Last Saturday should have been my boys’ 2nd birthday. It was a very peaceful day. We went to the national park we visited on their first birthday last year, which we also visited when I was heavily pregnant with them.
It was very different to their first birthday. There weren’t as many tears, for one. Charlie was there, also, instead of in my belly making me anxious (for those not in the know, on our sons’ first birthday I was also 36+4 weeks pregnant with Charlie, the exact gestation we found our boys’ hearts had stopped beating).
I still find it unbelievable that I didn’t shed a tear at the national park, and I felt kind of guilty for it on the drive home. When we got home, though, my phone came to life with messages from my family and friends. And those messages got the tears flowing.
The following Monday I checked the mail to find my boys’ had even received birthday cards and one of my friends had named a star after them. I feel so blessed to have friends who honour my boys like that and help me keep their memory alive. Sometimes it feels like a pretty tough job, especially being that I’m surrounded by a select few (ie: my partner’s family) who won’t even say my boys’ names, let alone celebrate their birthday. Thank you to everybody that reminded me it’s a job I’m not doing alone.
Thank you for remembering my boys.