Six

Everyone slept in today. Elizabeth stirred around 6 and then settled back and so did I. I woke with a start at 7:30 and hurried up to get started with the morning. I felt beat up. I felt old. Everything tired and dragging.

Elizabeth Mitchell in the car.
Egg sandwich for breakfast.
Gardening in the rain.
Cemetery and chocolate cupcakes.
Six.
Six.

This birthday snuck up on me. I knew it was coming. But I have a deadline at the end of the week and I've been finagling my schedule around this day that I take off even if I don't do anything. Yesterday, I kept needing the date for a check I was writing and a tracking sheet for my project, and I kept having to check, even though it was the day before this date I can't forget.

I have been feeling stronger, but today I just feel beat up. Six years ago right now, I was in a hospital bed. Henry had, I believe already been transferred to the other hospital. Our dreams had already cracked but we had no idea what the road looked like ahead, how those cracks would keep spreading and everything would finally shatter. Six years ago today, Henry had been born, but in some ways, I was still waiting to meet my baby.

Six.

Brian went to our friends' weekly potluck last night. I haven't gone in months because it's too late for Kathleen on a school night. They celebrated a six-year-old's birthday, the little boy born just days before Henry, the one I ran into at the hospital, his mom back for a lactation consult while I was waiting for to get released to see my own baby. I'm glad I didn't have to see six in action last night.

Six.

I should have been bringing those cupcakes to his kindergarten class today. Kathleen has been peppering me every night recently with ideas for her birthday party. I have been impatient with them, coming as they do in a flood at bed time. "Just go to sleep. Your birthday is far away. We have lots of time to plan." Maybe I've been impatient too because I should have been planning a party now, cake and games and favors. Would he have liked dinosaurs or trains or animals or sports? Would he have wanted a pirate party or a farm theme? Pin the tail or pinata?

We had chocolate cupcakes with chocolate frosting and sprinkles at Kathleen's request. She picked a gorgeous red gerbera daisy to put in his garden and helped me plant it today. My babies, two, four, six.

Six

Layers

A few months after Henry died, Brian and I drove to Boston every other week  for a grief group. One of the images that stuck with was the layers of the onion. We kept peeling away those layers of grief—all the little letting goes, the fears, the traumas one after another after another, all the hurts that piled up afterward—layer after layer after layer I peeled it away. And like an onion, all those layers all made me cry.

That image came back to me today at church. We were sitting up front for a change and I kept looking at the baptismal font right in front of us. Before Kathleen was born, I would well up just looking at it, remembering that he had been here and now he's not. Today, I remembered Henry's baptism. And Kathleen's. And Elizabeth's. I did not cry. Time healing old wounds? New skin grown over the sensitive spot in my heart? Perhaps. But today, what it felt like was that I have been adding layers to our story instead of just peeling them away, new layers that soften the jagged edges.

His birthday is Wednesday, and I may find that I don't have as many layers as I think I do or that they all fall away too easily. I may find myself crying over my onion again. Or I may grow another layer on my story.

May

Six years ago I was getting ready for this little being I didn't yet know as Henry to be born. I knew there was a small hole in his heart, and yet I wasn't freaking out. Otherwise, all was well. I felt great. The house was chaotic as Brian tried to finish up the painting projects we had begun before I got pregnant, but the glider was up in his room, a few clothes were washed and ready.

I was busy digging in my garden, trying to get things planted. I didn't expect to have much time to work in the garden, but lettuce and tomatoes would do their own thing if I could get them in. I think of this in flashes, remembering squatting, moving around my belly as I worked. I remember my simple expectation as I get my garden ready this year. And here's the thing: I still believe.

I still believe that my work will pay off even though unforeseen circumstances could pull me away from home come July or August or September as the bounty really begins to flow; we could get late blight on the tomatoes again this year or drought could shrivel up my plants or a late freeze could kill them before they begin to thrive. Squirrels will undoubtedly get the peaches from Henry's tree long before they are ripe. I don't think about what could go wrong when I'm out there digging and moving compost and spreading ash. I don't worry the what ifs while I sprinkle seeds or wield the hose while Kathleen flaps about the yard with the rhododendron branches I pruned recently. I dream. I look at where I might shift and expand. I try to figure out where to put a new strawberry patch next year and where to finally start asparagus. I contemplate fruit trees and blueberry bushes and how they fit in with dog runs and clothes lines and open space for play.

