I’ve become one of those mother’s I wrote about loathing.

Seamus is now 7.5 months old, and for the most part he’s the most lovable little boy.

Except at night.

He doesn’t sleep. I haven’t slept longer than a 45 minute stretch in a week. About 4 days ago I found myself complaining about my lack of sleep and how exhausting it is being his mother and how I just wanted a few hours rest. And I did so without much thought of consequence.

Later that night when I awoke for the third time before midnight from a quick slumber I was greeted by that crushing feeling that I am all too familiar with. I was swallowed by a swell of fresh grief. My daughter is dead. She’s gone. She isn’t coming back. Ever.

How dare I complain? How dare I become one of those mother’s that I cursed and swore on? I cried until there were scabs under my eyes wishing for nights like these, and now, here I am, wishing them away.

Being Seamus’s mother is difficult right now, but he will grow, and he will sleep eventually. Everlee won’t. These sleepless nights are hard  but it will never compare how to how hard it is to be Everlee’s mom. It will never compare to those sleepless nights where my heart lurched in my chest, aching for the sound of a crying baby begging to be soothed.

The guilt over losing her makes me love every moment with my boys so fiercely that I don’t want to spare one second of my time with them. I have to cherish those ticks on the clock, even when they’re late at night.

No matter how tired I am, the next moment isn’t promised.