18 months ago yesterday, Theo was born.
18 months ago today, Theo died.
Every day is difficult in its own way, eery day the grief shows itself a little differently. But these big milestones are always the hardest.
18 months ago yesterday, Theo was born.
18 months ago today, Theo died.
Every day is difficult in its own way, eery day the grief shows itself a little differently. But these big milestones are always the hardest.
I took a short break from blogging because I needed to reevaluate if being so open about grief and child loss was still helping me. I think being honest and real about these topics is so important, but it also has some challenges and I wanted to make sure there were still enough benefits for me. Especially as we near Steam Bun’s birth, I expect there to be so many emotions if he lives. I can’t predict what I’ll feel, but I am prepared to face whatever I am feeling head on. That will make some people uncomfortable, because the truth and life can be uncomfortable, and I needed to make sure I was up for dealing with that.
Kenny and I have gotten very specific in our prayers over Steam Bun. We prayed every day for Theo, always asking God to watch over him and keep him safe. Which, technically God is doing, but so not what we meant (obviously). So now when we pray fro Steam Bun we say things like “Please let Steam Bun continue to develop properly, be born alive and screaming, and be born healthy. Please make sure his worst illness isn’t something over-the-counter medicine can’t fix, and make sure he lives on Earth for at least 60 years, dying only after we die. And make sure we don’t die until we are at least 60 years old, and only if we die together”. I used to also throw in something about not going into premature labor, but I’m not as worried about that now. It’s still hard to trust that God will answer our prayers regarding Steam Bun, and I think I’ll be struggling with that for awhile, even if Steam Bun is born healthy.
So I’m on maternity leave now, at the end of my second week actually. It feels like it has been forever already! I’m already ahead of my schedule in terms of completing projects, apparently I work more quickly than I realize (when I want to, lol). Kenny teaches at a university part-time, so I volunteered to do all of his grading and everything for the rest of the semester. Gives me another project to focus on. Lol.
My first project was to remove the koala decal from the nursery and put up the new decal I bought for Steam Bun. It unbelievably sucked to take down Theo’s decal. I cried for most of that, I felt like I was giving up on Theo in a weird way. And there’s no graceful way of removing a decal that size, so many of the koalas and parts of the tree ripped as I was removing them, which made me feel worse. It’s just awful to have to change your child’s room because they died, even if it is to potentially welcome another one home.
Putting up Steam Bun’s decal (owls in birch trees), was easier on me and fun, but part of me thought, “This is going to be a huge pain in the ass to remove if he doesn’t live”. This actually made me laugh, as I remembered Kenny commenting that the koala decal would be a pain to remove when Theo decided he no longer liked koalas. And it just seemed so morbidly funny to be making almost the same comment, a year and a half apart, and yet the comments be so very different.
Putting together Steam Bun’s nursery has such a different feel than when I did it for Theo. With Theo, there was no doubt he would come home. We were past the “safe point” in the pregnancy and naively thought a healthy baby was a given at that point. We naively believed healthy pregnancies end with a healthy baby, that SIDS and childhood cancer were the only threats we faced. And those were things that happened to “other people”.
Now it’s a weird tug and pull, torn between wanting to prepare and be excited for this baby, but knowing that every additional thing I do is just one more thing I’ll have to undo if he doesn’t live. I think we’ll have to move if Steam Bun doesn’t come home. And preparing for Steam Bun has brought up new aspects of grief I didn’t know before. I mourn the rose-colored glasses I used to have regarding pregnancy, but mostly I mourn what Steam Bun is missing out on. As I change the nursery, I’m keenly aware that it’s not changing how it’s supposed to be changing.
At this point in my alternate life (the one in which Theo lives), we would be debating if we should even bother with buying Steam Bun a crib. After all, both the boys would have to share a room and we would eventually need to buy a bunk bed. Would we try to move Theo to a bunk bed now, and let Steam Bun use his crib? Would we keep Steam Bun in our room for as long as possible, to let Theo keep his crib for as long as possible? Would we use this opportunity to change the theme of the boys’ room to a more typical boy theme, like superheroes or dinosaurs?
I’ll never know the answers to these questions.
