After Jillian

April

We’re moving in a couple of weeks. Our new place is about two miles from here, and conveniently very close to the hospital where both kids were born. We’ve said that if we moved before we were finished having kids, we couldn’t live any further from the hospital than we do now. I think people thought we were kidding, but we were 100% serious. It’s not why we chose this new place, but we certainly took it into consideration.

Getting ready to move has brought up some unexpected emotions. I had worried before that if we did eventually move, I would have trouble leaving this place. I found out I was pregnant with Jillian the day before we closed, so most of my pregnancy was in this condo, and this was were we hibernated and tried to pick up the pieces after we lost her. We’re renting this place out instead of selling it, so I think knowing that we could come back if necessary has helped.

Other things have been hard. Twice, my breath has been taken away when coming across yarn that were supposed to become sweaters for her. The box of her clothes in the top of Ian’s closet is looming over me. I’m okay with seeing it, but I have to decide if we’re going to store it in the garage or somewhere in the house. The practical side of me says to put it in the garage, but the other part of me feels like I’m giving up or something by putting it down there. I have a feeling it will end up in my closet, but I’ve already shed tears over trying to figure it out.

I was going through my shoes the other night, weeding out pairs that I never wear anymore, including two pairs that are way too big on me. I put one in the donation pile, and then as I looked at the second pair, I had a flashback of buying both pairs. I was traveling for work, pregnant with Jillian, and desperate for new shoes because my feet were so swollen. I thought of the two adorable dresses I bought for her that night. Then I remembered putting these shoes into a plastic bag at the hospital the night she was born. I put the shoes away and grabbed the other pair from the donation pile while I completely broke down. I can’t let them go. It annoys me because I can’t wear them, and I hate holding onto stuff I don’t need, but I have to keep them. In a way, I feel like I only have so many things related to her, and if it means keeping these stupid shoes, I guess I have to do it. But like I told Dave through my tears, this is how hoarding starts. Oh, well.

There have been other things, too. The current owners of our new place have a little girl, and I’m not going to be able to turn her room into a boy room fast enough. When they still had their belongings there, I felt a knife in my heart every time I walked in there or saw a picture of it. I know I’ll feel better once Ian’s things are in there, but it’s hard not to think of the what-ifs.

I hate all of these feelings. I feel so… I don’t know what word I’m looking for. As I’ve been typing, I’ve been thinking that I need to get a grip and stop crying over yarn and too-big shoes and the fact that the little girl who lived there until recently had a dollhouse, and Jillian was supposed to get my childhood dollhouse, and that never happened and never will. I want to stop feeling sorry for myself, but I know I’m allowed to feel sorry for myself because there’s a good reason for it. I’ve been so happy in general, but these moments knock me down, then I beat myself up. I should probably try to be more patient with myself.

March

I’ve been neglecting this blog, obviously. I feel bad about it, because it’s for Jillian, but I just haven’t had much to say. We’re doing well. Ian is growing and I swear he’s bigger every day. The amount of happiness he brings to us is immeasurable. He is such a goof, so adorable, and we love everything about him.

The holidays were fun, but nothing too exciting. Ian didn’t really know what was going on, and I felt moments of sadness. We hung Jillian’s stocking for Christmas, and sometimes seeing it made me happy because we were including and remembering her, but there were other moments that I wanted to take it down and hide it forever because I knew it would be empty on Christmas morning.

We had Ian’s birthday party in mid-January. I’m pretty sure he thought it was the best day of his life so far. He was surrounded by people who love him and they were all paying attention to him. It’s what he lives for. It was a great day to think about the amazing year we’ve had, but at the same time, there was no escaping the thoughts that it was something we never got to do with Jillian. I kept thinking that she should have been there, playing on the floor with her little brother and his new toys. My heart was filled with joy, but aching at the same time.

