Written August 3, 2003, 20 days before Emma died. I find that so ironic, it was not long at all before she left me. This just gives you a glimpse of my feelings for her. I've been thinking of this poem a lot lately, as Amelia is doing much the same things Emma was when she died. She is crawling, playing with toys, and playing with me just like Emma did. It is hard for me, daily, not to call her Emma. I catch myself everyday.
Seth is sick. It came on very suddenly. His friend, Aurora, has been over all day. They left and he wanted a snack. I gave him some pudding and he didn't want it. That should have been a clue, but it wasn't. Then he wanted spaghetti. I gave him that and he barely touched it. Again, this should have given me some inkling that something was wrong. It wasn't until he was sitting with me, asleep, that he threw up everywhere. That was my clue. Sometimes we need to be smacked in the face (or puked on) to realize when something isn't right. Ugh. I hate when he doesn't feel good. It is the worst. My poor little bub.
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