Baby P

Those who know me well already know the sad part of this story. In March 2009 I was pregnant. I didn't stay pregnant. It was and still is the hardest thing I've dealt with. 

Every March since then I've done things I wouldn't normally do. Whether I'm looking for some twisted form of comfort or acceptance, who the hell knows. It's how I deal apparently. This year was no different. 

I know people say you shouldn't but I blame myself for the loss. I should have gone a little easier. I shouldn't have stressed so much. I should have prepared better. It was my fault and every March I remember. Every March hurts. Every March I do stupid things. I don't know if it's an odd form of grieving or healing or just me being nutso but I do it. Every March. 

I saw this thing that's been going around about a mother who turned her sons grave into a sandbox so his brother could play with him. Maybe you've seen it? If you look closely and read the headstone there is a sweet poem written there. I loved it so much. This year I used it to write my own words to our baby that we never got to see. 

To my tiny Baby P:

You are my angel, my darling, my star,

And my love will find you,

Wherever you are. 

Although you were in our lives for mere moments, we both love you so very much and think about you often. Watch over your younger brother and sister for us, my precious angel. 

Love,

Mommy

It's not much but it makes me cry every time. In my head I always add, "I'm sorry I failed you and couldn't keep you safe."

March sucks.