Instead of talking about how to prepare Theo for having a younger brother and sharing the spotlight, we talk about the best way to tell a younger sibling their older sibling is dead, and when. We talk about if we think Steam Bun will grieve because he sees us grieving, and if that is healthy or not. Instead of learning to prepare an older sibling for a baby, we talk to loss parents about how they deal with handling their grief while parenting a living child.
Steam Bun will never have the older brother he should have. He won’t have an older brother to torment him, play with him, protect him. I’ll never be able to say “go play with your brother” unless I want Steam Bun to play with Theo bear, or an imaginary Theo. And though it’s normal for kids to have imaginary friends, what if Steam Bun says his imaginary friend is Theo?? I realize I’m getting ahead of myself here, but is it normal for a kid to have their deceased older sibling as their imaginary friend? These are the things I think about.
Last weekend we were hanging out at a friend’s backyard and I got so many mosquito bites. It was a last minute thing and I forgot to put on bug spray, not that it helps me much as I am candy to mosquitos. Every time I get a mosquito bite, the bite welts and I will get hives if I scratch it. I wasn’t sure what I’m allowed to use for the bites while pregnant, so I called my doctor to double check. She also gave me a list of symptoms to watch out for (for West Nile Virus, etc.). I was not at all concerned about the bites until then, and now I’m paranoid. Lol. I’ve managed to resist googling WNV + pregnancy so far, hopefully I can keep holding out.
I had appointments with the fire department this week to have the car seat checked in both of our cars. It’s strange driving around with the car seat base in my car again. The car seat itself is in the closet, and there it will remain until we leave for the hospital. But it’s still strange, opening up the door to the back seat and seeing a car seat base. As I walk past cars, I peer in and see if they have car seats or other signs of kids in the car. I wonder what their family is like–have they lost a child? Was the road to the family they have an easy one? I wonder if people will walk past my car and see the car seat base and think the same thing. (This sounds creepier than it is: I’m not going up to each car and sticking my face against the window. Lol. I just glance in as I am walking by.)
I’ve been meticulously saving the receipts and boxes for everything I’ve bought for Steam Bun. Last time, I threw out all the boxes right away and saved receipts for only the big items or the things I wasn’t sure would work. Now I’m saving receipts for even the nightlight I bought, with all of the boxes piled up in the hall closet.
Grief, pregnancy hormones, and loss brain are a dangerous combination. It’s exhausting dealing with all of this honestly. Though I am not wishing for a preemie, I’ll be so grateful when this pregnancy is over. I think Kenny’s looking forward to it being over too. 😉
Since I know I’m having a c-section this time, I’ve been doing research on c-section recovery. My postpartum care last time was definitely lacking, and that can only be partially blamed on me discharging myself against medical advice from the hospital. At my 4-6 week postpartum appointment, I was cleared for exercising and when I asked what kind of exercises were safe to do all I was told was “go slow”. Fortunately, I soon found a loss mom who is also a personal trainer, and she was able to give me really good information on how to safely return to exercise after a c-section. I’ll also be trying a belly binder this time, which I did not know about after my last c-section.
I’ve been off facebook for a few weeks and it’s been so refreshing! I did sneak on to Kenny’s facebook and immediately regretted it. My anxiety and PTSD were immediately triggered, and this only confirmed facebook is no good for me. There is one thing I miss though, a small facebook group of loss moms that focused on mental and physical health after loss. Having that community for support in dealing with PTSD, body image after loss, etc. was so great and I miss it. The loss community is truly like no other. Maybe I’ll try to start something like that locally after Steam Bun’s birth.
This upcoming week I’ll be working on Steam Bun’s baby book. I’m so conflicted about this one. Ugh.
I try really hard not to compare my grief to that of others, or vice versa. It’s not fair for anyone involved–grief is such a unique journey, and there’s nothing wrong with how I’m grieving or how they are.
Sometimes though, I do compare myself to others and think “why am I not there?”. It’s been 14 months and a few days, why I am not able to do/say/think X? Why can she do/feel that, but I can’t? Why am I still dealing with Y and she seems to be over it? Why did Y affect me and not her in the first place?
It’s easy to believe the lie that there’s something wrong with you, your grief, that you’re broken in some way. That you’re behind. That you’re doing grief wrong.
But grief is not a race, there is no winning or losing. There’s no comparing or ranking of grief, there’s no right or wrong.
Some days it’s just harder to remember that than others.