I see the magic in the rhubarb that is already humongous and the chives that greened up before anything else and the cilantro that seeded itself for me and is ready to use now. I see the wonder as little bits of green poke up where weeks, days I ago I planted seed. I, who am usually so linear and organized and planful, can't seem to finish prepping a particular section because there is so much work to be done and I see so much potential. I have new energy. It's been growing in me, and maybe I've talked about it before. I am refilling after the complete and utter wring out of early grief. I am refilling after the needs of the early days of mothering my girls. I am refilling by claiming a little time and space for me to run and write and dig in the dirt.

I am not thinking ahead to the rest of May, to Mother's Day and Henry's birthday, except to think about what I will get for his garden this year. His birthday isn't easy, even separated from the day he died by several months, but somehow, part of what I relive right now is the anticipation, of him and a garden of vegetables, this time of joyful waiting and wonder.

My 30s

Today is the last day of my 30s.
Turning 40 doesn't phase me much. The weirdest thing is that I remember quite clearly when my mom turned 40. I was in high school—my kids aren't in preschool yet.

It's the last day of my 30s, which made me think back on this past decade and just how much has happened: I met Brian, got married, had a baby, learned more about various kinds of pediatric ICUs that I ever wanted to know, said good-bye to and buried a baby, had two more babies, watched them grow. Maybe it's not how much happened, but how momentous those each of those things were. The last half of the decade was particularly jammed-packed.

Maybe my 40s will be easier? slower? Probably not, I don't think life really works that way. Gentler, maybe? That might be nice.

I turn 40 tomorrow. The 40 celebrations I've allotted myself have already started and will continue. I turn 40 tomorrow. Feel free to use that as an excuse to enjoy cake or ice cream or to raise a glass of the libation of your choice.

Five and the Best Laid Plans

My plan for the day:
family breakfast of fried egg sandwiches
listen to You Are My Little Bird in the morning
plant flowers at his grave
work in Henry's garden today
have cupcakes with friends

This morning Brian stayed in bed after being up late with a feverish Elizabeth. I was leaving early to get Elizabeth to the walk-in hours at the doctors. No family breakfast.

I had a little time to spare, so I went to put the music on and the CD player closed and then opened and wouldn't close again. I fiddled with it for a bit, getting frustrated. No music in the morning.

And then I started to laugh. I don't know why I would think anything would go as planned on this day. Five years ago he was born, a day earlier than planned, and nothing, nothing really went as planned after that.

I ate my fried egg sandwich, much like the one I ate the day he was born. I made one for Kathleen. Brian got up. I got Elizabeth in the car, and turned the music on there.

After seeing the doctor (Elizabeth seemed fine except for that fever), we all went to the cemetery together. As Brian stopped the car, in one of those coincidences or something more, "Peace Like a River" was playing, which was perfect. I often find myself not knowing what to say when we visit Henry's grave. Today I sang "Peace LIke a River' as I worked. Kathleen helped me dig a hole and water. Elizabeth tried to pull up flags. Brian blew bubbles.

Despite oppressive heat, I spent much of the day in Henry's garden, as I did last year. I loosened soil and weeded heavily and split and moved plants. I still need to add compost and transplant a few things and add a few things from some sweet friends who know that is what I do for his birthday.

We had dinner and cupcakes with our friend who asked so earnestly that first winter " 'Enry 'ome?" and his sister who had promised to help Henry on the bus his first day of school.

That's what a fifth birthday looks like here, for now. Five. My boy would be five.

One

It has been a week of celebrations and cake, but we couldn't let today go by without one more.

It was a small celebration, but she's a small girl. The cake was left over from earlier in the week, but I cut a fresh slice and lit a candle and we sang. Kathleen helped Elizabeth blow out the candle. Elizabeth helped herself to the cake.

They opened Elizabeth's present together, a copy of Jamberry to symbolize the blueberry bushes we will plant for her next summer (along with the ones we are overdue to plant for Kathleen). Kathleen pouted momentarily that she didn't get a present.

When Kathleen turned one, I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like her first birthday was more than a year in coming. The journey to that first birthday started in the fall of 2006 when I found out I was pregnant for the first time. Robbed of Henry's first birthday, getting Kathleen to hers seemed like a momentous feat. While I don't take for granted that my children will live, I am able to believe again that they will. Elizabeth's birthday was much more a regular first birthday. It's still amazing though, isn't it?