A couple of weeks ago, Ian and I were leaving our playgroup, and as we were coming out of our room, new moms and babies were coming down the hallway to go to their group for the first time. I was enamored with all the little babies, trying to remember Ian being that little – and probably much smaller. I was looking at a baby girl with her legs tucked under her body on her mom’s chest. I thought to myself that I’ve come so far. I could see a baby girl without my heart shattering into a million pieces again. Then, naively, I looked at the mother’s name tag to see what the baby girl’s name was. You guessed it. Jillian. I felt like someone kicked me in the gut.

A few moments later, another mom, one I don’t know well and who doesn’t know about my Jillian, asked me if I was okay. Thankful that I didn’t have lunch plans for that day, I hurried home, calling Dave in tears on the way. I felt like I was falling back into the abyss. The one where it feels like I will never be okay, and that I will be lost in profound grief during every moment for the rest of my life. When I’m not feeling like that, I realize that it’s not the case, but when I’m in the middle of it, it seems like there’s no escape. I tried to keep my composure on the walk home, but I realized I was failing when an old woman in the park we cut through stopped me to ask if I was okay.

Eventually, after some crying and feeling sorry for myself, I was fine, but I’m still haunted by the encounter. I want to go back to find that mother, and tell her about my Jillian. I want to know why she chose the name. I want to know their story. Fortunately for them (and probably me), I haven’t seen them since that day. As much as I’d love to tell my beautiful girl’s story, I’m pretty sure it would be best not to tell a brand new mother about my baby dying.

So life is going on. There isn’t a day that passes that we don’t talk about Jillian and how lucky we are to have Ian. Life is going as well as it possibly can, which is very, very well. I still miss my monkey so much that it’s sometimes unbearable, but we’re living the best life we can for her.

Two Years

Dear Jillian,

Happy Birthday, sweet girl. I’m sitting here with a lump in my throat, not sure what to say, but at the same time, not sure how I can cover everything I want to say to you. I can’t believe how quickly the past two years have gone. It seems like just yesterday that we were still waiting for your arrival, which was supposed to be months away.

So much has changed since you came into our world. The biggest change, of course, is Ian. He’s amazing, Jilly, and I don’t know where we’d be without him. He’s adorable, he’s hilarious, he’s smart, and he’s as sweet as can be. He has brought so much healing to Daddy and me, but I hate that you two will never know each other. Every time he does something new, I wonder what it would have been like to see you do all these new things. When his eyes sparkle as he smiles, I wonder if you would have been as joyful as he is.

We went out to dinner with one of your sets of grandparents last weekend, and while we were there, Ian set his sights on a little girl sitting at a table next to us. She was a little older than you, but as we watched them interact, I had to fight back tears, because I wondered if that’s how the two of you would have been together. I’m sure Ian would have adored you the way he adored this little girl.

I’ve had two dreams about you recently. In the first one, I was wearing my blue topaz ring – your birthstone – that I wear every day. I was talking to a little girl in my dream who was wearing a smaller version of my ring. I asked her if it was her birthstone, and she said yes. I asked when her birthday was, and she told me December 5. I woke up immediately, and then I was kicking myself because I realized as I woke that it was you. A few nights later, I had another dream about you, and though I can’t remember any details of the dream, I remember thinking in my sleep that I shouldn’t wake up. I have to believe that you’re visiting me.

We love you so much, baby girl. That hasn’t changed for one second. Even though our lives have gotten so much better, there’s not an hour that passes when my heart doesn’t ache for you. I just want to hold you again and feel the warmth of your little body. I want to give you a thousand more kisses and read you a hundred more stories. I want to sing to you and make sure you know that you’re the most loved baby girl in the entire world.

We miss you, Monkey. We’ll never stop missing you or wishing you were here with us. You are my heart.

Love, Mommy

World Prematurity Day/Goodnight Nobody

Today is World Prematurity Day. The hope is to raise awareness about just how many babies are born too soon. It’s been a day of mixed emotions for me. Jillian has been on my mind constantly, which isn’t abnormal, but the day makes my heart feel even heavier. At the same time, I’m lifted by the sweet boy who is my constant companion, and who can bring a smile to my face without doing a thing. I just have to think of him and my heart is overflowing with joy.