There’s been something I’ve been struggling related to my faith, and this article explains it very well. Specifically these paragraphs:
Feeling guilty about admitting struggles or asking for help is not from God. That guilt comes from our own sin. It’s prideful to think we can do life alone, handling all our problems without the help of others. We need community to walk alongside us in tough times, but more importantly, we need a Savior. Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28).
Rather than pretending to have it together, sometimes the best way to show how God is working in us is to be transparent about our desperate dependence on Him. Doing so puts our inadequacies on display, which can be terribly humbling. But it also shows that we’re human, and that our power to persevere doesn’t come from us, but Christ in us.
This is why it drives me absolutely nuts when Christians say things like “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle”. Or when they brush aside what you are going through and just tell you to “have joy!”.
I am not strong enough to handle my son’s death. No one is. Burying your own child is horrific, and it takes more than anyone can handle. I’m not a big sports person, but my favorite metaphor for God is baseball related. God is not the pitcher in life, He is not determining what trials and joys you experience. God is the coach, there to guide us through life and help us get through it. There is so much about life that is out of our control and more than we can handle. Good and bad things happen, to both good and bad people. It isn’t fair, it is life. And God is there to help us deal with it all.
I still believe in God, and I always will. But Theo’s death impacted every part of my life and shook my faith to the core. The anger and bitterness toward God has come and gone in waves. My anger toward God is less now than it used to be, but it is still there. I’ve gone back and forth on questioning God “why did Theo have to die?”–sometimes I want an answer, sometimes I don’t. I don’t believe everything happens for a reason, so I don’t believe there was a purpose to Theo’s death, but I find myself still wanting to know why he had to die sometimes. I believe God had the power to save Theo but didn’t, and that has brought forth a lot of complicated emotions.
This wrestling with God has brought me closer to Him though. He’s the only one who listened to me unconditionally, and loved me despite all of the names I’ve called Him. He’s been there for every moment, in a way no one else can be. And most importantly, despite the fact that I’m angry with Him for not saving Theo, I take comfort in knowing Theo is in Heaven being watched over by God. I picture God playing with Theo until Kenny or myself is able to play with him. My trust in God, while not perfect, has grown as I’ve turned to Him for help and with everything I am feeling.
Will I ever be at peace with God over Theo’s death? I have no idea, I really don’t. Maybe a few months or years from now I will, maybe it will come and go and it will be something I always have to work on. One is not better than the other, and I’m open to wherever my heart and faith lead me.
Our church talked a few months ago on the importance of joy. The idea is happiness is based on our circumstances (such as a promotion, etc.), but joy is based in our faith in God. You can be going through a difficult time, but still have joy. I guess joy can be described as your overall attitude, but it’s not quite the same. I am trying to figure out what it means to have joy in times of hardship because admitting your problems/struggles is not the same as not having joy. While it seems impossible to feel contradicting emotions at once, it’s not. I have peace in the knowledge that Theo is in Heaven, but the fact that Theo is in Heaven also brings me a lot of heartache. I see the joy and the good in our lives, but I still feel the deep sadness every day too. I think figuring this out is especially difficult considering I will be grieving Theo for the rest of my life.
It’s easy to say that having joy while you are struggling is important, but so much harder to live out. If you are honest about the “bad” emotions you are feeling, you are being too negative. If you keep it to yourself, you’re just pretending to be ok. It’s like you can’t win. Though the comments that I’m still too sad, etc. still sting, I’m learning to tune them out more and more. I’m being authentic in my faith and grief, and figuring this all out the best I can. And the moments (however long or brief they are) of sadness/anger/etc. are not my whole journey: they are one messy part. I realize that currently, this part is what I talk about most so I don’t fault people for not being able to read my mind, but it’s something to remember no matter who you are dealing with. Just because I’m talking a lot about these aspects doesn’t mean it’s all I feel. And there is still so much that is too raw and personal for me to talk about with anyone except Kenny or my therapist.
Like the article touched on, when Christians say “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle” they are minimizing who God is and overestimating our own abilities. No one is perfect, we all have strengths and weaknesses. But none of us are God, and admitting our shortcomings is ok. Saying you are struggling is to see yourself as you are: an imperfect person who, while doing the best they can, needs God. God is greater than us, He can handle everything and when we aren’t honest about what we are going through we are minimizing God. I believe God will take care of me if I turn to Him for help. I wish so, so much that Kenny and I weren’t going through this, but we are, so I’m trying to lean on God more than I ever have.
