7 months

We're now past the point of half a year without you.

It feels sort of unbelievable.  But it also feels like we held you a lifetime ago, Luke.

You'd be using a sippy cup by now.  You'd be eating mushy foods with your fingers.  You might have more than a few teeth.  I look at people I know or see who have babies born around the same time as you...and I'm in disbelief at how big they got so fast.

It goes so fast.

It still hurts that I'll never get to see you grow that fast.  I think about the fact that I will be doing these comparisons with other people for the rest of my life.  Oh look....there's a class of 4th graders playing on a playground.  Or seeing friends' kids get their driver's license in 2028.  I'll always find a way to tie some kids' ages back to you.

Tomorrow I turn 34 years old.  I hate saying it, because I don't necessarily feel it, but I feel like I'm old.  In comparison to other moms and women who have more complete families, I feel old.  I feel worn down and behind.  But for all the wrong reasons.  Most women my age feel run down from their children.  I feel worn down by my life without a child. 

That feeling snuck up on me fast.  Last year...I thought, well, at least I'll have 1 child before I'm 35.  And I was fine with that.  I would be fine with just having you if that's all that came to be.

But now...I hate saying that I can't be fine with that.  I wish I could say that I'd be fine if you were the only child I had in my lifetime.  But without you here, that feeling changed.  I know what it feels like to be a Mom now.  To love your child without ever getting anything in return.  But the feeling is incomplete.  Because you're gone.

Tomorrow I should be 34 years old with a 7 month old son.  

The forever-ness of this pain is hard to think about. It's duller even now, for sure, 7 months later.  But the tears still flow freely depending on the day or my mood.  I'm able to find happiness though...and I find that lately, I'm even excited about the future.  But it's hard not to think about your existence being further and further in my past.  I'm working hard on being in my present--wherever that is.  And trying to find anything good in the future.  Whether that means helping fund raise for OC Walk to Remember, making special gifts for future nieces and nephews...or celebrating your short presence.

Last month, your Dad and I went up north to visit your Auntie Ali and Uncle Andy in Portland.  We planted a whoooole bunch of trees for you with a group called Friends of Trees.  It was an absolutely amazing experience, and it felt amazing to do something so special for both you AND the Audubon Society.  You have your own special place now--and it's beautiful.  I even marked the exact GPS location with my phone...so we can always find your place--whenever we visit.  Right now, there are a whole bunch of Western Red Cedars up there in Portland that will hopefully spread their roots into the ground and grow tall just for you.   
 

Planting with Friends of Trees in Portland, OR on March 17. The sun even came out for you!

Last week it truly occurred to me that there are a lot of people in my life--both casual acquaintances and good friends--who see me, on the outside, and think I'm doing great.  The truth is that unless you've been down this shitty, terrible road personally, you can't understand the magnitude.  The reality is...I'm doing as great as I can be.  But I'm not OK.  I may smile and laugh and do my work and go out and have fun .  But I'm not who I used to be.  I wish I could be, but I can't be--Ever again.  You've changed me to the core.  I'm torn between the Old and the New Me.  In so many ways, I wish I was the Old Me, but that would mean that I never had you.

And so I'm taking the New Me and figuring out what that means.  I'm working on it, but these are some uncomfortable shoes to fill.