Today was one of the random days the firefighters teach EMS class at a local high school. I taught this class when I was obesely pregnant with Emily and many random times since.
The new teacher didn't recognize me, but the older instructor did. "How old is your baby now?" She asked.
I noticed the eyes of my crew were fixed. They knew.
I thought time stopped. I scrambled and tried to remember the last time I saw her. I finally decided that it would be easier to play stupid. "Oh my Daughter Emily is 3 years old."
I felt a hand on my shoulder. One of our newest firefighters was there with us. It was a small line of physical comfort.
On one hand I feel as if I have betrayed Perry. But really, she was probably referring to Emily, and I just couldn't answer. I knew if I included Perry, the answer would be oddly out of place "Always 4 months, or he would be 7 months". And I would cry. There in front of 20 something highschool kids I would bawl and wind up scrambling for tissue or the safety of a restroom.
The bad thing about it is that with moments like this, tears are inevitable. I can put them off, but they will always come later.