I’ve been thinking a lot about these things because the holiday cheer is waaaaaaay too overwhelming for me this year. So I’ve been mostly hiding from it, especially this last week.
I think in general, our culture is way too uncomfortable with anything remotely sad and puts way too much pressure on those who have reasons to be sad. You’re always told to “look on the bright side”, and if you are sad too long then it’s “misery loves company”.
Yes, misery does love company. Because those who are sad tend not to pressure others who are sad to “just get it over it”. One of the reasons I love the loss community, even when we aren’t talking about our children, is because there is no pressure to be anything except what I am in that moment. If I’m smiling and happy, great. If I’m sad and miserable, that’s great too. If I’m flip-flopping on my feelings or just feeling a whole lot of nothing, that’s great as well. There are moments and days (even weeks) where I’m able to focus on the blessings and good in our lives, and moments where I can’t. Or won’t. Having moments or days or weeks or more where you just need to sit with the bad is ok, there is nothing wrong with that.
I’m happy for those who are able to have the picture-perfect Christmas this year, and who are caught up in the holiday cheer. I’m jealous of you honestly. But I will forever not be a part of that group. I’m not saying every Christmas will be as difficult as this one, but I will never be a part of that ideal Christmas holiday. Mine will forever be tinted gray, there will always be a looming dark cloud. And I’m ok with that. I’m not going to pretend it is anything but what it is. If that ever changes for me, I’ll adjust and accept what it has become. Basically, I’m just going with the flow on what I’m feeling and I’m not going to pretend to be anything else.
I’m not going to ask you to change how you are feeling either. If you are able to get caught up in the joy of Christmas, I’ll be happy for you. From the sidelines, with a box of tissues in my hand. I’m not going to try to change your mind, just like I ask that you don’t try to change mine.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Heaven lately. What it will be like, and what it means for me as I grieve. And truthfully, while Heaven is mostly comforting, it isn’t completely comforting to me.
I’ve often wondered what relationships will look like in Heaven. I do believe I will be Theo’s mom in Heaven, but will my relationship with him be one as a parent? What I mean is… will I be parenting him in Heaven? Or will we have a relationship more as friends?
I don’t doubt that Heaven is untold joy, peace, and love. That my imagination of that happiness is only a drop in the bucket to what it is actually like. But there are certain things I am confident will never happen in Heaven, and that makes me so sad.
Theo will never get hurt in Heaven. He will never fall down and scrape a knee, never have his heart broken, or a bad day. And that is mostly a good thing, but it hurts because I am missing out on those things. I am missing out on being the one he turns to to kiss his boo-boo and for comfort. I will never be able to help him when he’s upset. Those things won’t happen in Heave, because nothing bad happens in Heaven. And therefore I will forever miss a large chunk of what it means to be a parent. And I have to grieve that.
And though the joy and happiness here on Earth can’t compare to that in Heaven, I also have to grieve all the happiness I won’t be able to watch Theo experience.
Though I can’t say for sure, I tend to believe marriage as we know it on Earth doesn’t exist in Heaven. This is where I wonder about relationships in Heaven the most. Will I be able to watch Theo fall in love for the first time? Will I be able to see him have a marriage, have kids? I tend to think not, I don’t think those things happen in Heaven, at least how I know them now. Maybe they do, maybe they look different than what I expect them to. But I have to grieve that as well.
I have to grieve every part of parenting here on Earth, the good and the bad. I have to grieve missing those late night feedings, the toddler tantrums, him sneaking out at night as a teenager. Disciplining him, watching him participate in whatever after school activities we would have put him in. Him getting a bad grade, him graduating, his first job, first apartment, first time he realizes the world is cruel. All the good and the bad here, I grieve.
Heaven doesn’t fix these heartaches now. When I am in Heaven, I believe these heartaches will be fixed. How, I really don’t know. But I’m not in Heaven right now, so all I can do is deal with this heartbreak and not deny it.
We haven’t gone to church all month. Or, I haven’t. Kenny has a couple times. I’ve been watching old sermons online instead. Our church is just too….Christmas-y for me. I can’t stand seeing all of the happy people, or listen to everyone happily talk about their Christmas plans. The happiness is just too crushing, and I feel like an outsider looking in. I don’t know if our church has acknowledged that Christmas is often painful for people, but I hope they have. The holidays would be a lot more bearable if people didn’t look at you like you were an alien if you weren’t enthusiastic for Christmas.
