Three months

I don't know if it's because I'm mourning the death of my baby, and with babies we measure age in weeks obsessively, but I count weeks since our son's death just as I would had he lived. One week. Two weeks. One month. Two months. And here, today, it is three months since George Patrick Andrew slipped away quietly in my womb while I laboured, peacefully unaware at first that we would all be saying hello and good bye that 19th of May.

One day at a time, we've come through June, July, and now into August without this sweet baby. I have had moments of despair and moments of peaceful acceptance. We've cried together, I've cried alone, and we've laughed always because we're kind of a nutty bunch in this family.

Today, well after I am able to finally fall asleep and then drag myself up when my husband leaves for work because I'm now a little crazed about always saying good bye and telling him I love him when he leaves for his commute, today I will try to be happy that we had George for even such a short while. I will listen to the songs my husband selected for a CD in George's memory, probably over and over and over. The children and I will read, We were going to have a baby, but we had an angel instead. And I'll read Love You Forever by Robert Munsch because I can't say better than he did for his stillborn babies: "I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be."

No doubt we'll laugh. We'll cry. And we'll spill something at the table because that always happens (but it's okay; if you make a mess, you clean it up - unless you're the puppy because then the people have to clean up for you because, well, Albert is just too goofy).