Eight months

My dearest Sidney,

All is not as it should be.  You should be here.  I should be charting your milestones, and posting your elephant pictures.  You might even be crawling already, which if you were like Eli, would be an army crawl, as you sneakily crept across the room.

I miss you so much.  You will always be baby Sidney.  You will never get to be anything else.  Dr. Sidney, author Sidney, or even unemployed and living at home Sidney.  I won’t ever learn anything else about your personality, and that really is not okay with me.

We have been in Kentucky all week with grandpa and your aunt and uncle.  Tomorrow, the rest of daddy’s extended family is coming in for a memorial service for grandma.  I am going to have to make small talk with them, be the upbeat and supportive wife, since I am only indirect family.  I don’t want to.  I don’t want to talk to people who I don’t know very well, if I don’t have you in my arms, if I don’t have you to proudly present to them.

I have been longing to kiss your cheek, to hold you in my arms.  This past month, your brother has been talking about you a lot more.  He immediately connected your death to grandma’s, and started asking questions again.  Then I imagined you in the outfit we had picked out to bring you home from the hospital, the outfit we ended up burying you in.  I never saw you in that outfit.  My heart broke, imagining you in the ground, in your brown and white striped pajamas with the matching hat.

Today, the third fell on a Tuesday, the same night we found out you had died, and the fourth fell on a Wednesday, the early morning in which you were born.  Your last days and your birth have been replaying in my mind.  I can’t stop it.  It is so painful, but in many ways it is all I have left of you.

I have enclosed a card that was sent for you.  We were given fifty dollars to donate in your memory.  20170104_222245

2016 ended.

Later this month, I go back to work full time.  I start teaching again.  Teaching.  I will be so visible.  I should be preparing to leave you alone, and stressing over how I will be able to pump enough breast milk for you.  Instead, I have to go back to being visible, exposed, change my routine, but not get to come home to you.  I am very anxious.

I miss you so much.  Eli told me he feels said when he sees little boys with baby siblings.  Me too.  I love you.  I miss you.  I love you.  I miss you.

I don’t know what else to say other than that you are my beautiful second son.  I will love you always and forever, and I will always be your mama.

I love you,




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