I feel like I should be sad, but I'm not.

If things hadn't gone terribly, horribly wrong in the summer of 2004, I'd have a one year old today. And while I feel some occasional sorrow that I never got to meet that baby, that I'll never be able to watch that baby grow up, I feel incredibly lucky that I have a cat-chasing, hair-pulling, paper-eating, stair-climbing, pigtail-wearing, eight-month-old Amelia. I feel like I should feel at least a little mournful today. But then Amelia offers me a bite of the magazine that she's trying to devour and laughs and I really don't feel sad. And then I feel a little guilty for not feeling sad.