Aaaaaah, I can’t believe I am saying this!
I booked a space for Theo’s first birthday party!
His birthday party won’t be until February… I realized I just don’t know if I’m going to be up to seeing everyone near his actual birthday. And while everyone we plan on inviting to the party is incredibly supportive and would not make me feel bad, I am a people pleaser and would feel like I have to be “on”. And then if we push it back a week or two, we are at Christmas. And we can’t really have it any earlier, because of Thanksgiving and the fact that October is almost over and I haven’t done any planning… And somehow, our January is already pretty booked so February it is!
And having it so far out will give me plenty of time to put together activities, buy party supplies on the cheap, etc.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m so excited, but it feels so surreal. It’s not the birthday party I ever imagined, but at least we’ll be celebrating him with our loved ones.
I guess over the next few months I’ll be talking about his party and what we are doing to celebrate him!
The guilt over Theo’s death comes and goes. It’s less now than it was in the beginning, and I’ve gone through various stages of blaming doctors and myself and everything else.
I have mostly come to terms with that Theo was beyond current medical knowledge. I’ve made peace with the fact that we’ll probably never get a definite answer (or rather, we’ll never get an answer we like), and the doctors truly couldn’t have truly done anything to save him.
But the one thing that always sends me into a tailspin is when I am asked if my amniotic fluid was ever leaking.
I am so sure it wasn’t leaking, but there is a small part of me that wonders. (This may get TMI…) At a certain point in the pregnancy, you have a tendency to leak a little urine when you cough or sneeze (or laugh). And I wonder, was I mistaken in thinking this wasn’t amniotic fluid? I was so sure it wasn’t, and it was such a small amount… I never felt like I was regularly leaking anything… But could I have missed leaking fluid? What could/should I have done differently?
The other day I was talking to someone, and they asked if my amniotic fluid ever leaked. And thus began the tailspin that lasted the past couple of days.
It got to the point where I needed to check my medical records again (yep, not the first time I have checked my records for this). All ultrasounds confirmed I had a healthy level of amniotic fluid. And I was checked a couple of times to see if I was leaking amniotic fluid, and those tests were negative.
It’s hard to accept sometimes that there are things we just don’t know. Part of me thinks it would be easier to have a definitive answer to why Theo’s lungs didn’t grow (they are pretty certain it is genetic, but are hesitant to say with 100% certainty), but ultimately I know I wouldn’t be happy with that. If they said Theo’s lungs were definitely caused by X, I would be obsessed with knowing what caused X. And then what caused whatever caused X. And on, and on.
Sometimes crap just happens. Accidents happen. Some things can’t be explained in this world. And it sucks.
People tell me I’ll find the answers to Theo’s lungs when I am in heaven. And I just think, I am not going to care at that point. Because I’ll be with Theo.
I have written, deleted, and rewrote this post so many times.
My faith is very important to me, and it has deepened since losing Theo. But I have also wrestled with my faith too.
It’s hard not to feel like I’m being punished. That I did something truly heinous in a past life and I’m paying for it now. Why else would my baby die when thousands and thousands of healthy babies are born to horrible people all the time? I must be more horrible than them.
But I know that’s not true. God isn’t punishing me, He doesn’t think I am undeserving of a child. He loves me, and you, so much.
But it’s easy to feel left behind and forgotten.
I asked God a lot in the beginning “why?”. Why did my baby die, why didn’t he save Theo’s physical life, why, why, why? And a month ago, I realized I needed to stop asking why.
It’s because I truly don’t want to know. I don’t want God to answer that question. There may or may not be a reason, I don’t know, but the truth is I can’t handle there being a reason. To know that there is a reason for a child to die, and for it to make sense, would completely shatter me. I can’t function being in a world where a child dying makes sense.
So I stopped asking God why; I hope he never answers that question. At least, I’m doing my best to not ask that question. It sneaks in sometimes, when I see wonderful people struggling to get pregnant or I hear about someone abusing or killing their own child. But when I start to wonder, I push that out of my mind. I remind myself I don’t really want to know why.
