The Letter.

When I was pregnant with Cici I read in a magazine about a mother who wrote her children a letter each year on their birthday, and then saved them up for her kids to read when they were adults. For some reason this idea really appealed to me (maybe because it sounded a helluva lot easier than scrapbooking, a phenomenon I'll never completely understand), and I've written Cici and Ruby letters every year since they were born. I write about how they grew and changed over the year, how they spent their days and what we did together as a family, and I talk about big events that took place or trips we took together. It's something I put a lot of effort into, and usually by the end the letters are pages and pages long and I'm blubbering at the computer while thinking about how much I love my girls. Then I print them off, seal them up, and throw them in the baby books.

Ruby's birthday is next Wednesday, and this is about the time I'd start to write her letter. This year I'm dragging my feet, and I know exactly why I'm doing it -- I don't want to relive the nightmare of last summer. I know it's something she'll want to hear about when she's older -- she'll have the scars for the rest of her life -- and it's probably good to write about it now while it's all still fairly fresh in my memory. The thing is, I know that talking/writing about what she went through, and what Dadam and I went through at her side, is going to be upsetting and make me cry and feel terrified all over again. And the thought of spending even one moment in a world without Ruby in it is enough to bring me to my knees with grief, so I guess I'd rather go downstairs and snuggle on the couch with my Sunshine Girl before she goes to bed.