Ask any grief-stricken mother. Our answers are all the same.

“What are you scared of?”

That our babies will be forgotten.

It really doesn’t matter if our babies only lived a few days, a few weeks or 50 years….we’re all scared that somehow their memory will fade away over the years. That future generations will build their family trees and there will be no mention of them.

I’m also terrified that I’ll forget. Not that I’ll forget him though. He is a part of me the same way the moon and stars are part of the night sky.

I’m scared I’ll forget the little things about Ollie.

The way he danced in our first ultrasound and would suddenly freeze when the dopplar was right on him. “Stage fright!” we called it.

The way he fluttered in my belly and caught me by surprise the first time as I was just sitting down at my desk one morning.

The way he was stubborn when we were trying to find out his gender and the way he sucked his thumb and kicked his foot up on his knee like he couldn’t be comfier.

The way his little hands looked liked miniature versions of his daddy’s when he was born or how he had the tiniest amount of peach fuzz on his head, so tiny we couldn’t tell what color it was.

The way he smelled of lavender after I put a few drops on his knit cradle.

The way his little feet were so long and the way his little nose looked like just like all my nieces and nephews did when they were born.

The way it felt to hold a piece of my heart outside my body.

I never want to forget the little things because it’s the only memories I have to hold on to. This is why I speak of him so often, even when I can tell it makes other uncomfortable. Because if it’s how I keep his memory alive.

It’s how I mother him from this side of the grave.

It’s how I remember I’m a mother too.