I pray every night still that God will either raise Theo from the dead, or wake me from this nightmare. And in the next breath, I ask God to give me the strength to continue if that first prayer isn’t answered.
Losing Theo has been a real test of trusting God, especially with everything we went through with the genetic results (which now feels like a million years ago). I can say it’s easier for me to trust God now than before we lost Theo, but it’s still a struggle. Knowing that in the end I have little control over the health of my potential future child is so difficult for me to come to terms with. I struggle with and pray about it daily. I pray every day we will have a healthy child who outlives us (and that we live past retirement). I don’t know if it will happen, and that unknown scares me. So I do my best to trust God will carry us through whatever life throws at us, good or bad.
Though I have struggled with God, I feel much closer to him now. He’s been there to hear every emotion I have, whether good or bad. I’ve screamed at him, cried and laughed during prayer. I feel like God gets my pain, and is carrying me through this grief. God is as heartbroken over Theo’s death as I am.
I think it’s safe to say I define myself as a mom. And a large chunk of my identity is as a loss-mom.
But I don’t always want to be defined as a loss-mom.
I posted in a scrapbook group I’m a part of pictures of a few layouts I made for Theo’s baby book. Because he’s hooked up to life support in the photos, I briefly mentioned he died so I wouldn’t have to answer 100 times “Is he ok?”. There were a lot of comments commenting on the layouts themselves, and several commenting on how handsome Theo is. Normal comments that a parent of a child who did not die would have received.
And there were also a lot of comments stating how sorry they are for my loss, and unfortunately a few sharing their stories of lost children. The outpouring of love from complete strangers truly touched me.
But it bugs me how I can’t talk about Theo like a “normal” mom. I can’t make small-talk about Theo with non-loss parents without the sympathy looks. I can’t talk about Theo to strangers without the inevitable coming up: he died. And once that comes up…it all changes. I’m out of their club and into a different club no one wants to acknowledge (except those of us in it).
I ran into a former coworker today and she asked to see a picture of Theo. I happily showed her and she asked who he looked like more. We chatted like that for a couple of minutes. It felt so normal, like what a non-loss mom would get to talk about. It felt so good. And then she noticed that the picture was on instagram and that the caption said “Happy 3 months birthday!”. She commented that it’s been longer than that, and I said yes. I was about to say I could find a more recent picture of Theo and then I realized.
I will never have more recent photos of Theo. I’ll only have my same stories to tell about Theo, the same facts to spout off. Only guesses at where he would be developmentally right now; I can’t tell non-loss parents that I think he would be crawling like crazy and chasing the cats now…because they’ll give me “those” looks.
Theo’s baby book (part 1) is almost complete. His baby book will be two parts-the first part on the pregnancy, the second part on the first year after his birth. Before he died, I was going to do two baby books for him (and all future children) this way. And it feels wrong to deviate from this plan, and only have 1 baby book for him when (hopefully) future living siblings will have 2.
The only thing that is missing are the photos of the clothes, toys, and other baby stuff we bought for Theo. I wanted to take pictures of everything we bought or were given for him so we always remember what was originally his.
I feel really guilty about using his stuff for future siblings. Which is kind of ridiculous, as if he had lived, we would have used his stuff for future babies anyway. But everything of his feels like I can’t touch it. It feels sacred, but not in a good way. We have chosen a few very special pieces that will always just be his–no matter how many living children we have. Those are in a very special box, along with the keepsakes we got from the hospital.
So I had started taking photos of everything–the crib, the playpen, the rocker, clothes, etc. I want to document everything–even the bottles we got for him. I hope this will ease my guilt about using his things for future children, because we would have a record of what was his originally. And this is included in the baby book part 1 because, well, we bought or were given everything while I was still pregnant.
But I’m having a really had time completing this part. Once I take all of these photos and scrapbook them, his book part 1 will be complete. And I am really struggling with that for some reason. The pregnancy is over with–there is nothing I can do now to change the pregnancy. And I was so happy for most of the pregnancy, and most of my memories of it are really good ones. I would have thought scrapping the baby shower or maternity photos we took would be the hardest, but nope, for some reason taking pictures of his stuff is.
My therapist is encouraging me to finish it, she thinks it will really help me. But when I go to my grab my camera to finish the pictures, I freeze. I come up with a lame excuse, and find something else to do. So I’m making a goal–to complete his baby book part 1 by September 30th.