SIX.

Six years seems like...a LOT.

A lot of years. Past one. Past three. Past FIVE.

So much time, that when I came back to this place--The blog that I write to you at? The background widget I used was gone. I found it on some free website back in 2012. And six years later, the host had taken down their page--it just disappeared.

Just like your heartbeat did six years ago.

I feel like I’ve said all the words that have ever been said about loss and life and grief here. And yet I still keep coming back. I think that’s the thing that I hope people understand. That somehow, through years and life and sadness and happiness, you will still always be mine, Luke. But there will never be “getting over” this. It will never be fixed. When trauma strikes you, you’re changed. There is no going back. So what was left of me—of us—from that day six years ago? I like to think that I’ve come a long way. We’ve built a family—one that will always include you. You were first, and without you, there is no Us.

Our family is made of five of us. You were the first.

It’s grief season for me. I can feel the start of September in my bones now. I wonder if it would be so pronounced if you’d have been born in the neverending heat of summer? The change in seasons signals the change I went through—The season that came when everything I thought I had had fallen apart. The marked end of summer marks the end of our time together—every year—and when the sun starts turning a golden yellow and the leaves start falling from the trees, I revisit the first hours and days and weeks and months I spent without you. Everything feels more settled now. Maybe more numb. These feelings come yearly and I know what they feel like. The pain is less blunt now. I know it will always be there—the hole you left in my heart. No one should have to make birthday cakes for their dead children. You never think you’ll be that person until suddenly, you are.

On this day six years ago, I knew it was the beginning of a new season of my life— with our first baby. The season that changes everything. And now, six years later, I feel like I’m on the start of the next season. The baby things are gone now—the girls are kids. The baby stage is over, along with the pregnancies and births. And I’m relieved. I know there are endless possibilities of more heartache to be had in life—but to have survived this much so far...it’s a relief.

I still look for signs that you're still with us, somehow. Tonight, we got one. We took the girls to dinner, and as we climbed back in the car, the radio turned on. It was on Pearl Jam radio (it's not necessarily locked there in my car like it is in Daddy's car...) and Light Years was playing. The song we printed in your funeral program The song that...says everything we feel. It's not a song that gets that much play., especially when it comes to their live shows that get played. But there it was. There you were.

I still wish I didn't have to look for instances of your presence...I still wish you were here--that you made it. I don't think that's ever going to be different. But I can see the beauty you brought us in life. Without you, there would be no Lena or Lainey. I would never have connected with so many of my favorite mamas in the world. Women I wish I never met and yet am so glad I know now. What a strange situation to find friendship in...

Anyway. I'm sharing a pic of the three of us from the day we finally saw your face, six year ago. We don't have many pictures of you that don't scream "death", but this is one of you and me and Daddy that shows exactly what it felt like, meeting you. A satisfaction that labor was finally over and we did it. And a sadness...a thick veil...on both of our faces. A resignation that this was real. You can see both of us wishing that this wasn't the end. I think I still make this face when I think of you. These were the first minutes of our life without you. Six years later, I can still take myself back to this scene and the tears still fall.

I'm so proud to be your mama, Luke. But I'm still so sad that I'll always have tears left to cry for you.

Firsts

These girls.

This week we hads two big first days in our house. Lena’s first day at her elementary school in preppy-k, and Lainey’s first day at preschool.

I’m not one of those parents you’ll see crying as I push my kids into their classroom, bemoaning their loss of little-ness. There is nothing I want to see more than for them to grow. Grow up, girls. Become who you were meant to be. See the world for yourself and learn and laugh and love.

I will always be here. Waiting to hear about it. Watching you misstep and succeed and everything in-between. I’m your biggest supporter and I hope you always know that.

And I hope that you always know that as much as I miss your brother and all the life he never got to live, I will never expect you to fill that hole in our lives. You are who you are. Your futures are yours and yours alone. You were never meant to fill his shoes, and your lives are yours.

I will never feel sad watching you grow up. Not for one minute. I’m sure I’ll miss your baby-mess sometimes. I already miss Lena calling strawberries “strawbabies.” I know I’ll miss Lainey telling Lena “You know better, Weena!” whenever Lena does something mean to her. But every minute spent here on this earth with both of you is a minute that I didn't get to spend with Luke. As life keeps going, and we keep getting further and further away from our last day spent together, I realize that the time I have with you both is precious. This life is ours to live and love, together.

Today would have been Luke's first day of Kindergarten. Another milestone that he never reached that still hurts my heart. These milestones with the girls...they mean so much to me. When you know what it means to have these taken away, those visions of how life was supposed to be, there's something about finally reaching them. Their big-ness takes on...more big-ness. More depth and more meaning.

I think sometimes I try to harden myself to these types of things...but the depth of missing Luke is something that comes with any potential milestone. It won’t ever be different because babies are supposed to hit milestones for their parents. Baby milestones. Toddler milestones. School milestones and adult milestones.

Now?  Always. Missing. No more milestones.

I’m not sure most people realize the gravity of that sort of finality that exists when parents lose a child.

So the sweetness of these milestones? They might be sweeter for me. I fought so hard to still get to have them. They’re bittersweet sometimes, but sweet for sure.