I wake up tired, the kind of tired that coffee doesn't touch.
My days are full of normal activities: breakfast preparations, breaking up sibling squabbles, picking up toys, loading kids in the car for errands and activities, breaking up more squabbles, picking up more toys.
But my brain isn't normal at all. My thoughts are hazy, disjointed. When I talk to friends, I ramble, or I don't say much of anything at all.
I crave time alone and also I feel isolated.
"The baby died," my two year-old says, in the middle of her afternoon play. "The baby died."
"Yes," I say. "She did."
I don't cry then, nor do I cry when my four year-old prays at bedtime. "Dear God," she says. "Please put another baby in Mommy's belly."
She pauses then continues, "The kind that doesn't die."
"Amen," I say simply and kiss her forehead.
Later though, when all is finally quiet and still, I ignore the crumb-littered floors and the toys strewn on the carpet. I crawl into my own bed, and the tears come with such force that I struggle to catch my breath.
It's been one month since we said goodbye.