Dear Wee One
You would have been 3 months old this week. We probably would have had a party, you, me and the dog. I'd have made you both wear paper hats - the kind with elastic.
I may still make the dog wear a paper hat. It does so amuse me to dress her up.
Your grandparents left on Monday. We spent a gorgeous weekend being lazy, wandering around the various markets, playing scrabble and just generally enjoying one another's company.
When they arrived, your Grandy brought me two bags of mini Reese's Cups. Needless to say there are no more left. Not even the hint of dark brown paper nests or gold tin foil.
I still feel slightly nauseous, but in a good way.
I wish I could say that everything was grand. That whenever I think of you, it is completely without any sadness or devastation. For the most part, little one, it is with a kind of resigned happiness but some days. . . some moments. . . whoa. The pain is so intense, it just comes at me like a freight train, all grinding noise and smoke. And that I haven't been researching taxidermy and preservation methods like a demented person based on a series of recurring dreams in which you and I wander around town with you in a baby bjorn. Because THAT would not be at all weird.
You're coming home tomorrow, finally ready for collection from the Funeral director's. The kicker is that I had one thing I wanted to achieve before going back to work - the one silly, over-emotional thing that I really needed to have done, I don't know that I'll be able to. I wanted to find a little nest for my baby bird to play in. And I haven't been able to do that yet. Cue eating ice cream on the sofa in my pajamas and crying because I feel like a failure as a mama. Even though, rationally, I know I'm not a failure and the very nice therapist is helping me work through these types of feelings to become the better version of myself.
In other news, the upside of doing a genealogy project for your Dad's family is that I found some amazing photos to send to Wales and to Suffolk. And I will be able to provide the geneticist with a frighteningly thorough family tree. One side goes back to the early 11th Century.
And now you know why we tend to not do any genealogy here.