In addition to World Prematurity Day, Elisa at is having a book launch today. Her book, The Golden Sky, is about the loss of her infant son. In honor of her son and her book, I am participating in a blogfest that she has arranged.

For the blogfest, I’m going to tell our story again. I’m going to try to keep it short, but I could probably write for three days straight and still have plenty to say.

Goodnight Nobody

I got pregnant in July 2009. For the most part, my pregnancy was uneventful. I had some unexplained bleeding and was so nauseated all the time that I would lie in bed and cry in the morning, but other than that, everything seemed great. Dave and I were 100% positive that we were having a boy. There was no reason for our prediction. We found out in October that we were wrong, and we immediately fell in love with our little girl. We decided on her name pretty quickly. We chose Jillian because it was pretty, and her middle name, Hannah, was in honor of my late grandmother.

My mother had a history of losses, two baby girls, due to incompetent cervix. I googled “incompetent cervix hereditary” more times than I can count, and I had two conversations with my OB about it. I was assured by Dr. Google and my actual doctor that there was no research showing anything hereditary about it, and when my cervix was long and closed at my anatomy scan, I stopped worrying about it.

About six weeks later, on December 5, the world started falling apart. Dave and I were getting ready for a Christmas party when my water broke. I knew what it was almost immediately, but I was hoping I was wrong. I remember when a nurse called me back and told us to get to the hospital – she said, “okay, so your water broke?” and the tiny bit of hope that I was wrong disappeared.

When we got to the hospital, I had an ultrasound that showed my cervix was essentially gone. I was completely dilated and effaced. I still had a decent amount of fluid left, and the hope was that I would be able to continue my pregnancy on hospital bed rest and avoid infection. I received drugs to stop the contractions that had started and received my first (and subsequently only) steroid shot to help Jillian’s lungs. We had a NICU consult, and as the neonatologist was going over the problems that 24 weekers often face, I was only half listening. I kept thinking that she wouldn’t be born right away, so we didn’t even need all this information.

Things calmed down a little bit, and my OB said I could have some dinner. Eating wasn’t easy, but I tried to force down some soup. A little while later, I was being rolled from side to side because Jillian’s heart rate kept disappearing from the monitor. The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled into an operating room. They took Jillian out so fast, and I heard her tiny cries when she first came out. I still can’t believe I heard it with everything that was happening, but I was so thankful because it meant that she was alive. She was whisked away to the NICU. The rest of the surgery seemed to take forever.

Dave went to see her while I was in recovery, and I don’t even remember what he told me. Actually, I don’t even remember him going, but I know he took pictures of her with my phone. Once I was out of recovery, my bed was wheeled to the NICU to see her. It was terrifying. I was allowed to touch her, but I was so scared that I was going to hurt her. I had trouble connecting that this tiny little baby was the one who had just been in my belly, and that she was the same person who we had all these dreams and plans for. I just couldn’t wrap my head around anything that was going on.

The next four days were the best and worst days of my life. We spent as much time as possible at her bedside. We dealt with the ups and downs that every parent of a micro preemie faces. Early on, we realized that there was a good chance that we might have to say goodbye to our beautiful little girl, but we had to hope that she would survive. I think I aged about five years every single time someone walked into my hospital room, every time the phone rang, and every time we returned to the NICU and got an update. The most joyous moments were when I got to put swabs of colostrum in her mouth. I remember her primary nurse telling me that she would recognize the taste, and she clearly did. She would open her tiny mouth and wrap her tongue around it. It was amazing to see, and my heart still pounds when I close my eyes and picture it.

Every moment that passed with Jillian still here felt like a miracle. By December 9, I was even more of a wreck. I was being discharged the next day, and we were terrified to leave her there. We only live 2 miles from the hospital, but we were afraid that something would happen when we weren’t there. I didn’t know how we would sleep at night, or how we would do anything, really. We discussed that we’d spend Christmas at the hospital, and it seemed like such an awful prospect, but little did I know that I’d soon be wishing we had to spend Christmas at the hospital.

