Right where I am: Two years, nine months, eight days.

Thanks Angie, for this project. Glad to be involved. Thanks for constantly inspiring us.

I walked in to our local fruit shop today. I've been going in there for years, and they know me or at least know my face. It is always one of the same three guys who serves me. Today, something happened that never had before.

"Is your name Hope?" the man in the fruit shop said. "No," I quickly replied, suddenly realising where this conversation was headed, if I let it go in that direction.

"Oh, it is just that's what your necklace says." "Yes," I said, before pausing slightly. "It's actually my daughter's name." I wouldn't always have said that, but today I did.

"Oh, is she at school?" "No, she passed away," I gently responded.

"Ohhhh I'm sorry." Long pause. Silence. And right now I could tell like this guy was feeling like the biggest chump on earth. "It's ok," I said, again being the one to offer comfort in the face of my own loss.

"So, do you have more kids?" he says in a hopeful and upbeat fashion. Me (surprised, given I'm always generally in there with a squirmy kid in a pram who wants a grape): "Yes, a little 18 month old boy and another on the way," I said, patting my swollen belly.

"That's great!" he says. "Yes, it is," I say smiling. I then pay for my fruit, and I'm on my way.

From late August 2008 to about February 2009, a conversation like that would have just about ruined me. I would have raced home, used it for blog fodder and sat and stewed over it for hours. I might have even cried. I wouldn't have even had the "happy ending' part of the conversation to make myself or the person on the other end of the conversation feel better. Truth be told, I might not have even been in the fruit shop in the first place, because for at least six months, I really didn't go anywhere, especially to places I used to go all the time. Those were things I did in my Before Life, I guess. My life Before Grief. That was then. This is now.

*****

I wrote the first part of this post last night. Today is a new day. This project is writing about exactly where you are in your grief at this moment in time, but I thought I'd expand on that and write about exactly where I am in my life, as grief and my life are one and the same now. One doesn't exist without the other. The grief does not overwhelm and rule my life with the iron fist it once did, but of course it is still there, and always will be. Grief and I, we're in this together and I'm singed up for life. There is just no other way around it. I guess it is just how I deal with it, move through my life and let it shape the person I am and want to be that really matters from here on in.

So that is really the way of it in my life now. I want to write. I want to blog. I am still sometimes kept awake at night by the words in my head, but by morning they are generally gone again when the busy little toddler starts pulling on my hair, hitting my face and demanding we get up to start our long day. Because right now, in my life, I am busy. I just don't have the time to write like I once did, or the absolute primal drive to get those words out and process all of the dark thoughts swirling around up there. And today, in order to get this post written, I had to ask Daddy (on a day off today) to take our dear Angus to Rhyme Time at our local library so I could get an hour of solace to get this done. Because today, this felt important to me. Especially when I awoke to find my reader flooded with titles "Right where I am". (All of which I am yet to read, but I will get there!)

I'm also tired. I have an 18 month old and while grief and loss are nothing like I ever would have expected, either is parenting a live baby. In fact in many ways, that has been the biggest surprise for me since I embarked on this parenthood journey. I guess if you'd told me this time three years ago that my precious firstborn was going to die as she was trying to be born, I'd have had some idea that I'd be very, very sad for the rest of my life. But if you'd told me just how tired I'd be now or how demanding a toddler could be, I don't think I would have ever really understood. Nothing can prepare you for the changes and the upheaval in your life when a baby arrives, but I obviously treasure this like I would the proverbial pot of gold at the bottom of a rainbow. He's the greatest gift I've eve received and I can only hope I get to hold on to him for the rest of my days. That's the simple wish I have for this new life of mine now - that the rest of my offspring all outlive me.

