It's July of 2013.  Connell popped some buttons on my keyboard the other day and made Facebook show me statuses from August 2011:

The kids and I may have missed the earthquake, but this baby is doing his/her very best to make sure I have a chance to know how it felt! S/he's already a wiggle worm... only the size of a avocado and already proving to be a soccer player!

I posted that 10 days before we lost Andrew.  When I read those words I vividly remembered the joy of those days and then quickly found myself feeling the raw emptiness I felt in the weeks after I left the hospital.

And I cried.  A lot.

I went to mass with just Connell a few weeks ago.  Katie was an alter server and Jillian was at a youth conference in Steubenville.  The guys were on their way to a soccer tournament.  A family walked in and said hello with their four beautiful little boys.  Their youngest was born on the day Andrew was due.  He was born perfect and beautiful.  He's a rolly polly happy toddler now with blue eyes and dimples that make your heart giggle.   They named their son Andrew, too.  I felt jealous and conflicted.  I want my own Andrew, but if Andrew had lived I wouldn't have Connell.  Maybe I should just take joy in watching their Andrew grow up.

I can't.  Not yet.  I'm still hurting and wondering if it will ever stop.  Part of me is missing.

I was given a lot of advice and words of wisdom in the days and weeks after our loss.  Some of it was unknowingly cruel. (Please don't tell a grieving mother it was meant to be.  Those are not comforting words.)  Some of it was extremely kind (Some people used his name... and that made him feel so real.  I appreciated that.)  But one person told me that it's okay to hurt; the hurt will never go away.  I will slowly find myself surprised at how many days I can go without tears.

I'm up to 10.