Looking back, it was clear that day that something was wrong. Jillian had been very active since she was born, but on December 9, she was pretty still. It was good, because she needed to rest, but there was a marked change. Later in the day, I was standing at her bedside and one of the neonatologists said we would be having a family meeting shortly to “discuss some developments.” I immediately felt like I was going to throw up. I knew it was over.

During this meeting, we learned of Jillian’s “catastrophic” brain hemorrhage. The doctors told us that she would have zero quality of life if she survived: she would always be hooked up to machines and she would never know us. We knew before they even finished talking that we needed to remove her life support. They told us that we didn’t need to rush our decision, but we weren’t rushing, and once our next steps were clear, they told us that we were doing the right thing. Even though we were firm in our decision and have never questioned it, it was impossible to believe that we were letting her go.

She was moved to a private room, and we spent time holding her, talking to her, and reading stories. We read Goodnight Moon, Guess How Much I Love You, and Make Way for Ducklings. We told her that we were the luckiest people in the world because we got to be her parents, we made a promise to try to be happy again, and we told her over and over again how much we loved her. Holding her was a dream come true and my worst nightmare all at once. My life felt complete, but I knew that it was about to be shattered.

She passed away in my arms shortly after her ventilator was removed. I remember thinking that no parent should ever have to lose a child, but I felt like I was receiving the greatest gift because we got to hold her and tell her how much we loved her as she peacefully slipped away.

The doctors told us that Jillian would never know us, but I actually think they were wrong. I think she knew exactly who we were. Even with her brain destroyed, she seemed like she was burrowing into me as I held her. She was so warm against my chest, and I swear sometimes I can still feel the weight of her there. I know exactly where she was, and it feels like I was branded by her little body.

At some point over the next several weeks, Dave and I started picking up the pieces. It took a while to even start. We were in a blur for such a long time after she died. Every night when we went to bed, I couldn’t figure out how I was going to wake up the next day. I had nothing to live for, except the promise that we made to Jillian before she died. I sometimes still don’t know how we survived.

One thing that I think is hard for some people, even me, to understand is how permanently damaged we are. It’s been almost two years, and we are so happy now, but we still struggle. Every day, there are reminders (not that we need them). Even though we have Ian here now, some days are really hard. Jillian is missing, and I don’t imagine that holidays and important events will ever stop feeling like she should be there. To this day, I still forget sometimes that she’s already come and gone, and realizing that she will never grow up, never know her brother, and never be here is like a knife in my heart.

We read Goodnight Moon to Ian every night, and my voice catches every time I read “goodnight nobody,” just like it did when we read it to Jillian. As we read to her, it made me think of how we soon wouldn’t have her to say goodnight to anymore. When I read it to Ian, that feeling sometimes returns for a beat, and sometimes for longer. Our lives were forever changed. We’ll be okay – we are okay, We’ll never be healed, but we will never stop being thankful for the time that we had.

It feels like a trend

I’ve been having a string of bad days. It’s not every day, and it’s not all day, but when it hits, it’s hard. I think maybe the cooling weather and approaching holidays are getting to me.

I went for a massage this afternoon, which was mostly great. When the massage therapist asked what was going on, I mentioned that lifting my 9-month old out of his crib is destroying my back. Once the massage started, he asked if Ian is my first. I said no without any explaining, and he asked if it’s easier this time around. Heh. If you really want to get into it, it’s easier in some ways but harder in others, but I spared him that uncomfortable conversation. I said that our first baby, our daughter, passed away, so in a way, it’s easier. He expressed his condolences, and that was that. I was fine. I even smiled after I answered, because I got to tell someone about my little girl.

A little bit later, I was thinking about how I like massages to hurt. I feel like they’re not all that productive otherwise. I thought about my last relaxation massage, and how it was nice and relaxing, but not my style. It was at a spa in Maine. Dave and I went away for our first anniversary. I was pregnant with Jilly.

