When Jim and I were PK (pre-kids) we used to laugh at parents who gave their children’s ages in weeks or months. Jim thought it was ridiculous that a person would say “8 weeks” instead of 2 1/2 months …. or better yet …. why not just round it down or up to 2 or 3 months. And then …. there were the parents who’d say a child was 20 months. We’d wonder if this trend was supposed to continue indefinitely. Would a parent say their child was 120 months instead of 10 years?!

And then …… we had our first child ……

….. and never even gave a second thought to saying she was “8 weeks”, “18 months” ….. or even “23 months”, although we did start saying “almost 2” by then.

And of course we did that with every child …… and stopped counting in months at the age of 2 or so. By then the “newness” of the baby had worn off …. and besides, by the age of 2, each one wasn’t really a baby anymore.

Yesterday was the “20 month” day of Jim’s death. Some months this day comes and goes with a bit of pain, some months it sucker punches me so hard I can barely function. Yesterday was one of those days.

I spent much of the day wondering ….”When do we stop counting the months?”

Because I guess I equate counting months with feeling more pain. The more time passes, the less the amount of pain I will feel? So, if I can someday say “It’s been 3 years”, maybe I’ll be able to say that without crying.

Or will I?

When will the “newness” of this event wear off for me? Will it magically melt away when I hit 2 years? Of course not, no matter how much I wish it would. But maybe it will become a bit duller — the “newness” and the pain will become less sharp.

Month by month.

Year by year.

That’s what I’m hoping anyway.

I want to stop counting the months.