It’s July of 2012, it’s been almost 8 years since you left. I don’t know why I write these at the most random times. Maybe it’s because I’m sitting here, watching my beautiful daughter sleep and wishing you could meet her.
Oh Mom, I wish you could hold her. She has the softest skin I’ve ever felt. She’s delicate and precious and absolutely beautiful. She smiles all the time, Mom. Sometimes for no reason, she’ll be looking off into the distance, and she’ll smile. I always wonder if she sees you, or maybe Grandma. She blew raspberries the other day. Soft little raspberries with plenty of drool. They were perfect. She is perfect.
Mom, you wouldn’t believe how big Gavin is! He’s walking! He walks all over the place, his chubby little feet against the hardwood floor is such a sweet sound. He gets excited and tries to go faster then he’s capable of, and when he falls he gets right back up and keeps going. I hope he does that forever – getting back up when times are hard. He has the strength inside of him, it comes from you and all the women before me. He’s smart too, Mom. He picks up on things and mimics and laughs. I can’t get enough of how much he makes me laugh.
And Brenden. Our amazing fighter, our survivor. He graduated from physical therapy. He’s making strides in speech and occupational therapy! He’s so smart, and so curious and full of stories. He loves to talk and has been trying his hand at knock knock jokes. He’s going into first grade this year, and will have an IEP and will have some in-class assistance. He’s going to rise above this, whatever this is, that’s holding him back. He’s too smart and too handsome. He amazes me every day, even when he’s annoying his brother. Now I know what you went through and dealt with, and I’m sorry we were such pains. If I could go back and not be like that, I would.
I wish you were here. I wish you could see my babies. I hate that you were taken from me while I was pregnant for the first time – I needed you. I still need you. They asked Ian to iron his shirts at work, and I don’t know what I’m doing. You were supposed to teach me this, amongst so many other things. I hate not having you here, Mom. I miss you.
It’s late, and our little princess will wake up in a couple of hours to have a bottle and go back to sleep. I’ll give her kisses for you. I’ll give them all kisses for you.
I love you.