Missing So Much.

I miss my old life. I miss the smell of the hospital. I miss the elevators. I miss knowing so many people in the hallways. I miss therapy. I miss deliveries of medical supplies that made my house look like a hospital.

I miss getting up every morning and doing trach care. I miss setting up the feeding pump and hearing it beep to be refilled at 3 in the morning. I miss the sound of the humidifier and concentrator. I miss sponge baths and the smell of baby shampoo.

I miss the sound of trachy belly laughs. I miss the sound of the suction machine. I don't miss the smell of the suction machine, though. I miss the clack-clack of the swing. I miss the sound of your toys. I miss the smell of your head.

I miss tripping over oxygen tubing. I miss adjusting your trach mask every ten minutes because you liked to chew it. I miss your stubborn, silly attitude. I miss your smile.

I miss your eyes.

I miss your scars.

I miss the sound of oxygen tanks clanking in the back of the van.

I miss the cuddles.

I miss the kisses goodnight.

I can't listen to "Peanut Butter Jelly Time" without crying.

I miss "Itsy Bitsy Spider".

I miss your adorable cheeks.

And your little chicken legs.

I miss your blue lips.

And messy straw colored bed-head.

I miss your laugh.

I miss your stinking attitude problem when you didn't want to stack blocks or color.

I miss the way you lit up when Sarah brought out the giant gumball toy.

I miss the look of satisfaction when you figured out how to manipulate a new toy.

I miss your beautiful, beautiful smile that lit up the room and warmed my heart.

I miss being your mom. I miss the chaos. I would gladly take back that life again. I would spend every day in the hospital with you if I had to. I would do trach care forever and a day. Feed you through your tummy without batting an eye. Push you in a stroller until I was old and feeble.

I would deal with our lives being filled with therapists, doctors, specialists and advocates. I would fight with the pharmacy every single month when your prescription was denied yet again. I would deal with the machines. I would go on 3 hours of sleep a day.

I would stack medical supplies to the ceiling in every single room.

I would sacrifice everything I have, everything I love, the air that I breathe.

For one more moment with you.