If my son was alive, I wouldn't know you.
I would say things like "It's okay - they're young and can have another one" or "Maybe it's all for the best."
I would get all awkward and change the subject if someone mentioned a death or a pregnancy loss.
I would imagine myself to be empathetic and understanding, even though there would be no possible way for me to understand.
I would think I can't possibly imagine, while tucking my two living sons into bed at night and thanking God it happened to them, not me.
I would think that people still talking about miscarriages 10 years later was kind of sad - why aren't you over it yet?
I would still think that taking pictures of people after they're dead is creepy and weird.
I wouldn't know any of the following terms: idiopathic cardiomyopothy, subsequent baby, abruption, ectopic, and worst of all cord accident.
I would have no idea who Jason Collins is.
I wouldn't use the words "try" or "if we're lucky" or "maybe" in regards to having a baby.
I would think that having annual memorial events for people who didn't even live was incredibly self-indulgent.
I would not have a blog.
I wouldn't know any of you.
If my son were alive, I wouldn't know you. In so many ways, I hate that I know you. But every day I am deeply thankful that I do.