Remember, remember...

Your sister remembers you. At least, she remembers that you grew inside mummy's tummy.

She remembers looking forward to your arrival and being confused when we told her that you wouldn't be coming home, after all.

She looks at your photograph. She holds your toy bear.

She asks questions about where you are and if you will ever come back.

She talks about you at nursery. Yesterday, her friends shared their stories of lost pets and grandparents.

She is proud to be your big sister.

I think she remembers that nearly one year has passed.

Wishin' and hopin'

My daughter seems keen for a sibling. She is a bit confused, though, and thinks that any future baby we may conceive will be Monty. I've tried to explain that Monty won't come back and that it would be a different baby, a new one. "A sister baby?" Maybe.

We talk about babies quite often. Many of my daughter's friends have younger brothers or sisters. Most of my friends from antenatal group have gone on to have second children. I had thought that I would be one of the first to 'complete' my family but now it seems I will be the last. I know it is neither a competition nor a race but I am beginning to wonder if/when we might be blessed with another baby.

I have kept all the baby clothes, equipment and books that I bought for my daughter. They were stored neatly in plastic crates in a cupboard in the spare room but, since Monty died, I have moved them up into the attic. I can't have them staring at me, reminding me of the baby I've lost and putting unspoken pressure on me to conceive again.

If we are to have another baby, I need serendipity. I can't try too hard - not like I did when I tried to conceive Monty. I desperately want my daughter to have a sibling to grow up with but I'm scared to make an emotional investment in a child that might never be.

I never thought that my second pregnancy would be my last and I would dearly love to be pregnant again and have another baby. So, I wish and hope that, one day, we will be lucky.

Hold that thought

My daughter has asked me twice this week "Is the baby is your tummy now?"

The first time, we were messing around, playing boats. We had put the sofa cushions on the floor and were rocking and reeling to 'Row the Boat'. She lifted up my T-shirt, poked at my navel and posed the question. The second time, we were in the car on our way to the optician. It was a question shouted from the backseat whilst I was driving; part of the toddler monologue that forms the new soundtrack to every journey we make.

We have been told that young children take longer to process grief and that it's normal for them to ask questions for months or years after the death of a family member or pet. Perhaps my daughter is still just trying to work out what happened to her brother? Or perhaps babies are on her mind because we met up with a friend and her toddler and 7-week-old baby?

It was lovely to catch up with my friend and her girls. We went on maternity leave a few weeks apart, so I hadn't seen her since the beginning of October. The two older girls played nicely together whilst we chatted and the baby slept. After the baby had woken and had some milk, my friend very kindly asked me if I'd like to hold her. I said yes, although I was a bit nervous about how I'd feel.

I needn't have worried - it was fine. In fact, it was better than fine. It was nice to hold a tiny baby again. It felt comfortable. Maybe, one day, I'll hold another of my own...

My daughter saw me holding the baby and came over to have a look. She asked questions about the baby. We practised saying her name, confirmed that she likes milk and sleeping, and described the babygro she was wearing. The conversation probably reminded my daughter of her big sister book.

That's probably why she's wondering if there will be a baby in mummy's tummy again.

Missing Monty

This morning, my daughter brought a book into the bathroom when I was in the shower. "Mummy, read the names" she said.

I promised I would read it with her when I got out of the shower, dried and dressed. I kept my promise.

Snuggled up, comfy on my bed together, she handed me the book. "Mummy, read the names" she said again.

I looked at the cover: "What's Inside Your Tummy, Mummy?"

We hadn't read this book in months...

I asked her what the book was called. "All about how babies grow in mummies' tummies" she said "but Monty isn't in your tummy - he died in the picture."

I read the book. She asked me to read it twice more. I did. We looked at the pictures. We practised saying some of the words: 'umbilical cord', 'embryo', 'size of a pumpkin!'.

I said that I felt sad that Monty had died and she didn't have her brother to play with. She said she was sad too.

I asked if she would like it if mummy and daddy tried again to give her a brother or sister. She said yes. I said "We'll see..."

Then we came downstairs and she took the photo from the windowsill. "This is baby Monty" she said "and this is the bear. I want it." I got the bear, originally bought as a toy for him but subsequently given to her as a 'big sister present from her brother'. She put the bear and photo next to each other on a chair.

Then we made Mothers' Day cards for Granny and Grandma.