Not much has been easy, lately. Wyatt would have turned 1 years old, had he lived until Feb 19th, 2017. To celebrate our son, I invited our siblings and their spouses out to dinner. One of our favorite spots sells the best-ever shrimp appetizer, so we all met there for a good meal. We laughed and caught up about all sorts of things. I kept in good spirits, because I was actually happy. I even brought a photo of Wyatt to place on the table. Nobody thought it was awkward, or at least, nobody told me so.
Then it was time for dessert. The waiter placed a couple of choices in front of us, and I brought out the blue and white candle in the shape of a “1”. I dropped my head and started to cry in front of them all. It couldn’t be helped. My husband placed his hand on my back and whispered, Oh, honey.
There have been more days like that moment, than not. I don’t feel I am getting better. I don’t feel I am forgiving God for Wyatt dying. I don’t feel positive and happy. There will be glimmers of goodness, but full days and weeks of happiness, no.
My sister-in-law honored her nephew by giving us all candles. She hot glue gunned cute little hummingbirds to each individual bag, and gave them all out as presents. I love her so much. She loved Wyatt so much.
I miss my baby.