Five

Update: Weston's five-month birthday was December 7. I posted after midnight on December 7, but apparently Blogger's clock is off, because it says I posted December 6. My brain is mush, but not that bad: I do, in fact, remember my son's birthday accurately. Here is the original post.

Dear Weston,
Today you would have been five months old. If you had been born on time, rather than 16 weeks early, you would be about five weeks old. Happy Birthday. If you were here, I would be gazing at your smiling face right now.

Christmas is coming, and our family is observing Advent for the first time this year. I had been thinking about various Christmas traditions for a couple of years, but YOU inspired our inaugural Advent "celebration" this year.

I can't believe you have been gone over four months. You cannot imagine how much I miss you and how much I wish you were here. Your absence is unbearable.

In the past few weeks, I have done some things in your honor. I have donated to some charities and will donate to a handful more during Advent. Throughout my life, I have given to charities here and there (and one every month for years), but now I seem to discover another one every week that tugs on my heartstrings. After watching you struggle so much during your entire life and then losing you, it hurts me to see children suffering.

Also, I made Thanksgiving cards for the babies in the NICU where you lived and died (the people who read this blog already know about this). I did not mention you on the card, because I don't want to remind the parents of those sick babies that some babies do not make it out of there. They need to hold onto hope.

A couple of days ago, K, the family support specialist from the NICU, called me to check in. She knew it was me who dropped off the cards because someone else recognized me in the lobby. How they recognized me with my red, puffy, tearstained face is a mystery, but they did. Anyway, K said that the cards are everywhere in the NICU right now: one at every baby's bedside. She said she thinks of you every time she sees the cards. The fact that people think of you brings me more comfort than you can even imagine.

I wish I could write your name everywhere. And it makes me happy to know that my little donations might help another sick child. But I feel like it's so inadequate. I just wish I could do more. Nothing I ever do, for the rest of my life, will measure up to you or be good enough for you. But I will die trying.

You have changed me. I am doing some good things as a result of being your mother. But I have also done some things I am not proud of. Yesterday, for example, I took your big sister to the grocery store. I put her in a cart when we were leaving, so I could get everything to the car. She wanted to sit in the back of the cart, so I lifted her in and told her to stay seated. A man sitting there saw this and yelled to me, "Don't let her stand up! A little girl did that, and she died."

Weston, I wanted to hit him in the face. I would never have actually done so, because I have to be a good example to your big sister, and I want to make you proud of me. And I also would rather not go to jail. I was angry at him for giving me, a stranger, parenting advice. (This is one of my pet peeves.) He was judging me, and I hate that. I wanted to tell him, "I know ALL about children dying, thank you. Please mind your own business."

Instead, I just shot him daggers with my eyes and walked away. I should have given him the benefit of the doubt: he was just trying to help, etc. But I didn't. However irrational, I am still angry at him for saying what he said.

A big event has happened since your last birthday: you have a new cousin! His name is Silas. If you had been born on time, you would have only been three weeks older than he is. You, Silas, and his big brother Jude would have been buddies for life. Some religions believe we all used to be in heaven, and then we come to earth as babies. I like that. It means that you and Silas (and your other cousins, should-be playmates, and your big sister, of course) used to play together. I wish so badly that your aunt and I could watch you boys play together here.

I have not dreamed about you since before you were born. And I have learned recently that parents almost never dream about their dead children. Why is that? I wish you would come visit me in my dreams. But if that is not possible, can you please visit someone else who loves you in their dreams? There are so many people who love you; you know who they are. Then they can tell me about their dreams of you, and I can have a little piece of you that way. That would make me so happy. If I can't have you here, a visit in a dream from you is the only thing I want for Christmas.

You are the most beautiful boy. I carry you in my heart, always.

I love you,
Mommy