I'm finding a place lately

where I think that I'm finally accepting your death, and finally accepting that I will have no babies.

For a long time, I just missed you. I didn't want to have another baby, I just wanted you to be alive, and for me to be able to give birth to you, and for me to be able to raise you. I still want that. But I am getting to that place, it's starting to be long enough ago, that I can accept that it can't/won't happen.

And then of course, there have been more babies. Many of my friends, and even my sister, has had a baby since you left. That was hard. Sometimes, it really, really, really hurt. It seemed so unfair. And after you had been gone a year, there was a bit of a change, where I found myself missing you, but also just wanting to have a baby. There was such a hole in my heart from where you left, and it was just so hard and sad to end my childbearing days with your loss. I didn't want it to end that way. I really wanted to have another child. I had always wanted to have four children. And so many people had at least four children. Why couldn't it be me?? But every time I thought about it, I also thought how it couldn't happen. I was almost 42 when you left. I'm 43 now. Things are not the same in many, many things in my life, and there are reasons that I just cannot have another child. And there are reasons that I can't adopt. I knew in my head that I would not have another child, but it was still a struggle every day. And now, I'm finally beginning to accept that it can't/won't happen.

And I'm not completely over it. I probably never will be. But eighteen months later, I'm coming to a place. One where I'm still sad about it, still think about you every day, but to a place where I can go to the store without tearing up when I see a large family. A place where I don't think about when a baby would be due if I got pregnant this week. A place where I am able to spend a little more time appreciating my children on earth. A time where it feels o.k. to remember you without being overcome and unable to function. A time when I can get you a pumpkin for Halloween and make you an ornament for Christmas, but that I don't feel SO sad about that you aren't here to share the holiday that I am unable to really enjoy the holiday.

But I will always remember you. Don't worry that one day that I'll come to a place where I have forgotten you. I will never reach that place.

It was the 2nd Walk I've gone to since you left . . .

October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Rememberance Day. Well, I remember you every day, of course, but ever since you died, I've tried to go to the Walk to Remember sponsored by the Pregnancy and Infant Grief Support Group offered through my local hospital. I've attended the group a few times over the years - a few times after my loss in 2006, and for a year after you died. But I knew that I would be there for the Walk, and it was held today.

For the Walk to Remember, parents, children, grandparents, friends, all put signs on their back that have the name of the child that they are remembering and each of us carry a balloon. I went, and I took your brother and sisters. We walked for about a half a mile - mostly on a trail that goes all the way through town. We stopped at a clearing and the leaders read the names of the children that we were remembering. And then we released the balloons. It always make me cry, and today it was no exception.

Then we walked back to the hospital garden, just off the chapel. We listened to a lovely song called "Remember Me", and then people read poems and thoughts. Your sister, the one who would have been 6 1/2 years older than you wanted to say a poem but she was too scared, so she whispered it in my ear and then I said it. I cried through most of it. It is simple, but sweet.

Christopher, oh, Christopher.
How I wish I could see you.
Christopher.
I know you are in heaven.
I'll always love you.

We all love you. And miss you. And remember you.

Every day.