Happy Birthday little guy.
I wish I could meet the one-year old you. I don’t even know what one year olds are supposed to be like. Walking around I guess, not talking yet? Maybe still crawling. Eating solid foods I suppose. How big are you supposed to be now? 20 pounds? 30 pounds? 40?
I love you. I still can’t really say your name, Wren, out loud without starting to choke up. Most of the time I’m in the car by myself I cry a little. I blame myself for your death. Nothing matters anymore but you and Tweeny. I made epubbud for you but who cares?
If only we’d never seen the fucking “Business of Being Born.”
If only we didn’t live in hippy dippy Santa Monica.
If only we couldn’t afford to do a home birth.
If only there had been some pregnancy complication.
If only the OBs had told us WHY we shouldn’t do a home birth.
If only the OBs had explained GBS to us.
If only the OBs had called when the positive test results came back.
If only my birthday hadn’t been on March 4th.
If only we didn’t go to Vegas for my birthday.
If only you came a day later.
If only you came a few days earlier, while we were in Vegas.
If only the midwives fucking gave a shit about GBS back then.
If only they’d stuck around longer.
If only anybody else was around, and maybe recognized labored breathing.
If only we’d been better at googling “baby makes breathing noise.”
If only we’d gotten a pediatric appointment for the same day.
If only I hadn’t laid you on my chest and read a magazine.
If only I hadn’t been wearing a red shirt.
If only I’d done some research.
If only I didn’t get stuck in one frame of mind.
If only we hadn’t been so goddamnned smug.
Happy Birthday Wren.