A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer...

It’s been 4 months since your day 4. We keep saying you lived four days, because in counting the hours, you lived only four full (24-hour) days, but you breathed air on five different days, February 20-24.  This day, day 4, was your hardest day, I think. It was the day you held on to meet your last great grandmother and your oldest “sister,” who sped down I-5 late at night praying you would live long enough to meet her. This was the day we watched you waste away. We tried to give you more to eat, upping your dose of milk from 3ml to 4ml every 2-3 hours, but you aspirated a bit, and that made your breathing harder and so we gave you morphine, which made breathing more shallow, but you seemed comfortable. This dance between balancing nutrition with medication just didn’t sit well with me. You were so tiny. When the hospice nurse came to check on us, she offered to weigh you, but you were so touch and go, I was eternally worried that if I put you down to get your weight or take your pic

We rolled into Raccoon River Campground in Panama City Beach, FL roughly 6 hours after leaving the bayou of New Orleans, driving through the tips of Mississippi and Alabama in the process. Carrie had joined our journey last night in New Orleans, where she flew in and Ubered to our campsite. Carrie didn’t have her sea legs yet, so she camped out in the passenger seat for most of the trip to avoid getting carsick. We were anxious to get to the nearby beach, but the kids were also enamored with the pool, the playground, and of course the basketball court (Judah). Finally convincing most of them that the beach would be way more fun, we packed up to make the hike to the beach.  Judah (the one we did not convince) threw a fit about going, so I stayed back with him while he cooled off in time out. Eventually, we made the trek, slowing considerably as we walked past the mini golf course across from the beach, as Judah asked over and over if we would be going there. By the time we found Bryan

I smell so bad. We just crossed the Oklahoma/Louisiana border and the kids are in the Love’s desperately looking for a slushy for Piper. This is our third location looking for one, and they have struck out again. Now we are headed to Sonic. Everything smells bad here. The air smells like hot garbage and I smell like sweaty armpits. There should be a word for this….like “hangry” except it would smash together “sweaty” and “cranky.” Too bad “swanky” is taken. And now Judah is complaining that he does not in fact want the Strawberry Shortcake popsicle that he chose from Love’s because he now wants Sonic. We are 8 hours into this travel day with no fun stops and it’s evident. “Eat that popsicle or don’t,” I tell him. “You don’t get anything else.” “It’s a hard decision, dough!” He wails. I am not very empathetic when I am so sweaty. He has now convinced Cayden to give him a bite of hers. She does not share my lack of empathy. “You have to ask mom,” Cayden warns. “I know she will say no