My baby is one. One!

Three

My big girl is three.

I remember when Henry's third birthday rolled around feeling suddenly the difference between baby and kid. I realized he would have been a little boy and what I was missing, would miss hit me in an entirely different way.

Today, Kathleen's third birthday is here. And I see that I am right, that three is so much bigger than two. She is a little girl, not a baby. Even since last year, her face and body have thinned out. She uses the potty, and without her big cloth diaper butt sometimes she wears jeans. She gets the silverware for dinner and loves this little job. She explains things to Elizabeth: You have to be buckled in, sister. I'm buckled. Mommy and Daddy are buckled. You have to be buckled too! She plays, sometimes by herself and narrates her play (often interrupted by me thinking she's talking to me).

And sometimes she is still my baby who sits in my lap and wants to be held. But not too often. She's busy that big girl of mine.

That three year old of mine.

This week

This is the week.
December 11–17

I knew my joy-grief was packed tightly into this month, but the alignment of the calendar brings that so into focus this year. One week to mark birth birth death.

Sunday Kathleen turns three.
Thursday Elizabeth turns one.
And Saturday Henry will have been gone four years.

We have a busy, but low key week planned.
Tomorrow evening, if we can, a train ride through the park to see the lights. A cupcake she doesn't have to share. A gift. Monday birthday dinner with neighbors. Tuesday more cake with friends. Thursday. Oh, my. I haven't planned anything special for Elizabeth's actual birthday. More cake? Something to open (her real gift will be blueberry bushes, as was Kathleen's on her first birthday, though they have yet to be planted). Poor second/third child. I was okay with not giving her a big party, but perhaps, I should do something to mark that day.

And Saturday?

All I knew was I didn't want a birthday party that day, for my girls or anyone else. It was one thing I didn't think I could handle. But we got invited to two holiday parties. We could easily have bowed out of either, but we're going to both. Part of reclaiming this month. Part of reclaiming our lives. And right now, it feels okay, good even. I need to go to the cemetery in the morning, so that we we head out in the evening and drive by his grave, I'll have been there already.

The next day, the 18th we start the Christmas cycle.
But first, this jam-packed week.
And to start that week, a birthday.

An evening out

I went out for drinks and apps with a good friend tonight to celebrate my birthday. After what feels like weeks of rain bracketing a mini heat wave, it was absolutely perfect weather-wise to sit on the deck, sipping beer and eating nachos and fried catfish and mussels. It was the kind of night that makes me wonder why I don't go out more often.

We were there for a little over three hours, and for probably half of that time we talked about Henry, about what happened when he died, what she remembered, what stood out to her, what I remembered, what I couldn't remember or what was fuzzy.

And here's the thing: it wasn't depressing at all. I love having conversations like these. (Not the experience that led to this conversation, but that, given that experience, the conversation happened.) It was not what I expected of my birthday outing, and yet it was what I needed right now.

Right Where I Am: a week later

His birthday was easy this year, so let out the breath I was holding and moved into June.

Tonight, it struck me as I closed the door to Kathleen's room. I could (should) have a four year old right now. Four. I see that in other children, other families and can't quite picture it here in my house. Four. I know, I recognized that on his birthday, but it hit me with that sudden realization that I can't see four, can't imagine it here.

Tonight, it rolled over me as I sat comforting and settling Elizabeth. I held Henry the day he died—but not the day he was born. And sadness rumbled up though me for the four year old that I will never know. For the first day I will never have. For that last day that I will always have.


All of what I said just before his birthday holds true, but this is true too. This is where I am tonight in the missing wallow and the disbelief.

Four

He would be four today, that boy of mine. Four years ago, he arrived, a day earlier than expected and nothing really went as expected or planned after that.


I got up early with Elizabeth today. I made coffee, and we listened to You Are My Little Bird. I sat with Elizabeth and danced with her when she needed to move. I cried ever so briefly. I remembered being home and scared with Henry, in the hospital and hopeful. I haven't listened to our morning music in a long time. I've missed it.

