That August - in my 16th week - I had a missed miscarriage.
This is an open letter to my baby in heaven:
I don't even know if you were a boy or a girl. In my mind, I imagine you as a girl. A little girl with bobbed curls, dimpled cheeks and bright eyes. You are the little sister, Norrin asks for. I would have named you Leia.
There is not a day that passes that I do not think of you. But the days in August and January are the ones that make my heart ache the most. August is when I lost you and I mourn for my loss. And January, I mourn for you and all the things you could have been.
As I shop and prepare for Norrin's 8th birthday. I think of you. And I have to stop to catch my breath and blink my tears away. I think about how fun three can be. And what party theme you would have wanted.
I think about how unfair my grief is to Norrin. It's hard to celebrate another year of life, when I am reminded of loss. When he sees me crying, he sits besides me and asks if I've been watching a sad movie. And I envy his innocence. He is unaware I am crying for you.
On the 20th, I hold my tears in. It is Norrin's day and I celebrate him. When we light his candles, I think about all the progress he's made over the course of the year. And when he blows out the candles, I make a wish for Norrin and say a prayer for you.
While I was pregnant, people asked me if I was scared of having another child with autism. But this week as I think of you at three years old. I don't think of autism or special education or more therapists in our home.
All I think about is how much joy you would have brought us. I think about how I would have loved tucking you in and reading you bedtime stories. I think about what an awesome big brother Norrin would have made. I think about how wonderful it would have been for Norrin to have a sibling, to have someone else in this world, someone he could depend on after I am gone. I think about all the memories and milestones we have been denied.
I think how much I would have loved to hold you, even if just once.