My mood changed. I started thinking about how we tried having sex (sorry, parents and siblings), but it was uncomfortable. Something felt wrong. I was worried for a minute, but then I brushed it off as a normal pregnancy thing. I asked some internet friends about it a few days later, and one answer that sticks out in my mind is that one woman experienced it, but not at 21 weeks or however far along I was.

In hindsight: I should have called. Why didn’t I call? I know that there’s a very could chance that I would have been told that it’s normal for things to feel different during pregnancy. But there’s also a chance that I could have been told to come in just to be checked, and they could have discovered that my cervix was a worthless piece of crap and fixed things. I wouldn’t have this blog, this hole in my heart, or these horrible thoughts that I’m going to lose Ian, too.

And then hit me. If I had called, I might not have Ian.

I started thinking that maybe things are the way they should be, and I wasn’t supposed to call. The short time we had with Jillian was all that we were allotted, and things are the way they’re supposed to be. Then the feeling that I’d just chosen one child over another ripped my heart in half.

This whole thing has played out in my head a thousand times since Ian was born. Every time, I realize I can’t win. There’s no good outcome in this dilemma. Ideally, I’d have both kids, and I would be whole, but that’s not how it happened. I know I’m not choosing one kid over another, but while my thoughts are spiraling out of control, it feels like I am.

I don’t really know what I’m supposed to do about it. I think it’s just something I have to get used to. If it weren’t for Ian, I think I’d want to sleep until the spring. It’s amazes me that almost two years later, I still get so overwhelmed that I can’t stand it.

Rough day

I met some friends today. I drove out of town a different way today, and as I was sitting at a traffic light near my old office, I started thinking about how I’m always afraid I’ll run into someone I know when I walk past there. I was wondering why, because I love my old coworkers, even though I’ve been terrible about staying in touch (I have cards for several of them sitting in our living room. I’ve had them forever, but something is stopping me from sending them).

As I waited for the light to change, I realized it’s not because I don’t want to see anyone. It’s because work was my old life. The last time I worked, I was pregnant with Jillian. My heart was unbroken. Things seemed like they couldn’t be better. And then we were blindsided.

I started crying, and I kept crying almost the entire drive – over an hour. It dawned on me about halfway there that today was the 18th, and I remembered that my anatomy scan with Jillian was on the 19th. That caused even more tears. Two years ago from tomorrow, I fell in love the with most wonderful little girl. Before that, she was “the baby.” On the 19th, she was my daughter.

When Ian and I got to our destination, I took him out of his car seat, held him, and cried some more. He didn’t have any clue what was going on (he was more interested in the giant balloons at a nearby car dealer), but just holding him made a world of difference.

I felt okay for the rest of the day, but I’ve been crying on and off since we got home. I can’t figure out what’s causing me to be so emotional today. I kind of wonder if it’s because her birthday is quickly approaching, but I’m not sure, just because I haven’t really focused on it all that much (except when I notice things like the orange juice I bought expires on December 5, and some yogurt expires on December 9 – I mean, come on, universe).

I hope tomorrow is a better day. I just decided as I was typing that I’m going to finish the sweater I started when I was pregnant with her. It was for her to wear home from the hospital. I haven’t done anything with it, other than put it in a plastic bag and put it out of sight, but I need to finish it. I don’t know why, but I hope it will make me feel good. I just miss her so much. I miss everything we never got to do, and I miss all the dreams I had for her.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month

If you’re not already aware, October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. I don’t need a month to be more aware of it, obviously, but the news stories, blog posts, Facebook status, etc. about it definitely make me think even more of our own loss and of all the families who have been touched by similar tragedies. Sometimes it feels like everyone I know is in the same club that we’re in, but sometimes, even at the same times, it feels so lonely.

