Kit would be 2 years old today.
I know exactly what a 2 year old little girl is like–I’ve already raised 4–the little soft baby-hair pig tails, the pull-ups, the toddling walk and chubby legs.
What makes the grief of losing a baby so difficult is the mother/baby bond. My body can’t stop looking for her.
A baby grows in the mother, then depends on her for everything, and then less and less and less as the baby becomes a child, becomes a teen, an adult.
That less and less is beautiful and needed and wonderful, and it is a slow letting go that the mother must do to allow the child to become the adult person they were created to be.
I had to let go very fast. Actually, I didn’t let go at all, she was pried from my fingers.
There was no handing off of And-Now-This-Is-Yours with her self-care and self-feeding, her running and climbing. There was no letting her adventure further and further out until she was on her own. My body can’t stop looking for her.
We frost pink cupcakes again, but we don’t sing. We bring flowers to her grave, and drive away somewhere far and quiet.
She won’t be there, either.