Angus is three full time jobs rolled in to one with no holidays or sick leave. I know there is only one of them and really, I probably have it quite easy (I'm sure those out there with more than one living child are rolling their eyes at me now) but it is still a crazy life. He pushes my buttons in ways I didn't know they could be pushed. He has energy levels that would leave elite athletes for dead. He knows and understands more than I realise, though his words are few. He is stubborn and feisty and knows exactly what he wants and generally, how to get it. But he also makes me laugh. Laughter that makes me tingle from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, and to be honest, I never thought I'd be able to laugh again, at least not like that. When Hope died, I thought laughter died too but he's brought that back in to my life. He makes me fiercely proud and incredibly happy. He's everything I ever wanted from parenthood and more, and it is so much more fun than I could have ever imagined. He's funny, he's fun, he's affectionate, he needs me in ways no other human being has ever needed me (which is both lovely and absolutely exhausting). But it is also harder than I could have ever imagined.

I'm a full time stay at home mum and while I relish in this privilege, it is also a strain. That is physically, mentally and financially. When I left work three years ago to have Hope, the rough "plan" (hah) was to have 12 months off, raise her, then send her off to daycare so I could go back to work. Because that was just what people did, right? I also knew we'd need the money to cover our mortgage and bills and I knew we'd need two incomes to help to buy a bigger house, so we could afford to and have more kids in the future. This little house, our cosy little two bedroom house, this was only ever supposed to be a temporary place to live. When we moved here almost four years ago, we thought we'd be here two years - tops. But here we still are, with one dead baby, one live baby and one more on the way to our names. To say we're not where we thought we'd be right now is a massive understatement. We scrape by each week because going back to work for me right now, is just not an option. One of the side effects from my grief is that I have a huge fear of being away from Angus, because I have to spend every day for the rest of my life away from Hope so I don't want to be away from him any longer than I possibly have to. They talk about "separation anxiety" and honestly I think I have it worse than he does. I take my hat off to anyone who can (mostly because they have no other choice) leave their child in the care of others while they work. I simply get ill just thinking about it. We still do really need two incomes and obviously going back to work isn't going to happen now with baby three due in a few short months, but just the thought of having a stranger care for Angus makes me weak at the knees. And I think it all comes down to trust. And wanting some control. I know none of us really have control, but if I lost anything when Hope died it was trust, because I had trust in my caregivers to do the best for me and for my baby and they didn't. And she died. That's one of the biggest kicks in the face I've had to deal with and somehow try and make sense of.

So, I'm almost 27 weeks pregnant again. And the pregnancy hasn't been easy, as laid out in my last post. And parenting a toddler, continuing to miss a baby who never lived outside my body and trying to grow a new one has certainly changed the face of my grief and how I go about getting through each day. The pregnancy (CMV scare and amnio aside) has been much easier than Angus' was, at least mentally and emotionally. I don't have a knot in my stomach all day every day and I have a sliver of hope that this little one will make it, though I still can't really picture that I have no idea what we'll do when and if that eventuates. Parenting a toddler and a newborn? Seems a crazy concept to me and I guess we'll cross that bridge when/if get get to it. In Angus' pregnancy, back when I had no idea of just how precious and elusive sleep really was, I'd lie awake all night poking him for fear of going to sleep and letting my guard down. I'd often get up once or twice a night to use the doppler, just to make sure. I had some very long nights, and drank a lot of very cold orange juice in those months. Now, when sleep time comes for me, I take it. I gobble it up. I crave it like a dirty crack addict. When you've had so little for so many months on end, you realise what a gift it is and you take whatever you can get. I go to sleep, I trust the little one inside will pull through the night, and in the morning, I simply wait for that first kick. And so far, I haven't been let down. But when I do get worried, the doppler is there. So far there hasn't been any need for those 2am doppler sessions as I'm almost more worried about waking the baby in the house who lives than trying to find out if the one inside me still is.