I am constantly thinking about all the people I know who have experienced such a loss. A childhood babysitter, my own mother, grandmothers, college friends, family friends, and childhood friends. My heart aches when I think of the childhood friend who I used to have sleepovers with, and how nobody would have guessed that decades later, those two little girls would share such a nightmarish bond. I close my eyes and wish I could go back in time and somehow protect us. I don’t know how that would happen. I wouldn’t take my own loss away if it meant I never had Jillian, so I don’t think there’s any protection.

A woman on this message board I’ve been active on for a few years gave birth to her full term, still born daughter this week. It has obviously stirred up a lot of emotions and I’ve caught myself lost in thought multiple times, thinking about what she may be feeling, and remembering how I felt in the minutes, hours, and days after we lost Jillian. Someone posted a comment about not being able to imagine what her next several weeks would be like, and all I could think was that it’s more like the rest of her life. The pain doesn’t go away. It gets lighter, more bearable, but it’s still there.

As healed as I feel, thanks to Ian, I’m still broken. Almost two years later, there’s still a box full of cards and letters in my dining room that I can’t touch. There are so many letters that I want to answer, but I can’t bring myself to pull them out of the box, much less reread them, now that I’m out of the fog of total shock, and write a response that won’t leave a page of tear-smudged ink and illegible handwriting because my hands are shaking from the grief. Every day, I sit on the floor to play with Ian, and I feel an emptiness, like someone is missing. He doesn’t know that two of his toys were actually hers. Every time he picks them up and shoves them into his mouth, I think of how Jillian never got to do that.

I already know that the first day of school in 2015 is going to be a hard day, because I won’t be walking Jillian to her first day of kindergarten. It doesn’t end. I don’t want to wallow, but it’s not really a choice. Dave and I live with it every day, and even though it hurts, that’s how our first child is still in our lives. Obviously we try to focus on the happy moments, but they’re tinged with pain.

I hope others will take some time to think of all the fathers who have suffered such losses. There’s always so much focus on the mothers, but the fathers suffer, too.

It all comes back sometimes

One of my friends had a baby very early this morning (all went well, and he’s healthy and I’m dying to meet the little dude). She had a c-section, and this afternoon I was thinking about my own c-sections. Mostly my first. I was thinking about how fast everything happened, especially compared to Ian’s. I was thinking about how the process for my spinal took forever with Ian, but I don’t even remember it being administered with Jillian. I only remember being poked with a yellow toothpick near my ribs, and telling the anesthesiologist that I couldn’t feel it.

I was sitting here on the couch with Dave and Ian, and I just kind of spaced out. I was going over it in my head, thinking about how at the time, I thought I was having a nightmare. When I replay it all in my head, it still seems like a nightmare. Almost two years later, I still can’t believe it all happened. I remember thinking that I couldn’t have my baby that night. She wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready. Yet there we were, getting her out as fast as possible.

I kind off snapped out of it when Dave asked me what was wrong. I started crying, and I had to distract myself to stop replaying it all. Even writing about it now, that damn yellow toothpick is stuck in my mind’s eye.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if the doctor hadn’t made the decision to get her out immediately. Part of me is certain that she wouldn’t have lived at all. I had lost so much fluid, and she was probably compressing her cord. But what if we’d been able to keep her in for even a few days? Would that have made a difference? I think about how she was treated for her PDA with ibuprofen, and I wonder if that somehow contributed to her brain bleed. I have no clue if there is any correlation at all; it’s just me still searching for an answer. Something to blame. But what if we had left the PDA alone? Would she be here now? On the other hand, we were facing such an uphill battle, and I know there’s so much more that could have gone wrong. I hate thinking about the what ifs because they just make me sad, and we are so blessed that we got the time with her and we did, and of course that we have Ian.

I had a dream the other night that we had both kids here at home with us. Ian was just as he is now, and Jillian was still teeny tiny, but she was here and she was alive. I was thinking in my dream that every day that she was still here was a blessing. And every day that we did have her was a blessing, and I’ll treasure it forever. I wish I could focus on that, but my mind sometimes has other ideas.