I had decided last night that I would make fried egg sandwiches for breakfast, because it's what Brian and I had the morning Henry was born. I know this only because I wasn't supposed to eat. I was supposed to have a planned c-section on May 30. Late on May 28, I started spotting. In the wee hours of May 29, I started having contractions, far apart, but growing closer. My OB suggested I come in and be monitored at 8 before my first appointment (I was supposed to be back and forth between the hospital and my doctor's office all morning). When Brian suggested fried egg sandwiches for breakfast, part of me was pretty sure I was having a baby that day and I knew I wasn't supposed to eat before surgery. But, I argued to myself, my doctor hadn't told me not to eat, and if we stayed on schedule I wouldn't get a chance to eat for quite a while. So I ate the fried egg sandwich, and a few hours later we decided that, yes, I should have the baby that day.

We had cake with Kathleen after lunch. A few days ago when we told her Henry's birthday was coming up she said, "I sing 'Happy to You' to Henry." I asked if we should have cake, and she said yes.

My plan, the one thing I really wanted for the day, was to work in Henry's garden. And I did. For hours. I got it all cleaned up, soil loosened, compost in. I planted the dahlias from my friend who manages to dig hers up and not kill them. I planted the delphinium and rosemary I bought for Henry's birthday this year. I moved the pinwheels and flags and stones and sign. I was sweaty and tired afterward—and peaceful. Friends brought by some flowers to plant and I tucked those in around the dahlias where the dirt looked too bare and I had been feeling like it needed something.

I like the physicality of digging, the nurturing and caring. (For my shower when I was pregnant with Henry we had wildflower seeds as a favor. When Henry was in the hospital, my aunt told me she would go work in her Henry garden and feel in a way as if she were caring for him.) I like the space to let my mind wander (to think and remember him or to just be quiet). And I like getting something for his garden each year. It takes the pressure off the idea of a gift; I simply know I will get something for his garden each May.

It was perhaps the most comfortable, peaceful birthday we've had yet. I like to think that I've just gotten to a point where they are easier or that it was because I had a plan and followed through with it, but really it was probably just a good year.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy. I wish as always you were here. What would you be like at four?

A birthday before a birth day

Kathleen is two today. I had planned a brunch with family and friends from our neighborhood and was trying to keep it low key and say yes whenever anybody asked if they could bring something. It was something I wanted to squeeze in, a birthday celebration in these last days before a birth day.

Monday Kathleen had a fever, a runny nose, and hacking cough. I rescheduled my Tuesday OB appointment.

Tuesday Kathleen had a fever, a runny nose, and hacking cough.

Wednesday Kathleen didn't have a fever. She still had the hacking cough and the gunk from her nose was green and there was some new gunk in her eyes. We went to the doctor. Wednesday Kathleen had an ear infection, pink eye, and a cold. I rescheduled my Thursday OB appointment. Brian came home from work with a hacking cough and a headache.

Thursday Kathleen was still coughing and still had a runny nose. Brian came home from work with chills, the hacking cough, and a headache. I cancelled the party. I let it go.

Friday we were back at the pediatrician for Kathleen's 2-year check up. He thought she might have a sinus infection. Fortunately she's already on an antibiotic for the pink eye and ear infection. Brian came home with a cough and sore throat. I finally saw my OB. Everything is looking good.

Saturday we got up. I took my time making blueberry pancakes and sausage for Kathleen's birthday breakfast. Her appetite, off all week, seems to be back. She was delighted with the two balloons I bought her. She was almost as happy with her new doll.

Friends stopped by with cookies. Another friend stopped by with a present. We walked around the block and stopped to wish a happy birthday to our 90 year old neighbor who shares her birthday.

And tonight dinner and cookies with our friends down the driveway. Low key, easy, and just right for a second birthday.

Two.
We've both changed a lot in these two years. I'm still amazed we are here.

Happy birthday to my sweet two year old!

Dates and decisions

I had an OB appointment today. Everything looks good: heart rate, measurement, my weight, my blood pressure. I'm waiting to hear on the glucose screen.

"So let's talk about dates."

We've talked about dates before, but now we're at the point where we could actually schedule. My due date is December 22, and since I've been cut open three times already, we know it's a c-section. The plan is for somewhere in the 39th week. Which means December 15–December 21. At my very first appointment, I told my doctor I couldn't have this baby on December 17. And I've said that again every appointment since.

I'd rather be home on December 17, home curled up on my own couch, with Henry's light on all day, and a candle, and maybe a trip to the cemetery.

