Today, it’s been two months. Two months since we held you, kissed you, read to you, told you that we love you. Two months since you were in our arms. Two months since I held your perfect little hand, desperately wishing you would squeeze back. Two months since you were born still into this world. This beautiful, cruel world.
If you were here with us now, you might be starting to smile. You’d probably always be hungry and I’d be juggling breastfeeding you and stopping your brother from climbing on things he shouldn’t (which is just about everything). It’s cold today, so I’d be dressing you in one of those warm fleece outfits I bought you. You might finally be fitting into your 3 month clothes at this point. We’d be setting you up next to the chalkboard that says “2 months” and we’d marvel at how big you’d gotten, how much you had changed already.
We might be thinking about moving you from the pack n play in our room to your own crib in own bedroom. I’d start throwing on an extra layer to get out of bed to come to your room in the middle of the night. I’d probably be reminding myself to enjoy those quiet moments with you, while everyone else was sleeping, reminding myself that this too shall pass and I’ll miss the moments when it was just you and me in the dark and the quiet. I’d be reminding myself of that because I’d be so sleep-deprived, and your mama has always liked her sleep. But you’d be worth it.
I often find myself still completely shocked that this is my life. That this is my life without you. That you’re not here, no matter how much I wish you were. That you’re not here no matter how much research I do, no matter how much I try to figure out where we went wrong. That you’re never coming back, no matter how much I dream of that.
Instead, we light a candle for you every night at dinner. And while Ben starts throwing his food, your dad and I stare at that candle. And miss you like crazy. And wish, wish, wish, wish that things were different.
This morning while dropping Ben off in his room, a baby was screaming in the infant room. “Baby?” Ben said and pointed at the door. I keep thinking my heart can’t be any more broken. But these moments hurt my broken heart more than I could ever imagine.
I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know how to continue living. I don’t know how to leave your brother at daycare when he’s crying. I don’t know how to go to work and do my job. I don’t know how to think about anything but you.
I don’t know how to think ahead, about trying again, when it’s the scariest thing I could possibly imagine but also perhaps the most hopeful.
I don’t know where to go from here.
I remind myself one day at a time, one moment at a time. I miss you like crazy. I wish you were here. And I’m so, so sorry.
I love you,