Your mama is grumpy again, little man. Even on days when it feels as if everything is falling together, even on those days, it isn’t enough.
I ordered flower seeds for the backyard. I ordered bluebonnets, though I heard they may not grow here. You should be sitting in bluebonnets, learning to grasp things; starting to smile and hearing me read. I should be reading to you.
I’ve been hearing the lines from that Dr. Seuss book, the one that I did read on the day of your funeral. I’ve been telling myself I’m not afraid. “I said and I said and I said those words. I said them, but I lied them.”
Of course I’m scared. There’s nothing safe. There’s nothing left to hide me. There’s nothing I can point to to say, just keep that away. Just don’t eat red meat, just don’t drink caffeine. Just listen for 10 movements in an hour; he will be fine. I feel these fears now, feel this overpowering need, and I haven’t even started trying.
Your mama is grumpy, little man, and part of it is that this isn’t a conversation I should even be having with you. I shouldn’t be thinking about having another child and things like my age. I should be holding you, introducing you to apple slices. You should be here.
And I feel like this will always be an issue, that I cannot heal without your sibling, but I already love him or her too. None of this is simple. You are both a part of me.
When people ask me about you, I tell them that you are the most beautiful part of my life. I am both ready and terrified for someone to share that with you.
I love you.