She would have been two. Seems so wierd to say that. Two years have gone by, and I seriously can't believe it. Crazy. Some days it seems like 100 years ago, other days it seems like yesterday. What a long, crazy ride this grief has been.
Her birthday was good. Well, not good, but OK. You know what I mean.
My step-daughter sent me flowers to work, and everyone wanted to know what they were for. I didn't want to talk about it and I just told them it was because she loved me. Later when we were alone, my boss pointed to the flowers and asked "Does this have something to do with the baby?" "Yes" I said. "Her birthday" "How old would she have been?" "Two".
That was the first time I said it out loud.
It didn't sound any better coming out of my mouth than it did in my head.
My mom and step-dad came over to visit. They went to the cemetary, but there was so much snow there wasn't much to see. They brought an adorable statue of a baby laying in angel wings. I love it.
My son "got something in his eye" at school and my husband had to go pick him up.
I did fine all day. It didn't bother me that out of 5 sibilings, only one brother called me. It didn't bother me that not one of my friends said anything. It didn't bother me that my dad didn't call me. It didn't bother me that my husband didn't really say anything. OK I'm lying. It bothered me A LOT. But, in deadbabyland, it's something you get used to.
People forget our dead babies.