I woke up early this morning because, for whatever reason, my bladder seems to be under the impression that your little skull is still resting on it. Your daddy was already awake, blowing up video game tanks with his video game tank.
We gave each other a big hug like we do every morning. Then your dad said, "I know. Wait there."
He grabbed a bunch of blankets and went into the front room, and we snuggled up on the couch. Your dad said he'd never lived anywhere with a window that faced east before, and then we sat and watched the sky turn pink, saw the small clouds passing by warmed by the gold of the new sun.
I thought for one second about what that moment would have been like if you'd lived, if I had been holding you as the sun rose. If you had lived, you would never have been able to see the sun, to even know what a color was. I let the thought of you drift off and cried into your daddy's shirt for a while.
I don't think I have ever loved your dad more than I did right then, as we looked out at the sleepy world through our window. I don't know how I could have made it through all of this without him.
Yesterday, he had to tell two people about losing you. One was a lawn care client who was complaining that her tree and shrub treatment was late because some guy at work was out sick. Your dad explained that he was the one who had been out, and that it was because his baby had died. Apparently, she didn't complain any more after that.
The receptionist at the dentist's office asked if we'd found out if you were a boy or a girl. (Your dad had a dentist's appointment the morning before your ultrasound. I guess he was so excited he'd been telling everybody.) He had to explain that you were a little boy, and that you weren't here anymore.
I have no idea how where he gets his strength from. I can't even get through writing you a letter without crying the whole time.
We were both convinced that you were a little girl, but he had contingency plans in case you were a boy. He wanted to teach you how to play tennis and be your troop leader for Boy Scouts. He would have been a wonderful father to you.
Your grandma and grandpa are coming to visit from Pennsylvania today. I did some normal things after your dad went to work; I needed to prove to myself that I could go out into the world without falling apart.
I went to the store and bought some cheese to make a lasagna so your grandma won't spend the entire time cooking like she usually does when she visits. I stopped and bought a coffee with a pile of whipped cream on top. I went to the bank and deposited a check your grandma sent me for Mother's Day to help me buy a mattress for your crib. When I saw the word "mattress" on the check, I cried again.
I haven't been in your room since we lost you. Your daddy closed the door so I wouldn't have to look at your empty crib or the cute little safari crib set that Aunt Erin bought for you. I think he put your memory box in there, though, so I probably have to go in later today so that grandma and grandpa can see your pictures.
I guess this must be something that most hospitals do for parents when they lose their babies. They told your dad at the hospital that they don't like to send anyone home empty-handed.
They dressed you up in a cute little outfit and took your picture. The one they took of your hands is blurry so that I can't see your extra little fingers very well. In the box with the pictures are little blue prints of your feet, and the blanket and outfit that they gave you.
As much as I don't want to look at that box, I know it's the closest I'll ever come to holding my little boy again. And I'm glad, too, that I have some part of you to share with my parents. I know how much they love and miss you, too.
Love,
Mom
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