Friendships of mine continue to change and adapt in the wake of my loss. Just recently, another very close friend exited my life in rather dramatic and what I would call pathetic circumstances. Honestly, the way it all went down in that final email exchange - I really can only laugh about it now. I was mad as hell about it for a while there, and just as I had with other friends who gave up on me along the way, I had emails all thought out and ready to send in retaliation, but in the end I never bothered. Because I simply don't care any more. People were so ready in those early days to do whatever I wanted, whenever I needed it. But back then, I didn't know what I wanted. Or when. The sun would come up. The sun would set. I would cry. I would wail. I would simply do my best to survive and when friends kept pounding on my door asking what they could do, all I could think to do was ask them for patience. I didn't know how long I would need or what I would need when I miraculously found myself ready, but almost three years out, the patience of many has clearly been tested, so they have given up. This loss didn't come with a rule book or instruction manual. I didn't have a "plan B" on my birth plan of what to do in case of baby dying. I had no idea how to react or what to do, but I can only say my entire grief process, like it or loathe it, has been completely organic. I've just done what felt right and comfortable to me. No one can understand what living with a loss like this is like. And I've come to realise, I can't expect them to. It is simply not fair. So if they don't want to be in my life, then they don't have to be. I manage to live each day without my daughter, so I can certainly live without these friends (or now ex-friends) who found it all too hard and simply thought it was taking too long. This is a life long process. I understand that. And I'm at a point now where I'm ok with that. I guess not everyone else will be. And that's on their shoulders, not mine.

I sometimes think of those friends who did walk away - if only they had waited. I don't think I'm that bad to be around now. I don't always change the conversation back to grief and loss like I once did. I can listen to holiday, wedding and baby plans. I can laugh, share in their joys and come across as someone who has their shit reasonably together. Under the surface, I still feel as if I'm paddling like hell as I know my loss isn't front and centre for them as it once was, but I'm at a place of peace with that. I can bring up Hope when necessary, and not in an obvious "I'm trying to make things all about me and my grief" way and I don't get upset when I do so. If I talk babies or pregnancies, I don't hide the fact she existed and that she is still very much a huge part of my life. I'm sad, yes. I hate it, yes. But it is what it is. I wont keep her a dirty little secret. That's all I can do for her now. Keep her memory alive.

I was also able to get myself back in to social networking. For 18 months after she died, the thought of sharing my life or reading about the lives of others left an acrid taste in my mouth and I wanted absolutely no part of it, even if some dear babyloss friends were gently trying to coax me back in to it. I also figured, what on earth did I have to share apart from my grief, my overwhelming sense of loss and that sinking feeling that I'd been left out of the parenting gang that all my other friends so easily gained membership to? And I already knew most were sick to death of hearing about those things, so why ram it down their throats even further? But I learnt to open up, trust in others and feel connected once again and of course Angus certainly helped with that. The friend list got a huge cull and I added a great many wonderful people I met on this road of grief and it feels right to be out there like that again. There are MANY aspects of FB that still drive me crazy and there are moments where I still shake my head and turn a blind eye, but I don't get that extreme rush of anger or envy I once did. Most of the people who make me feel that way, ended up on the friend scrap heap anyway.

On anger, I still do get very angry. On the really hard days with Angus where I feel like I want to head-butt my book case for an hour on end through sheer exhaustion and frustration, I remember that THIS is the easy part of my personal parenthood. That raising one very demanding live child is like skipping through a field of daisies, sipping on cool lemonade while pink fairies on rollerblades play the harp compared to the pit of filth that grieving for a dead baby is. And then I'm back to the anger. Because of all those SHOULDS. I should be raising two toddlers right now. There are no ifs or buts about it, she SHOULD be here. And we're still working through things with our lawyers, looking at a possible date for conciliation with our hospital soon and I'm just pissed that this is my life and that I had to be the one who ended up with this sad story. Yes, why me? Why us? Why did things turn out this way for us? I love Angus, I wouldn't change him for the world. But he should have his sister here. He shouldn't get the luxury of thinking he is and acting like a first child because he's not. But he'll always think that way and I guess he'll always be treated that way because of all we were robbed of when Hope slipped away from us. I'm better at dealing with the anger and and the flare ups come less frequently, but it is still there, like an annoying itch I can't reach. And some days I still want to scratch my entire body until it bleeds.

