I feel like I've been thrown back in time. Ricocheting between today's reality and various points in time over the past year. One year ago, I was counting down the days until our 20 week anatomy scan, eager to see if our Little Tater Pop was a boy or girl. Today, I'm thinking of how to mark the first anniversary of her death, not her first birthday.
For whatever reason, it seems like the one year mark is held up as the finish line for surviving the loss of a child. Survive the first year, and you're good. Maybe so. But the weeks leading up to it are crap.