September

Things are still going well for us. I can’t believe that my little peanut is going to be eight months old next week. These have been the fastest eight months of my life. He brings so much joy into my life that I can’t describe it. His smile lights up the room, his laugh is the most wonderful sound I’ve ever heard, and I miss him when he’s sleeping. Sometimes when I’m watching him on the monitor, just a simple move takes my breath away. I can’t get over how lucky I feel to have him.

I’ve had some rough days, emotionally. We recently heard of a little boy who passed away from SIDS. He was a baby that statistically, should have been too old, and hearing about it kind of knocked me back. When I first heard the news, I told Ian he was sleeping on his back until he’s at least 10 (not that it would eliminate the risk, but it certainly reduces it), and Ian responded that night by spending the entire night on his belly. I don’t think Dave and I slept at all. He’s slept on his belly every night since then. We’re getting a little more comfortable with it as time has gone on, but we still kind of freak out. We’ve spent too much time staring at the monitor to make sure his chest is moving, we’ve tried moving the camera around for the best view, and I’ve blown into the microphone multiple times just to get him to flinch.

The other night, I was getting into bed and saw Ian’s stuffed lamb in our bed. I thought of how I slept with Jillian’s blanket for a while after she died, and I lost my mind. I thought that if anything happened to Ian, I’d sleep with that lamb, and my imagination got away from me. I kept picturing the worst, and what I imagined was close to what I felt when we were told about Jillian’s hemorrhage: the world spinning completely out of control, feeling like I was outside of my body watching what was happening, and not knowing how I was going to take another breath. I kept telling myself that Ian was fine, but this other baby’s death was a reminder of the lack of control we have over the most important things.

I know there will continue to be things that happen that scare me, and somehow, I’ll keep from being crippled by my fears. I feel like I should be stronger than this, and that I’m letting Jillian, Dave, and Ian down by being so afraid. That said, I know Dave gets scared, too. Ugh, I don’t even know what point I’m trying to make. I just needed to get these thoughts out of my brain.

Time keeps getting away from me

I can’t believe it’s August already, and I can’t believe it’s been two months since I posted anything here.

Ian is growing like a weed, and growing up so much. His personality is really coming out, and it’s amazing. He’s a total chatterbox and I’m pretty sure his goal right now is to be the center of attention at all times. Every day, I say I couldn’t love anything more, but somehow I manage to love him more with each passing second.

We started doing the Ferber method last week. I swore I would never, ever, ever be able to let him cry at all, but after months of endless crying with the No Cry Sleep Solution and a disastrous attempt at going away for the weekend (from a sleep perspective), I knew something had to change. It’s amazing. He sleeps so well now. I can put him down in his crib for bedtime or nap time and he’s asleep almost instantly. I’m about ready to go over to Children’s and thank Dr. Ferber himself.

Speaking of that, please note I said crib. We moved him to his room on Saturday. We kept him in our room forever because our bedrooms are on different floors, and I didn’t want to be going up and down stairs in the middle of the night, plus I was worried about him being so far from us. It was such a non-event, unless you count the fact that I’ve only had to get up once during the night with him. When he was sleeping a foot from me, we were up every three hours or so.

Another big change is we now have a babysitter. I was terrified about leaving him, but she’s fabulous. She just finished nursing school and they seem to love each other, so I couldn’t ask for anything more. I’m sticking my head in the sand about her eventually getting a nursing job.

I’ve been having a lot of issues with anxiety, which is my only complaint. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Most of the time, I am so convinced that we’re eventually going to lose him, too. It makes me sick to my stomach, but it’s hard to turn off those thoughts. No matter what we’re doing, I start imagining what bad things could happen. It’s not to the point where I can’t leave the house, but I recognize it’s not normal. I’m doing what I can to work through it, but it sucks.

I still think about Jilly constantly. I always will. I can’t help but think about what life would be like if she’d lived. I like to imagine that if she had, I still would have gotten pregnant with Ian when I did. I wish I could have both of my babies here with me. In a way, I do, because Jilly is in my heart, but it’s not the same. You know what I mean.