Crisp air and falling leaves and all of the Autumn-weather fun, but one special person is missing. This baby loss remembrance print helps to honor and share about your deceased child(ren) this Autumn.
Alternate reality or what could have been
Snowballs and sledding and all of the mid-winter fun, but one person’s snowman is missing. This baby loss remembrance print helps to honor and share about your deceased child(ren) this Winter.
There are stockings missing this Christmas; voices missing in this house. There are memories we should be making, and more cheer shared around the tree. This baby loss remembrance print helps to honor all deceased child(ren) missing during the holiday season.
I wonder who you would have dressed up as this year—Baby loss Halloween remembrance (5″ x 7″ printable)
When a child dies, we don’t just lose them; we also lose the memories we missed making with them. If you find yourself wondering what your child would have dressed as for Halloween this year, this baby loss remembrance print is for you.
Autumn brings so many memories; among them are campfires, pinecones, and dancing in fallen leaves. These are some of the many memories missing when a child is no longer here. This print can help to honor and remember your deceased child this season.
Every fall, parents take photos of their children, fresh clothes and backpacks in hand, heading back to school. When a child is deceased, things look a little different, but they can still be included. Use these first-day-of-school graphics to share about your child and where they would and should be this year.
Every fall, parents take photos of their children, fresh clothes and backpacks in hand, heading back to school. When a child is deceased, things look a little different, but they can still be included. Download and print these back-to-school graphics to share about your child and where they should be this year.
How might we celebrate our deceased childrens’ birthdays if they were still here? Having a large party? Going to the beach? These are just some of the things we are permanently missing, both on their birthdays and always.
What do you wonder about when you think about your deceased child? Is it the color of their eyes? What profession they would have chosen? What their favorite color or toy or food would be? Do you imagine these things today, or do you find pleasure in the wondering?
It’s common to imagine or dream about the life that could or should have been. What do you imagine? Would you like to go back in time and somehow prevent the death of your child? Do you think about future events that will get to be? Or does your imagination touch on different places? How do you feels about these dreams?
One of the hardest parts of losing a child in their youth is all of the memories that never got to be. What memories are you missing with your deceased child? What dreams did you have for them that you didn’t get to see? What moment aches the most when you realize it will forever be missing?
My son Adrian would have been starting preschool this year. This experience is yet one more of the things that stillbirth stole from our family. What about your child?
As bereaved parents, it’s natural to think about the lives our children would have lived. My son would have been a preschooler this year; what about your child?
My daughter crawled into my lap the other day, grabbed my hand and wrapped it around her. And I realize in the years since the death of my son, what I miss most is this; this thing that hadn’t happened yet. This scent of life and normality. He deserved this too.
June is an intense month for me, because each June, I remember what it’s like to go in for a routine examination and be told my child has no heartbeat. My greatest wish for the world today is to understand the power of GENUINELY informed consent.
And for the longest time, I couldn’t cry. And for the longest time I couldn’t cry about you. And then today, and it feels almost out of nowhere. Like it’s a full body memory, and I realized I still miss you. I’ve never stopped missing you.
Almost three years ago, we both were pregnant. I didn’t realize at the time how closely we aligned. I think I thought about saying something then, but I didn’t. No excuses this time. And then your son was born, and my son died.
I haven’t written, lately, because words have felt hard. I haven’t written, lately, because my attention hasn’t been focused on you. And I want to apologize, because I remember those early days when I thought I would never stop thinking about you.
12 months ago, I was in labor. 12 months ago, you were preparing to be born. And this moment will always live in my memories.
The first night I left the house after Alexis* left, I was in a daze. I had walked these streets playing Pokemon Go not even that long ago. It felt like another lifetime.
I got called a mom today. I was with someone else’s kids, and the waiter asked me if the youngest could have another soda. “Is it okay with mom?” Pieces of normality…
I finally looked up the plot line of “It’s a Wonderful Life”. Ironic that the story seems applicable to me. Ironic that I judged something that now feels maybe powerful.
Without you, I live in a world of unwanted freedom. I live in a world where I can pack up and head to Tahoe on a random weekend, but none of this is enough. So much of this feels empty.
I think a lot about the day you were due. I think about how different our lives would be.
I think about “moving forward”. I think about “trying again”. These words are hurtful. These words feel like I’m trying to replace you. It isn’t possible to replace you.
I’ve told people that I feel more awake now, more present. I think I’m only now beginning to understand what this fork in our road means.
When I think of thankfulness, all I can think of is the time I had with you. The whispered conversations. The whoosh of your first movements. The tactile knowledge of your hands, and your face, and your very active feet.
You made me a mother, and my arms ache without you. So I carry your elephant, and I wish you were here, and I think about the crazy duality of this year.
It will never be okay that you’re gone.
I would give up everything to have you here.