We're a few weeks into summer vacation. The last day of school was a sketchy one for me. Though I celebrated Abby's completion of third grade, it was gut-wrenching to walk by the first grade classrooms as we left campus. I couldn't look at the classroom door that should've been Logan's without intense, painful pangs. Or without the cry that my heart makes every time I allow it to ruminate over what should have been. The near-unbridled wail: God, it's NOT FAIR. I wondered who his friends would've been. Which subjects would've been his strongest. What he'd look like.
The 'what he'd look like' is often the most painful for me. What would he look like at almost seven years old?
And then that phrase blows my mind:
Logan should be almost seven years old. I can't imagine. I'm sure he'd be wonderful and beautiful and smart and kind. But not being able to see him is like a knife digging and twisting in my heart.
Otherwise, we're getting by. Adjusting. Figuring out how life is supposed to be now that things have gone how they shouldn't have gone. I miss him every single day. I fight the urge to smack people who say things like 'wow, you must be busy with three kids.' I have four. Logan will always be part of our family, even if his physical needs are no longer mine to meet. But I'll be honest: It's tiresome to repeatedly remind people that he exists and should be counted. I'll go as far as saying that although I realize no one means ill when they say it, it's a hurtful remark. A deeply hurtful remark, in fact.
So that's where I am, for better or worse.