The doctor tells me that they could possibly send me home on December 17 if I have the baby on December 15, but I know that I will spend the whole day getting checked and getting the baby checked and waiting, waiting, waiting for discharge. I've gotten discharged 48 hours after a c-section before, but I've never had to go home and take care of anyone but me.

So, could we do it earlier? Maybe the 10th or the 13th, but that would require an amnio, which I managed to avoid with Henry by going into labor and with Kathleen by having the doctor and I suppose the hospital cut me a little slack. Policies have tightened, I guess.

With Kathleen, I needed the extra days, the extra space away from December 17. I needed Brian to be there, not in the final days of class or in a final. And I worried that I was placing too much importance on that. The two or three extras days turned out okay for Kathleen, for which I'm grateful.

I wish I had a little more space this time, but I'm going with best for the baby and no amnio and remembering that December 17 will suck where ever I am. I put in my request for December 15.

And all this thinking, imagining myself on December 17 has left me tired, weary with the unneeded reminder that I had a baby and he died. I've tried not to think too much about December, but now I need to.

I think I can survive, even enjoy, most of the year now, but December with its birthdays and Christmas bookending the day he died, I just don't know how to face it.

A little ice cream, early bedtime, and going back to how I started: I had an OB appointment today—everything looks good. I'll just have to stick with that for now.

Flag Day

Here in the U.S. it's Flag Day, a minor little holiday that most people haven't heard of that holds a special place in my heart because it also happens to be my birthday. When people ask when my birthday is, I tell them June 14, Flag Day. They all remember Flag Day, though they never really remember when that is.

So here I am, marking another year. It was an uneventful day. I didn't take the day off from work like I usually do, though I only had to put in about two hours. I didn't go out to eat or take a hike or go canoeing. Mostly I waited at my house for the repairman to come fix my oven which has been on the fritz for months. He called 15 minutes before the end of the four-hour window to say he was running late but would be there just after four. And I was livid, because I have better things to do on any day and especially my birthday. I could have gone out to lunch or gotten a free sundae at Herrell's. But he fixed the oven, and as I watched the temperature climb as it preheated to 350 in a mere 12 minutes (instead of the 45 minutes to never it had been doing) I was amazed and my mood reversed. It seemed like a pretty good birthday present to have a working oven, even if I had to write a largish check for it.

So today I waited and was annoyed and I thought about where I am and who I am as I hit 38. I do this on my birthday, it's kind of a check-in, follow-up to the self-analysis I do at New Years. I recently commented on another blog that I'm learning to know and mostly like the person I am since Henry died. But I'm not sure that's true. More and more I feel like the little things, the ones that really shouldn't bother me because I have perspective, do bother me. I am often irritated or angry at Brian. Sometimes I feel like we are back at the beginning, right after Henry died, when we couldn't communicate. We both literally could not find the right words, even when they were simple like milk or shirt or book. And we couldn't seem to comprehend what the other was saying, even when the words were there. I thought we moved past that, but some days it feels like we're still there, or maybe I'm just there floundering for my words and feeling misunderstood. But I don't like the anger the seems ever ready to bubble up. I thought always thought anger was the smallest part of grief for me, but maybe that's where I'm at in the process now. In any case, I don't like it, don't like this part of me. So this, this is what I'd like to change as I move into a new year of me.

Today my anger dissipated with a small, new part for my oven. If only it were all that simple.

Tomorrow, I'll eat a very decadent chocolate cake (my recipe made by somebody else with her equally decadent frosting), and some night when Brian isn't working, we'll get a babysitter and go out for a nice dinner together (already dreaming about what I might eat), and it will begin to feel like a proper birthday. And I will breathe and smile and try to be a less angry person.

Three years ago today

A baby boy was born

I wish I had a picture of a three year old to show you. I wish I could tell you of big boy antics. I wish there were a cake with three candles. 

Instead, I worked in his garden , planting the delphinium I bought for his birthday, replanting the dahlia tubers I dug up in the fall, weeding, moving, spending time thinking of this day three years ago when a baby boy was born and mama came into being, when a heart swelled with love and pride months before it broke. 

Three years ago today.

Happy birthday, my sweet boy. 

Happy birthday, Henry. 

Two candles

We had a small party for Kathleen today, and two candles were lit:

the one on the cake that remained lit for only a moment or two,

to mark the life that has lasted a year and is still going strong,

and the one on the table that stayed lit all day,

that still flickers in the next room

to mark the life that didn't make it a full year, the one I still miss.

