That's how long it's been since Tommy's last seizure (the last definite one, sometimes normal 18 month old behavior could be a seizure and it's hard, this is hard). I roll the days around in my brain constantly, like a job site posting telling how many days since the last accident. When we passed the two month mark, I breathed a little easier. Still, I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, because I just don't trust this epilepsy monster.
Sometimes I gaze at him and wonder what's going on behind those eyes, like all parents do. Unlike all parents, I wonder how his brain is spinning, if it's going to misfire soon.
I still tiptoe in and place my hand on his chest every night. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and worry. Sometimes I don't. It confuses my head lately that I got pregnant with Tommy when Luke was at the age Tommy is now. Epilepsy has made him my forever newborn, my afraid to let out of my sights and arms baby and will I ever have room for another?
Tommy fell down on the floor in the midst of an epic temper tantrum and Luke said, Mommy! I think he's having a seizure! I reassured and swallowed around the perpetual lump in my throat and wondered at the bigness of a three year old knowing the word seizure.
If you were sitting on the couch next to me right now and we were drinking champagne, I'd raise my glass and say, Here's to two months and three days.