone in that situation, you basically just need to show up with a giant pan of baked ziti, take their older kids to the park so they can cry in peace, and admit out loud that the whole situation is completely unfair and awful. My Grandma Betty used to tell me that grief is just love with nowhere to go, and when you lose a baby that late in the game, your body has spent seven months physically preparing to pour all that love into a tiny person who isn't coming home. The physical and emotional wreckage of that's something you can't fix with an inspirational quote.

What my pediatrician said about tiny nervous systems

Anyway, a massive clap of thunder shook the floorboards right then, pulling me violently back to my own immediate problem, which was my oldest son starting to hyperventilate. I completely ruined that poor kid when he was a toddler because the very first time we had a bad tornado warning, I ran around the house shrieking like a banshee and throwing canned beans and important paperwork into a laundry basket. My pediatrician, Dr. Miller, actually had to sit me down at his three-year well-check and explain how badly I messed up.

From what I understood while my kid was trying to dismantle the doctor's stethoscope, little kids basically outsource their sense of safety entirely to us. Dr. Miller said that when a storm hits, the flashing strobe lights and the booming noises basically short-circuit their tiny brains, and apparently the barometric pressure dropping messes with their inner ears too, making them physically uncomfortable. Because they can't self-soothe, they look right at mom. If I'm acting like the sky is falling, he's going to believe the sky is falling, which means you've to sit there doing exaggerated, ridiculous belly breaths like a substitute yoga instructor just to trick their little bodies into calming down.

I don't even let them watch the local weather station anymore because those meteorologists use bright red maps and panicked voices just to drive up their ratings and it freaks everyone out.

The stuff that actually kept them quiet in the closet

It gets unbelievably hot in a Texas closet when you cram four sweaty bodies in there, and the baby was starting to get that angry, blotchy red flush on her cheeks. Thank goodness I had dressed her in the Organic Cotton Baby Bodysuit right after her bath. I bought a three-pack a while back because they were surprisingly budget-friendly for organic stuff, and honestly, they're my absolute favorite base layer because the material genuinely breathes instead of trapping heat like those stiff polyester ones from the big box stores. She was just chilling in her diaper and that sleeveless onesie, totally oblivious to the chaos outside, mostly just trying to eat her own toes while we waited for the wind to die down.

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My middle child, however, was starting to whine loudly enough to wake the dead. I dug around in the dark depths of my diaper bag and pulled out the Bubble Tea Teether. I'll shoot straight with y'all—this thing is a little bit bulky, and sometimes it flops right out of her mouth if she's laying too far back, but it's thick enough that she can aggressively gnaw on the textured silicone bumps when she gets stressed out. I shoved it into her hands and it bought me about twenty solid minutes of blessed silence while she chewed on it like a little beaver.

To keep the oldest from spiraling back into a panic attack, I remembered my mom's old trick of assigning a highly important job during a crisis. I solemnly named him Chief of the Flashlights. He took it so seriously he stopped crying immediately and sat up straight, pointing the beam at the wall.

Dragging furniture into the hallway

When the power finally gave up and flickered out completely around 3 AM, the darkness was too much for the baby and she started to fuss. I literally dragged our Wooden Baby Gym out of the living room and wedged it into the hallway by the glow of the flashlight. I know a wooden A-frame in a tight space sounds completely insane, but laying her under those hanging animal toys gave her something to focus on besides the noise.

It's normally just a staple in our living room because it doesn't look like a garish plastic eyesore, but the oldest kid really had a great time swinging the little wooden rings back and forth to entertain his sister. It kept them both occupied until the storm finally broke and the thunder rolled off into the distance.

We crawled out of that closet completely exhausted, sweaty, and safe. I put the kids back in their beds, walked into the kitchen to make myself a lukewarm cup of instant coffee, and thought about that poor singer again. Life is just so fragile, y'all. You spend so much time worrying about the weather, or your bank account, or if your kid is eating enough vegetables, and then you read something like that and realize none of the small stuff matters even a little bit.

Before you go stock up on batteries and bottled water for the next spring weather crisis, take a minute to look at our full lineup of sustainable, safe baby products to keep your little ones calm when things get chaotic.

Questions I usually get about storms and stress

What's a good storm job to give a toddler?

Honestly, anything that makes them feel like they're in charge of a situation they've zero control over. Chief of Flashlights is my go-to, but you can also make them the Official Pet Calmer, or the Blanket Inspector. Just give them a very serious title and a tiny task. It completely redirects their brain from panic to purpose.

How do you keep a baby from overheating in a safe room?

Closets and bathrooms get hot so fast when everyone is breathing on each other. I strip them down to just a diaper and a very thin organic cotton layer. No synthetic fabrics, no heavy sleep sacks. If the power goes out, I always keep a little battery-powered stroller fan in my emergency kit to clip onto a shelf and keep the air moving over their skin.

What should I seriously say to a friend who had a late-term loss?

Keep it painfully simple. "I'm so sorry. This is completely unfair and I love you." Don't offer unsolicited medical advice, don't bring up future pregnancies, and definitely don't use the phrase 'God's plan.' Just validate that their reality right now is absolute garbage, and then drop off food in disposable containers so they don't have to do dishes.

Do kids eventually outgrow their fear of thunder?

My pediatrician swears they do, usually by the time they hit grade school, but it really depends on how we act around them right now. If we keep modeling that a thunderstorm is just loud weather instead of an apocalyptic event, they eventually realize the loud booms aren't going to honestly hurt them. It just takes a lot of fake, deep belly breaths on our part to get them there.