One birthday, two candles.

Two babies, much love.

And I continue to teeter between this awe and wonder and amazement

that she is here and strong and laughing and moving and learning

and the despair that he is not.

Among family and friends, I was able to smile much today,

to feel the joy,

but in the letdown of people leaving and a quiet house almost put back in order,

I find the ache growing.

So aware of and thankful for what I have.

So aware of and missing what I don't.

I am holding onto the belief that this will get easier again,

that this dark month will pass and heaviness will lessen.

The sadness will still be there.

I will still miss my boy,

but in the day to day I will get by.

I will see the light again;

tears will not be a daily event.

For this I am holding onto hope,

because I need to believe it.

Relax

Brian and I were supposed to go canoeing today for my birthday. His mom was coming up to babysit, and we were going to take a paddle and then go out to dinner. We've only seen the sun for bits and spurts all week, but today was simply steady rain. We aren't afraid of a little rain mind you. We did an all day paddle and nearly got hypothermia a few years ago (also a birthday outing, hmmm maybe canoeing and my birthday don't mix), but we decided we didn't need to do it again. Maybe a movie? Nothing playing near us looked appealing. What to do, what to do.

Ah, a hot tub and massage. Just the thing.

We had talked about doing just that after Henry died, but neither of us was motivated enough to make a plan. And then I got pregnant and the hot tub was out (though help in relaxing was needed more than ever). So we finally got around to it today. I wouldn't have minded the massage going on longer, but it was good. Lots of tightness melting away.

Then a yummy dinner out—sea scallops with a ginger, carrot, orange butter, grilled asparagus, and roasted potatoes/sweet potatoes. We ended our meal with a peach lambic. (If you have never tasted a peach lambic, you really should. Brian proposed to me over peach lambic, and we toasted with peach lambic at our wedding.) This place has it on tap, which is even yummier.

And then I came home to a girl who was starting to get sleepy, who woke right up when she saw me, and was delighted to see me. She smiled and smiled and laughed and babbled.

I had had a lovely day despite the rain and our change of plan. But even a crappy day would have turned around with that welcome home.

Would Be, Should Be

My boy, my Henry would be, should be two today.
I would be, should be making a cake with two candles,
would be, should be wiping frosting and ice cream off chubby cheeks,
would be, should be following little toddling legs around.
I would be, should be remembering the day he was born and marveling at how big he has gotten.

But he is gone.
And I will be visiting the cemetery to plant a batch of johnny jump-ups,
will be digging around in his garden, in the rain,
will be planting red flowers,
will be holding and loving his little sister and telling her of her angel brother.
I am remembering the day he was born and and wishing he were here.

Late May

We are sneaking up on Henry's birthday. Just two more days and my boy would be two. Last night at a regular potluck dinner with friends, we celebrated the birthday of one of the babies from the spring/early summer 2007 crop, the ones whose mamas I posed with for big belly photos, the ones Henry was supposed to grow up with.

There were three of those babies there last night, one born in March, one just days before Henry, and one two weeks later in June. For months after Henry died I couldn't look at these babies, or I could only give them sidling glances. Now I can watch, I can smile, I can interact. The sadness is not overwhelming during these interactions, but more of a wearying, lingering thing, thinking of Henry and what he should be doing right now.

For Magie and Her Mommy

I've been thinking of Magie today.

I knew Magie through the glass, because she was Henry's next door neighbor for much of his stay in the CICU. I knew her mom from the hospital hallways. We'd wave good morning and peek at each other's babies through the adjoining doorway.

I remember watching Magie's activity during her better days,
the pink, fluffy sign her mommy made lovingly for her hospital crib,
glimpses of her cute face from the window.

I know that she loved the Disney cartoons,
that her mommy was excited to watch the parade with her on Thanksgiving,
that pink was her color.

I think of her when I see a pink sky at sunset
or the fluffy pink-tinged clouds at dawn.

I have a special place in my heart for Magie in part because she was part of Henry's story, and in part because there were so many parallels between their stories.

She was born 15 days before Henry. Today is her second birthday, so I'm thinking of her. And I'm thinking of her mommy, who started on this babylost journey just 5 days before I started on mine.

Happy Birthday, Magie.
Love and peace, Magie's mommy.