Today September 19, is the day Westley would have been born had he been given a longer chance to live.
He would be holding the furniture walking along it taking baby steps beaming with a baby tooth smile. He would be babbling his first sounds saying "da da da da." He would be using sign language to tell me he wants more cheerios. I would be tickling him all over on my bed rolling around and saying "I l-l-l-l-love you!". His sisters would be gently holding him by the hand,one on each side and swinging him up in the air on the front lawn saying "1-2-3-UP!" John would be kissing him all over his cheeks saying "You're my best bud little guy, I love you!" I would be putting him in his high chair with a cupcake on the tray and his grandmas, grandpa, cousins, aunts, uncles and all the neighbor kids would be over singing "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Westley, happy birthday to you!" we would all cheer and be so happy and having so much fun.
But nope.
Not today. Not tomorrow.
Not ever.
Because Westley died.
He was born on April 22 not September 19 like he should have. He was born too soon and he died. He died. He died. My son died.
I don't get to hold him or talk to him or tickle him. And I want to.
