There are other miseries in life, I realise, which are less in comparison to the loss of our babies but miserable none the less. It is such a contrast this misery I feel today. Here I am aching for Zia to have had an opportunity to grow and yet I ache too for Brady to stop growing so fast. Today was his first day back at school and it was hard to let him out into a world where he isn't the only child, where is isn't the centre of attention, where is just one of many. A world where other kids have siblings and he doesn't. A world where there is no mum or dad with him every second of the day. My son, now five and a half is growing and someday he won't need me. But I will always need him. It's hard being a loss parent. You miss the child remaining more than usual, you need them more than is necessary, you are bordering lost any time you have to be away from them. Today I am simply miserable, that he is in the category of eldest and only child as his school form states. I am miserable I had to complete a form at all. I miss my son, I miss my daughter.

Oh, Jo-Anne, my heart stopped when I read this. After 2 miscarriages and Max's stillbirth, I also am convinced that my only living child will remain the eldest and only. I am struggling with thoughts of kindergarten starting this fall. I struggle with her ever-growing independence. I struggle with fear of "over-mothering" her. Yet again I need to thank you for so eloquently saying what's been an ache in my heart. I think of you and Zia often. Sending love...

Jo-Anne,
I still hate being away from my kids 5 years later. You described how I feel very simply and clearly, that I am borderline lost when I am not with them.
You we not alone. It is hard.

You are not alone.

My two older girls are now both at school as well. I feel so lost, I miss them and oh how I ache for my boy. I totally get what your saying. I do need them more, miss them more. I hate how I just have to endure this, as there is nothing I can do to change it.

I'm with you Jo, in every possible sharp and brutal angle of this story. I hate that Aahir is the only child in his class whose mom does not bring a sibling to pick him up, he's always gazing at and raving about his friends' siblings when they don't even look at their siblings, that he's crazy about the relationship Peppa Pig has with her little brother George, and that he tells me sometimes that it's okay if I don't have another baby, that 'you, I and Baba will have a lot of fun,' and at other times he tells me he's very sad that Bonu did not get to have any fun with us. It fails my words, this monumental unfairness. I too hate that he's growing up too fast, and in my double grief of losing Raahi and not being able to get pregnant, I'm sometimes half absent in his life. I too fear 'over-mothering' him Carole, and I see how his personality has changed from the daredevil, spontaneous, fearless little boy before Raahi died, to this meek, lonely, confused, very shy little boy. He often talks and acts like a baby because he tries to soothe my broken heart, and fill its void, he often nags and whines because he's sure that's the language I want to hear. He's otherwise such a happy kid, but he's changed, as have we. There's always a gaping hole among us, always a what-if. Aahir has also begun to not want to go to school these days, and he overtly states he wants to be home with Mommy. I think you all know that that's what I want too, but I send him still.

I'm with you Jo, and Carole and Diana and Karen. I think grief is not only about grieving the absent child, but also grieving the person you thought you could be with your living child. It has forever changed me, and I hate that it changed the way I mother Aahir. More sometimes, less sometimes, but always differently from the way I used to.

Thinking of you, and all your children, and holding them in my heart,
Mrittika