Stumbling Towards Perfect

You don't belong in my club. I don't want you here. And I'll vow to do whatever I can to keep you out. I feel so strongly about this that I will relentlessly and strategically pursue whatever avenue possible to ensure that you do not ever get welcomed into my club. I will talk about this to every person I see - friends and strangers alike: "she cannot be a part of this!" I will passionately plead my case to anyone who will listen: "SHE DOES NOT BELONG HERE!" I will lose sleep and write posts and pray with a fervor none have seen before. I will organize events with the sole purpose to keep you out. No, you don't belong to my club. I do not want to see you here. In my lifetime, I don't ever want to see you here. You belong somewhere else. Away from this. You belong to the club of Mamas of Miracles - not to the club of Mamas Without. You belong to the club of Mamas of Children Who Have Overcome - not to the club of Mamas of Child

The easy part was knowing. As hard as it was to hear the words Avery didn't make it , at least I finally knew. I had my answer. I knew how to proceed (even if I had no clue how  I was going to proceed). The dying was the easy part. The hours before it were pure hell. Not knowing.  But knowing something wasn't right. But not exactly what that something was. Pacing the floor. Looking at the clock. Wiping down the counter for the third time. Looking out the window. Punching in the cell phone numbers. Listening to it ring. And ring. And ring. Before hearing the voice politely ask me to please leave a message. Going to the bathroom but not knowing what to do when I got there. Walking down the hall. Calling for someone. Anyone. Saying the words I can't find the girls. Still not knowing. Hating not knowing. Praying. Punching in more numbers. Trying to sound calm when I told the police it's not like them; they wouldn't be late. Pacing. Go