Conor is the little baby who died 8 years ago. He is the little baby whose 8th birthday we celebrated with these fairy cakes at his grave.

Conor is the little baby whose 41 weeks growing inside me made me a mother and changed me for ever. He is the little baby whose death floored me.

Conor is my not so little boy who I think about throughout the day. He is the not so little boy I don’t get to tuck in at night. He is the not so little boy who should now being going to football matches with his Daddy.

Conor is also the boy who should be close in age to his cousins and looking for snacks on days out. He is also the grandson who should be spoilt with ice creams. He is the nephew who should be picking his own Christmas present. He is the brother who should be getting annoyed with his siblings for knocking down his lego.

Conor is the 8 year old who should be playing out the front and making his presence felt like the other 8 year olds on our road. He is the boy who should be going into 2nd class in school and busy with clubs and activities.

Conor is all of these and none of these. I miss both the baby he was and I miss the boy he should be. When there’s no bank of memories to bring comfort it makes missing Conor hard.