Here is a story from a kindred spirit, Margaret Hoersch, we met through the blog.  Like us, Margaret lost her son Paul in a crib death.  And like us, she recently welcomed a new baby daughter into her family.  Here is her story.

As for mortals, their days are like grass; they flourish like a flower of the field. For the wind passes over it, and it is gone, and its place knows it no more.

May 2nd, 2017, dawned like any other for me. It was a beautiful, sunny spring day. My sons, Tobias and Paul, were their usual beautiful and energetic selves. Two healthy, happy boys.

I was optimistic, coming off a week where I had successfully taken both boys to MOPS, been congratulated on their adorableness and good behavior. Tobias surprised me by being a model of good preschooler behavior, unlike previous months, and I remember Paul was, well, he was my one and only Paul. He was so happy being himself, even at 16 months. I left him in the “walker” room (notorious for its air of angst and screams created by the separation anxiety of 1 – 2 yr olds), and he didn’t cry, just went off to play. When I picked him up though, he saw me and his face lit up. I will never forget that smile and squeal of recognition and love. He ran up to me, hugged my legs, and … ran right back to the snack table to continue stuffing handfuls of cheerios in his mouth. I later learned that he had been eating all morning, and laughed at the thought of how he loved to stash cereal down the back of his diaper. On the drive home, I remember thinking that, finally, things were looking up. I felt like a real mom! My morning sickness in pregnancy with our 3rd child (and first daughter) had tapered off and my winter blues were fading. Maybe I could really make a go of this – maybe we could really be that happy family I had dreamed of my whole life. I’d always been filled with insecurity about how I mothered my boys, but it seemed to me that perhaps this was a sign that something was done right anyway.

One more day, one more time, one more sunset, maybe I’d be satisfied …

The only thing throwing a wrench in my life at the moment was severe back pain that had started before I became pregnant with our daughter. Because we were unable to do imaging, I was stuck with preemptive treatment of physical therapy and chiropractic work. On May 2nd, I left my boys with Grandma and headed off to get a break (now I wonder what that even means) and visit the chiropractor. While out and about, I discovered that a friend, who had been on the same track of having kids with me (her second son was born the same month as my Paul) had miscarried at 16 weeks. I, especially in my pregnant state, was shocked and saddened by this news. I was recalling the loss of yet another friend the previous year at around the same prenatal stage. Suddenly, I saw the frailty of life up close, or what I thought was up close. On the drive home, I turned on the radio and the song playing streamed through the car and through my heart. One More Day. I began sobbing. I didn’t know why it suddenly hit me SO HARD but my body was wracked with sobs and my mind wracked with regret for all the times I had looked at my cell phone instead of my babies. All the times I had answered their calls without looking up. All the times I had raced through the bedtime routine in order to get downstairs and turn the TV on. And it was, I believe, true contrition at that moment. I began to pray and I promised God that from then on, I would be different. I would strive to be more grateful for the time I had with them and I would look at them. I would put down the phone, and I would LOOK at them.

That evening, I put Pauly in the bath – one of his favorite things. I pulled out my phone as he splashed around and then I remembered. So I did it. I tried. I put that phone down and I got on my knees by the tub and I just looked at my little boy. He was so sweet that night. I remember so clearly marveling at his beautiful face and chubby body. How he squealed and splashed and, our favorite, did his signature water-chugging. That night he made me laugh by taking a toy sand-bucket, dipping it in the water, and chugging it down without missing a beat! What a silly little chicken, I said. Then he threw a big fit when I took him out of the bath … I remember that too. And I had to hurry and help his daddy with a project so I put him down awake. But I stayed up with Tobias to say prayers and listen to my husband read the story (even though I usually would not) because I wanted to be more present. And then, from force of habit, I went downstairs and turned on the TV.

And I never saw Paul alive again. It turned out that it was the last day. I could never have known, right? But somebody knew. And I think perhaps something deep inside me knew that so soon I would long more than anything in this world to have more memories of just gazing at that beautiful face.

Time falls away but these small hours ~ These small hours still remain.

Sometimes, when I look back in disbelief over the past year, I think about that day. The last day I thought I could depend on the future. The last day I thought “No worries, you’ll always have another chance.” Before that day, I would never have gone so far as to give anyone else in the world advice on parenting. And I still wouldn’t … mostly. But there is one thing I now have the will and the urgency deep in my bones to say:

Listen to that song. Put down those phones. Close those laptops and look into their eyes. Because you never know when you only have one more day.