Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about other moms and dads who have lost babies by miscarriage or stillbirth. I used to think that the distant look of intense sadness and longing was a hallmark of cliché writing and not something that actually happened until I saw it. The first person I saw it in was a really sweet person who has one daughter but no other children even though I know she very much wanted them (though I don’t know what her journey to concluding that her one baby would be all entailed). I saw that look when I told her I was expecting you, Jude.

She smiled, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. Her eyes looked heavy and haunted, as if she were suddenly remembering something very painful. I have no idea what that looks like in me, but I know what it feels like. Nearly every time I see a birth announcement or a pregnancy announcement or a mom and her toddler and her belly at Target, the gnawing starts. It took ages to pinpoint my feeling. It wasn’t jealousy; no, I didn’t want their lives. I like mine just fine. It wasn’t anger or resentment; how could I begrudge anyone a healthy, happy baby? No. It was something else. It was an aching sadness, a reminder of you…of the fact that you’re not here, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Today marks eight months since you were born still, and I think the anesthesia is starting to wear off. The reality that I can’t hold you is sometimes more painful to bear; where my emotions didn’t previously bubble to the surface so quickly, they do more so now. Last night, I was reading a post by another mother who’d lost her child about her family portrait, and I realize that ours will always have a space filled by a little angel. Some families take photos with stuffed animals to symbolize their little angel baby, and I’ve thought of this…of taking a photo with Jude Bear, so that you’re “there” in a way. I try to not get too attached to that little white bear because I know it’s not you, but when I go to bed at night, it makes me feel better to hold it close to my stomach. I don’t know why, but it does.

Oh, my little Jude. It’s hard to believe that today, you could be eight months old, crawling…babbling…eating baby food, and maybe even pulling up. You’d be scooting around in the Joovy Spoon walker; I can’t even imagine what Lillianne would be doing with you or to you. I’d like to think she’d be a generous big sister to you and would take care of you and love on you in spite of her own needs, which as you know are many given she’s only two and still very much a baby herself.

I know you know this, but I need to say it out loud: you will always be my perfect middle child, my son, and no matter what happens, you cannot and will not be replaced. No one has dared to suggest that to me, ever, but I wanted to say it. I wanted to say it for you and for me and for anyone who might disagree. Life happens so quickly, and I’m thankful for all that does and will filter through the prism of life.

I think it’s okay to be happy and sad at the same time. I think it’s okay to ache for my own sorrow during times of others’ joys…while also being truly happy for them and prayerful that they never (please God), never know my grief. I can’t speak for all mothers whose babies are in heaven or whose miracles never came, but I know that’s how I feel. I also think it’s okay to go to bed at night clutching a little white teddy bear that was given to me with a box of brief memories at the hospital instead of my baby boy warm in a blanket.

Though I’m thankful, I am sorry that I have a stuffed animal to cuddle instead of you and that you never got to know your sister (or rather, that she never got to know you…it’s my assumption that you’re all-seeing now and that you watch over us). I’m sorry that your father is so distraught in his own way over losing you. You complete us, you see. It’s not your fault you’re not here, and it’s not our fault or anyone’s fault. It’s just that our lives on Earth aren’t complete, and they never will be. A huge part of my soul lives in Heaven with you, and though I can wait, I’ll be so happy when I can feel complete again. I love you. Happy eight-month birthday, my Jude.