He would be six years old this month. Had I been able to carry him that is.
He should have been born into my arms instead of pulled from the wrong place in my body by a doctor’s cold knife. All of us should be celebrating his sixth birthday. He should be jamming to AC/DC with his daddy, crawling under the car with him, falling asleep in his arms while begging to stay up “just a little longer”. I should be kissing scuffed knees, laughing while he twirls an entire plate of spaghetti onto his fork, and checking to see if he washed behind his ears. We should be cheering him on at t-ball games, giving him “that look” when his teacher says he was being the class clown, and we should be arguing about whose turn it is to get out of bed on Saturday mornings to make his breakfast. We should be three, not two.
My oldest niece was born a year later, to the month. I hold her tight, and my heart nags that someone is missing. I watch her milestones, and wonder what my child should be doing. I’m glad for her decision to be in our lives, and I cherish her and her little sister.
Happy Birthday Niece1. I hope you are having so much fun celebrating at Disney.
Happy Birthday to you too My Baby. I miss you.
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