These last almost 11 months have been a delicate balancing act. Between enjoying the memories and pictures that I have encountered within these 11 months, and being bombarded with the waves of grief that those memories bring. Knowing that I will never be able to hug him again, or have a 2 sided conversation with him, hear that infectious laugh of his, or see those gorgeous blue eyes in person, watch him break into that spontaneous smile just because. That grief brings me to my knees, with big gut wrenching sobs, makeup running down my face and unable to catch my breath.

When I was pregnant with Connor all I wanted was a girl, one of each. I knew from the first ultrasound that wasn’t happening. Once he was born, he was “My Connor”, my baby, my mama’s boy and I wouldn’t have traded any of that. He was equal amounts of daredevil and snuggles. Playing sports, splashing in puddles, covered in mud, but wanting to sit on my lap and snuggle and have story time.

I fought him growing up, every step of the way, knowing once he was grown my baby time was gone. But keeping them little is fruitless, like trying to stop a moving train, or a rolling boulder. It just doesn’t work.

What I do know is I cherish every memory, whether they pop up on my Facebook Timeline, come up in a conversation, or are relayed to me by a friend. Those memories are my lifeline to him. My baby boy, the young man he became. My Connor in all his forms.

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