You would have been three months old today.
I can picture three months. It was at around this time that we put Shea in the jumparoo for the first time, that he was rolling all over his quilt on the floor, that he always seemed to be laughing, and pushing off of any person or object with his strong legs. I look at your picture and wonder what your smile would have been like.
I have to keep reminding myself that you would not have been like Shea. You would not have been a happy, healthy, strong baby. That your road - and ours - would have been so heartbreakingly hard, if you had lived, and that you may have suffered from being compared to your bouncy big brother.
This anniversary does not seem as sad. Maybe time and distance is healing my heart. Maybe I'm delusional, and next month I'll be sobbing on the floor again. Maybe I'm more focused on the future than I was before. Or maybe I've just grown used to that ounce of pain that is always hovering in my peripheral vision.
Your daddy sent me a copy of the photos he'd saved on his phone, and I realized there was a rare one of you without tape on your face. We don't have many of those from your short life. It's the photo he used to show me what you looked like, when I was still paralyzed from the anesthesia, and he could go to the NICU to see you. It's striking how much you look like a "normal" newborn, with no clue as to the terrible journey we'd take together. Still, it makes me smile.
Good night, sweet Harper.
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