I went to the Vinyl Cafe Christmas Concert last night. I went, enjoyed myself annnnnnnd. . . . that's not where this story starts.

A few weeks ago I wrote Stuart McLean an email. Well, I went to his website and I filled out a comment email. Which is a strange sort of thing for me, I'm not so much about the fan thing. I have all his books, and several CD's, including the Christmas one, Dave and I cook the turkey together every year, if you know what I mean. But, I'm not so much given to writing to celebrities.

And what did I have to say? 2 years ago, Mr. Spit and I had tickets to the 2007 Concert. And while the concert was going on, we were in a hospital across the river, having Gabe. In the way of those sorts of situations, we found someone to give the tickets too. They went. And enjoyed it.

And so, back to a few weeks ago, as part of actually celebrating this year, I kept wanting to write to Stuart. Perhaps it's just marking time. Perhaps there is an element of victory in it. Where I was 2 years ago, where I was even last year, I am not there now. Grief has not beaten me. I don't know, and in the end that's what I told him. I wrote and told him that I felt a tiny bit compelled to write to him, and I didn't know why, but I had missed his concert 2 years ago, and I would be there last night.

He wrote me back a lovely letter, and he, in his own way understood too. He understood that life stops for a while, and then it picks back up again, and then, eventually, long slow days later, you join in.

I have been thinking about the future of this blog. Not, to close it, not to stop writing, but I have been thinking about who I am, as the Mrs. Spit you know. Because Mrs. Spit is actually a real person, not just Mrs. Spit on the internet, and 2 years later, she has changed. Change is, I have realized at my ripe old age, as often a good thing as it is a bad one.

I have been thinking about how we define ourselves, about what makes us, us. And I have been trying to talk about Gabe a little bit less. For a long time, I needed him to stay with me. And the way I could do this was to talk about the time we had together, when I was pregnant. And I am sure that my stories were odd and awkward and perhaps boring. I pray that I didn't repeat the same things over and over, and I am sure that I did. I suspect that people often forget that dead baby mum's don't have the story of the cute thing our child did last night, so we tell more painful stories: trying to accomplish the same thing, to have our child live in our moments.

So, I have been thinking about who I am, 2 years later. And I have been trying to talk about Gabe less often. I have been trying to be more of Mrs. Spit, and less of Mrs. Spit, Gabe's mother. Gabriel Anton will always be my son. He will never, in any way that matters, leave me. I let him go in a big way 2 years ago, and this is just another moment of change, neither the start or the end.

Almost 2 years later, I can let him go, just a little bit more. I will blog about him a fair bit in the next few days, his anniversary coming, and I will talk about him from time to time, but along with choosing to celebrate Christmas this year, I am choosing to allow him to go, just a bit further from me, and a bit further into the care of God.

I am not a grieving mother: as good as new, I am new. Which seems a good thing to be when you are celebrating a birth.