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.

EC Writes

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.


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.

June already

I don’t know how it’s the summer already. I still expect it to be cold outside as I start to get dressed in the morning because for some reason my brain thinks it’s still January or February. Things are continuing to go well with Ian. He suddenly seems so grown up. He “talks” all day long, loves sitting up (with support, of course), and seems so impressed with himself every time he learns a new trick. I’m impressed, too.

I find him talking to and laughing at empty walls and ceilings at least once a day. I always ask who he’s talking to, and at one point, it occurred to me that he may be talking to a ghost (I love myself a good ghost story). It dawned on me that maybe it’s Jillian. I feel so happy every time he does it. I feel kind of silly thinking it, and maybe all babies are fascinated with blank walls, but I’d love to think that Jillian is with us. If it is her, she’s apparently hilarious. I’m not surprised, considering what a clown Ian is.

Even though Ian is doing so well, we’re struggling with sleep. It’s clearly not Ian’s favorite thing to do. First of all, he seems to be scared of the dark. It makes him scream, even if we leave the adjacent bathroom light on. He’s okay during the night if we’re also in bed (he sleeps in a co-sleeper attached to our bed), but until we go to bed, he needs full light in the room. He doesn’t seem to be a fan of being alone, either, even if the lights are on. We’re not sure how he’s our kid, seeing how much Dave and I each enjoy our solitude. Oh, and naps? Worst thing in the world, unless he’s in my arms. It’s hard not to beat myself up for somehow screwing up his sleep, but I don’t know what I did. When he came home, he’d sleep anywhere without any issue, but now he wants to be with us constantly. Part of me would really like to be able to put him down for his naps, but he’ll have no part of it. On the other hand, I know that before too long, I’m going to be wishing he’d still sleep in my arms, so I feel like I’m short-changing both of us by trying to get him to nap elsewhere. We have a sleep consultation set up at a parenting center on Friday. Hopefully they’ll have some ideas on how we can all start sleeping a little better.

In other non-Ian news, we had a health scare with Baxter, our dog. He had some blood work done a couple months ago that showed his liver enzymes were elevated. He had more blood work, a couple of ultrasounds, and finally last week, he was supposed to have a biopsy. Before the biopsy, the vet took some x-rays, and he saw on them that Baxter had peritonial-pericardial diaphragmatic hernia. I’m not even going to attempt to explain it, but this covers it. He had surgery yesterday, which went well. They did a biopsy just to make sure there aren’t any other issues, but the vet thinks this was the only problem, and it turned out to be the best case scenario for him.

I’ve been kind of a wreck about Baxter’s health issues. When we first knew there was a problem that was getting worse as time went on but didn’t know what the issue was, my mind immediately went to the worst possible outcome. It occurred to me that maybe Bax was somehow sent to us to make sure we would be okay, and now that we’re okay, he had to go. I couldn’t think about it without bursting into tears. Losing him would be terrible, but pretty low on our tragedy scale. That said, that dog got me through 2010. I was home alone most of the time because anyone I knew who didn’t work had kids, and I wasn’t about to hang out with kids after losing Jillian, so he was my only companion most of the time. I don’t know what I would have done without him. There were days when I only got out of bed because he needed to be walked. I rolled my eyes at myself for thinking of that dumb, smelly dog as some sort of angel, but that’s exactly what he is to me. I was terrified to lose him, and it turns out that there’s a good chance that won’t happen for many years.

So things are going well. I’ve decided to include a picture of my little dude and me. As a random note, the rhododendron behind us didn’t bloom last year. I kept wondering if its lack of flowers last year was somehow connected to our sadness. I mentioned it to Dave last week, and look what happened a few days later. So appropriate.

It’s still so hard sometimes

Despite all the happiness now in my life, sometimes the loss of our little girl is still too much for me to bear. It comes out of nowhere, when I least expect it. Being able to hold Ian while my heart breaks eases the pain, but only so much.

I was holding Ian while I was knitting last night and I was thinking about a baby sweater that I knitted a few weeks ago that I ended up not really liking. I was thinking about throwing it into our Goodwill bag, and then for a second, I thought about putting it on my childhood doll, Andy. Andy is sitting in Ian’s closet. When we found out Jillian was a girl, I bought a new outfit for the doll, and a couple of weeks later washed her hair and curled it, attempting to make her as pretty as she was when I received her as a birthday gift over 20 years earlier. I wanted her to be beautiful for when I passed her down to Jilly.

I thought of that last night, and I remembered the anticipation of our daughter’s arrival. I forget sometimes that we’re not still waiting for her to arrive. She’s already been here and is gone, and there’s a tiny part of my brain that can’t process that she isn’t coming back. I don’t wan to believe it, and part of me can’t. I sat here knitting, staring at her urn and picture, with tears running down my face, while Ian was passed out in my arms, laughing and smiling at something in his dreams. It reaffirms that no matter how blessed we are, no matter how happy I am, there’s always going to be a hole in my heart. It sucks. It hurts. As much as I cherish my little boy and wouldn’t trade him for anything, I still want my little girl.

Happy Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day was very different for me this year. Last year, I woke up with a pit in my stomach, feeling about as lonely as I’d ever been. Today, I woke up to a hungry little peanut who greeted me with a huge smile. I did feel some twinges of sadness throughout the day. I still think of Jillian every day, and it’s hard not to think of who isn’t here on days like this. On top of that, I had to deal with questions and comments about this being my first Mother’s Day all week. It was mostly strangers asking if it was my first, and I didn’t lie. It made things a little awkward for some people, but whatever. Somebody in this house accidentally bought me a card that said “Happy First Mother’s Day” on the front. I’d be giving him a serious guilt trip if I knew he didn’t feel bad enough already. He made sure I had a very nice day, though.

Our March for Babies was yesterday, speaking of days being different. First of all, it wasn’t a constant downpour of rain like last year, which was nice. It did end up pouring, but most of the day was nice. I finally met an internet friend who was so supportive when Jillian was born (hi Sam!). We missed each other at least year’s walk, and somehow she managed to find me this year despite the giant crowd.

One of the other highlights of our day was seeing one of Ian’s primary nurses. She about ripped him out of my arms, which was lovely. He gave her some smiles and told her some stories. My heart melted when she gave him a kiss. We also saw one of the doctors we met while we were there, who happens to be married to the leader of the support group we went to after Jillian died. It’s such a small world.

So it’s been a good weekend. Ian’s going to be four months old on Saturday, which completely blows my mind. We’ve been getting out more and more now that the weather is getting nicer, and he’s more fun to play with every day. In other words, life is still fabulous.