Back to feeling connected and friendships, I still place great value on the online friendships I made when Hope died. Just as I did in those very early months, I still read (and comment on) a great many blogs each and every day (and the list just keeps on growing because those babies just keep dying) and at least for the time being, I can't see this changing. I feel it is my babyloss mother duty. A way of giving back, especially to those who are new at this and absolutely floundering in the haze of their early grief. The comments sustained me early on and given I posted fairly frequently, I always felt the love and genuine support out there, coming in via my inbox. But many of those friendships have changed, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. We all moved in different directions after our losses. Many including me, welcomed new (living) children in to the world. But some, sadly, did not, despite wanting it so desperately and doing everything in their power to make it happen. Some went back to work, some didn't. Some just went a bit..... quiet. I keep up with emailing as many as I can, and as many as I feel still want it, and FB helps facilitate contact with many others, but there are aspects of the early days of grieving I miss where I knew I could turn on the computer, find a green light on gmail chat or a new email to reply to and have that pure and much needed level of understanding on tap. I guess what it all comes down to is - we're all different. We all had different losses and we all dealt with things differently. And some of us haven't been as lucky as others. As far as luck goes in the post dead baby stakes, I know I'm just about the luckiest one out there, especially given I'm now doing this whole pregnancy after loss thing again and huge virus scares aside, doing it pretty easily. And the other thing is, we're all busy. And if there is one thing that is different about my grief now, one thing that has truly changed, it is that I am BUSY. And I'm probably more grateful for that than anything else (obviously because Angus is the one making me so busy).

While I'm better at being social and a functioning member of society again on the whole, another huge and obvious change has been talking on the phone, or at least not wanting to any more. I simply can't stand it. I talk to my mum and sister daily, but that's about all I can handle. I no longer answer my home phone during the day because one other thing I don't like is surprises. And with no caller ID, if I don't know who is calling, I don't answer. If someone calls my mobile and I feel up to it, I will answer. Often, I even keep my mobile on silent. I guess there are still some elements of the small talk generally associated with talking on the phone that I find mildly unpleasant. Because when someone asks "how are you?" I still sometimes feel like I want to say "good, but you know my baby is still dead". And coming back to the point of raising a toddler, I don't always have time to speak on the phone because if Angus is awake he very much wants me down on the floor with him, building blocks or reading books and if he's napping (which is an hour, two hours a day if I'm VERY lucky) I want to be resting, too. Not talking. I used to absolutely detest the quiet and the alone time. Now I crave it, as guilty and as horrible as that makes me feel because for those 15 long months between babies, all I wanted was a little person with me, to keep me busy and to give me purpose again.

As for Hope herself, it is hard to say when I actually stop and think of JUST HER these days. Early on, she was all I thought of. I thought of the pregnancy, the labour, the birth, holding her, the night in hospital, being with her, leaving her in that hospital, the funeral and the early days and weeks where it was all about Simon and I and all about our grief. That was all I had. Every other thing, person or event in my life had been blacked out by the darkness of the grief that washed over us when we lost her. Now it is more of a subtle thing. I don't know how else to really say it, but I think about her all day every day. There is not really a moment when I'm not conscious of her. I think of her when I go to bed at night, when I get up each morning and during every moment in between. Every bowl of cereal, every dirty nappy, every cold cup of tea, every nursery rhyme sung, every walk to the park, every interaction with every person I have. It has simply been woven in to the fabric of my life. Her precious things are still on display in my house, though very much covered with dust, I still wear her name around my neck. I'm getting better at telling Angus about her and when I ask him now "where's Hope?" he points straight to her picture on the wall. Though, on Mother's Day this year, which was the best one I've had so far since I became a mum, I did "forget" to go to the cemetery. We were all set to go, and I knew I had to make time in our busy day but after I dragged myself out of (my crumb filled) bed (after a delicious breakfast made by Simon) and got myself and the busy toddler ready for our family lunch, we rushed out the door and never made it to visit her. By lunch time, when I realised, it was too late to go back as we had too far still to travel and too much to do for the rest of the day. I beat myself up about it for days. What sort of mother forgets to visit their dead child at the cemetery on Mother's Day? I felt like a defunct babyloss mother, especially with so many posting pictures on FB of themselves crouched down beside baby graves, but eventually came to realise that it is just part of life, and I was doing the best I could under the stresses of toddler wrangling and a subsequent pregnancy, round two. And hey, if we'd had her cremated, there would actually be no place to go anyway, as I'd have a little urn here with me. And going to the cemetery is not part of my normal routine anyway, as I generally feel pretty empty when I'm there, so I stopped punishing myself and just enjoyed the rest of the day for what it was.

