two months

Today marks two months since Oliver’s death.

He was supposed to be the first of my babies to look like me. Avery looks just like Henry when he was a baby, and Henry is a spitting image of dad. But Oliver, he had a different look. I joked that it was about time one of them looked like me, since I did all the work getting them here.

I hate that I’ll never see what he looks like as he would have grown. Looking back on the photos from two months ago, I definitely see changes in Avery since then, and I can’t help but wonder what Oliver would look like now. How long would his hair be? Would it be blonde, like we thought it was starting to come in as? Would his eyes still be piercingly blue? Would he be crawling? Sitting up? Laughing and babbling, like Avery?

It feels so surreal most of the time, but right now, it feels so, so real and it hurts so badly 😦

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the first holiday without him

Today is my birthday. I know, it’s not a real holiday. But it’s a day where we get together with family (twice), and it feels like a holiday.

And wow, it’s hard. I smile, and hug my kids and my husband and my family. And I blow out the candle and make a wish. But he’s there, right in the front of my mind. I can’t stop thinking about Oliver, and how he should be HERE. I’m not supposed to be celebrating without him here with me. This isn’t right. It’s not how it was supposed to be.

How can I even fucking celebrate anything? What wish could I possibly make, other than wishing he was in my lap? Wishing I was kissing his chubby cheeks? Wishing with all of my being that I was the one who left this place rather than him.

So now I know, though. I know holidays are going to be happy on the outside, miserable on the inside. A sad undercurrent accompanying an otherwise joyful occasion.

easier, but so much more difficult

I hate that my life with kids is so much “easier” now that Oliver is gone.

Twins are fucking hard. Especially newborn twins. And a toddler. But now, things aren’t really that hard. I mean, other than having a 3.5 year old. That can be trying. But not anything like what a circus act we were, doing anything out of the house.

I want him back so badly. Each time we easily pack up and go to the store, go to an event, go anywhere, it’s a painful, gut-wrenching reminder of losing him. I desperately want to go back in time.

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It’s been one month

Dear Oliver,

It has been one month since I last saw you smile. Since I last held you close. Since I last nursed you. Since I last kissed the top of your head. Since I last squeezed your chubby thighs, stroked your cheek, tickled your chin, pinched your toes.

I have survived this past month, but I’m not sure how. It has been, at times, torturous. Grueling. So very painful that I don’t know the word to describe it.

It hasn’t been like that every second of every day, thanks to your sister and brother. They have kept us so busy. But even when they make us smile, even when the pain is lessened by an ounce, we ache for you. We miss you so much.

At night, when your sister wakes up to nurse, this is a very difficult time for me. I often sit with her on my chest, crying. Trying to keep the tears from falling on her head. I will kiss the top of her fuzzy head and pretend…wish…dream that I was kissing the top of your head. You were, after all, the one who kept me up most of every night.

I won’t be able to dream that dream much longer. It won’t work, because her hair will grow longer. And then it won’t be fuzzy, like yours was. And it won’t feel like I’m holding you.

I want both time to move quickly, and to stand still. Each month that passes, each milestone Avery reaches, is so very bittersweet. We wonder what you would be doing. How you would be interacting with her. How big you would be. If you would be rolling over, or jumping in the bouncer, or laughing and smiling nonstop, like she is. But I want time to move faster, to help ease my pain. Although, I don’t know if that will work. And something about this raw wound inexplicably makes me feel closer to you.

“I miss you” doesn’t even cover it. I ache for you. There is a part of me that is forever gone. I feel the emptiness inside. I will never be complete, I will never be full again.

My sweet boy. I can’t believe this is my reality.

With all of my love, forever and always,
Mama ❤

 

headstone inscription

Poring over poems, quotes, phrases. Trying to find something that speaks to me for an inscription on the back of Oliver’s headstone.

Fuck this. I can’t believe this is what I’m doing right now. I want to be kissing his cheeks, and changing his diaper, and lamenting about how much laundry I have to do because of his reflux.

Google searches for things like “infant headstone inscriptions” and “infant headstones” are so ridiculously painful, unfair, and miserable.

I miss him. I feel it in my heart. My clenched stomach. I want him back.

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birth certificate

I need a copy of Oliver’s birth certificate to send to the State Medical Examiner’s Office, to prove he’s my son, so they can someday release the autopsy report to me. I called the county courthouse and asked how I go about getting a copy. She asked if my son would like to come in himself and pick it up.

Cue tears.

They really aren’t that full

My hands. They aren’t that full.

They used to be full. They used to be really full. I’d have to make two trips down to the minivan (yes, we got a minivan to accommodate the gaggle of children we had) each morning before taking the twins to daycare.

I’d buckle the babies in their car seats, and leave them on the kitchen floor while I ran out to the van with the diaper bag, my purse, my water, the bag of bottles, and the keys. Then back up to the house to grab the babies, and back down to the van. Once we arrived at daycare, I’d make the trip in lugging everything at once. Carrying two infant seats, diaper bag over my shoulder, bottle cooler bag around my wrist, banging in to the canopy of the car seat that was in that same hand.

So back then, my hands were full.

Now, heading in to daycare (we moved Avery to Henry’s daycare after Oliver died), I only have one car seat, one bottle bag, and then Henry walking beside me. Yesterday morning, someone held the front door of the daycare for me and said that I had my hands full. I just gave a half smile. They should have seen me before.