Watching my happy 10-month-old pull himself around our living room, I thought to myself, “Man, we are so lucky.”
My heart instantly sank.
It’s not that we aren’t blessed. We are.
It’s not that this babbling redhead isn’t the happiest baby around. He is.
He’s healthy and growing and grins joyfully when he catches your eye.
It’s that I’ve been dreading this day for almost three years. The day when my heart felt lucky again.
Felt blessed again.
Forgot, for a split second, that it will never be complete.
That there is a piece missing permanently in the shape of a sweet redheaded boy who never got to babble.
A hole never intended to be filled, and yet, somehow feels a bit less raw with a home fuller than it once was.
We are lucky – and we’re not.
Two beautiful children at home and one sweet boy watching over us.
His absence is both more palpable or quieter, depending on the day.
Today, it’s unmistakable.
We are lucky – and we know it.
That kind of loss, the loss of a child, the loss of your heart – it makes everything more intense.
The intensity that caused my heart to sink and to simultaneously swell because I know what it feels like to not see your child as a 10-month-old, scaling the walls and bopping his head to a beat.
So this beautiful sight?
Today, it also feels really lucky.