I still admit to finding little girls and all things baby girl related a bit hard to handle. While some aspects of baby girls and raising daughters will always make me turn to mush from the inside out, there is one little girl who does steal my heart and who does make it so very easy. And that's my little, though very round and deliciously chubby niece, Lucy Hope. If you'd told me after Hope died that my sister would go on to have a live baby girl before I ever did, I probably wouldn't have coped with that news very well. I would have been jealous, sad and angry. No two ways about it. But when my sister told me she was pregnant, just a few months after I found out I was carrying Angus, it was ok. I knew I'd have to steel myself for the 50 per cent chance her little one would indeed be a little pink one but by the time she got her gender news, Angus was already here and it suddenly didn't matter any more. And now that Lucy is here, and quite a delightful and funny little 13 month old who absolutely adores her big cousin Angus who in turn absolutely adores hitting her on the head with his toys, it really, really doesn't matter. Her cute outfits can still make a lump lodge in my throat and I still think of the future my sister will have raising a daughter, a future I may never get, but it is no way near as painful as I thought it would be. Lucy is Lucy. Angus is Angus. Hope is Hope and all three of the babies in this family are loved the same. We just miss the one who is not here. And we hope the one who is on the way will hang on and make it, boy or girl. It really doesn't matter. I may get that future of raising a daughter I so crave. I may not. All I know is, I'm going to do the best I can to enjoy every second of it.

So going to the fruit shop isn't the only thing I'm capable of doing again since Hope died. The list is so long and varied, I wouldn't have the time or the brain power to list them all. Because though I did keep myself locked away from the world and all that was going on outside my front door for many long and lonely months on end, I did eventually emerge again. I attend weddings. Children's birthday parties (though I still find the 1st birthdays hard, just as I do birthdays of babies born in 2008/early 2009). I visit newborns in hospital. These things were all beyond me in those early days. As I said, I still find those baby girls hard, especially the first borns and babyshowers are still a no go zone, but other than that, I'm doing pretty well and I would even go so far as to say I'm amazed at my own coping abilities. In late August 2008 I really thought I'd never get out of bed again. I thought I was broken beyond repair. She died and most of the time I looked and felt dead myself.

I am always loathe to say to new mamas on this road of grief that things get better. And to be honest, in the early days, I hated hearing that myself. I didn't really want it to get better because surely that would mean moving on, forgetting, and getting over her. If I did any of those things, she'd surely no longer be the driving force in my life and I didn't want that. I wanted to remember. I wanted to hold on to her. Even if that meant constantly being tapped in to the pain. But the truth is, in many ways, things do get better, even if only a tiny bit. And that is ok. Maybe better is the wrong word though. Maybe easier is the right word. I'm yet to really figure that out. Obviously in many ways things don't get better (or easier), because the only constant in this new life is: your child is still dead and always will be. You're still going to miss them. You're still going to be sad. Conversations in fruit shops are still going to sometimes trip you up. You just somehow get better at/find it easier to function again. And one day, you'll find yourself buying fruit and you'll realise, it is a tiny bit better, that you do find your own pile of crap a bit easier to navigate and that you wont have to rock yourself to sleep that night to process your daily interactions.

And that's for me, how life and grief look at two years, nine months, eight days post the greatest loss of my life.