Earlier this year, when Lennon was still here, I heard of a mother - a friend of a friend - that lost her son who was around Lennon's age. The story hit me really hard and I kept thinking of this mother, wondering how she could ever go on living. That night when I put Lennon to bed I cried and told  him to never ever leave me, as I would not know how life could ever continue without him.

Only a couple of months later I too am that mother. Yet I did not die either - I am still here, something I could have never imagined possible. After the accident I was sure that my broken heart would just stop beating. But some survival instinct combined with the responsibility and love I feel for most of all Bessie, made me survive another second, another minute, then an hour and suddenly weeks turned into months.

Yet life is not the same anymore.

I remember one perfect hot sunday. We took the kids to Portobello beach and Lennon was splashing around in the sea, laughing loud when the shallow waves touched his tiny feet. Later the four of us went to a friend's BBQ and Lennon stripped down in the garden and he was so proud when he was allowed to carry his dad's beer. In the evening we carried our two exhausted kids home and I felt like the luckiest woman alive to be the mother of these amazing children.

Having lost Lennon has broken my heart, even if it kept on beating. I am still able to feel all the love and adoration for Bessie, she is my daughter just as he will always be my son and I want to make her life as happy as possible. But I can't imagine that any day can ever feel this perfect again, as Lennon will be missing, no matter how good any moment may be.

On Friday my friends in Munich are having their annual Christmas dinner and for the first time I am not going to go. I will avoid it, like I avoid so many things now. Meeting one or two friends at a time is fine for me, as long as I can focus on somebody or something. Yet in a social group in which one has to make small talk, in which conversations are just thrown back and forth, I think I would just feel lost and alone.

What hurts even more is that I even avoid seeing the kids that Lennon grew up with, his peers and friends. I used to say that I would find it hard to ever leave Edinburgh, as I would not want to miss seeing those toddlers grow up to become children, teenagers, adults. I loved them and felt responsible for their well being too. They were part of our life. And now that this awful tragedy happened I feel like I can't face seeing them as it would just make our loss so much more real.

I even avoided speaking to my little nephew on his forth birthday as I knew I would just break down in tears hearing his little voice and knowing that I would never hear Lennon's again.

When I meet new people I make sure that they only have a child of around Bessie's age and and if at playground I see a mother with two happy siblings I avoid eye contact.

But how long can I keep this up for? Or will it do more harm than good to keep avoiding situations that make me face what I have lost?

Sometimes I wonder what I am scared of, as the most painful thing has happened and there should be no more fear. Maybe I am scared of not being able to control my tears, of breaking down again and again.

I am sorry and apologise to all those beautiful kids that I avoid. It's nothing personal and I, more than anyone, would wish that I could still watch you grow up, together with my son.

It's only one month to Christmas and I am dreading having to face the build-up to it, the romantic atmosphere, the day itself. Part of me tries to foolishly convince myself that it's just another painful day without him. Yet Christmas was always a special family time for me and when Lennon came into our lives, the magic - somehow lost when you are an adult - also returned to Christmas. We finally could make up stories of Santa Claus, even though Lennon wasn't a fan of him at all. In fact he was petrified whenever he spotted a man with a beard, ever since coming face to face with Santa at nursery.

This time last year Lennon, Bessie, Jeremy and I were baking Christmas cookies, decorating the house with angels and reindeer and admiring the Christmas lights all around Edinburgh. This year I look outside the window and see the first snowflakes slowly falling and I just want to run out there into the cold and scream for someone to turn back the time. I don't want time to move on without my son. It feels so unfair that we wont be able to see his wish list grow from a Bob the Builder crane, to a bicycle, to a Nintendo. That's what kids are supposed to do, why can't our son?

Last year his eyes lit up when he opened his presents - a white matchbox Porsche car, a police helmet, a scooter. I already had plans of what we would get him this year and imagined his smile when he would unwrap it. It may be irrational, silly and even desperate, but I will still put a present for him underneath the tree. But my heart is aching already to imagine that his present will remain wrapped.

The question of why this happened to Lennon keeps coming up in my head, yet neither am I able to find an answer, nor am I able to accept that there might just not be a reason. Sometimes when I wake up at night, I find it impossible to get back to sleep - the questions keep coming back and I find myself reliving the day, the hours before the accident, the moment I was told that there was an accident and the moment I arrived at the farm to be told the impossible, heart-breaking and just not acceptable fact that our son did not survive.

Over and over I ask myself whether there were signs and I could have prevented this. Whether there is some tiny bit of information missing, that - if I found it - would explain this tragedy. And at the same time I don't want there to be a reason, because no reason could possibly be good enough.

Like any parent we would have done anything in our power to keep our baby safe. We sterilised his bottles and dummies when he was tiny, bought a stairgate when he started crawling, taught him to wear a helmet when he started driving his balance bike and made sure he would eat his peas. It just doesn't make sense to me that this accident happened - no matter how much we all loved Lennon and no matter how hard we all tried to keep him safe - that this was beyond our power.

It drives me insane to think that if anything had been different on that day - maybe if it had it rained, if the tractor had driven just that tiny bit slower or faster, if I had taken him swimming - Lennon could still be here. For that reason I occasionally try to persuade myself that Lennon might just have been our precious present for a short while, that there was a reason for him being our son, who - no matter what anyone would have done - had to leave us on that sunny July afternoon.

But re-reading the paragraphs that I have just written I come to the sad conclusion that it might just not matter if there is an answer, or not. The reality of us having to get through this life without Lennon remains the same.

I wish I would have started blogging in happier times. I could have told you about my perfect life with my perfect family - and my beautiful children Lennon and Bessie. We were so happy. That is until this summer, on the 10th July 2010 my world collapsed. My beautiful son Lennon had a fatal accident, when a was driving on a tractor with his grandfather, my dad. It was one of those oldtimer tractors and when it flipped backwards my darling boy didn't stand a chance.

Today it's been four months. Nothing has since been the same. Every breath I take is painful and I am in complete despair and pain about the fact that I am unable to change the past, that this has really happened to my son, who I have loved from the very moment that I knew I was pregnant. Lennon had made our life complete, we were so proud him and of everything he did. He had the kindest, most beautiful heart and everyone who met him, kids and adults alike, would love this little cheeky monkey. And it seems so utterly unfair that this amazing child had to have such senseless accident two months before his third birthday.

No matter who I turn to for help, nobody can actually do anything, but listen and offer their sympathies. I have read a list of books and blogs of other bereaved parents, even spoken to people, who have had similar tragedies happen to them. They say that the pain never leaves you, but that time changes the pain so that it would become less overwhelming. Yet to tell you the truth: I don't believe this and cannot even imagine a time were thinking of my baby leaving us will ever hurt less. Every day I cry, I feel the horror of this reality and I feel unable to even exist. Yet there is no other option. So when people think that I am coping, let me tell you I am not, I am purely functioning in my duty to live and love most of all for my daughter Bessie, my husband, our families and friends.

I am sorry to anyone who is hoping to read a more uplifting or inspirational blog. I also hope that reading about my despair wont upset my friends and family too much.  I just feel the need to shout my emotions out into the world. Many bereaved parents seem to have written a book about their rocky road of coming to terms with the loss of their child some years after the tragedy. So I want to attempt to write down what happens on this road while I am on it, even if for now I don't have the faintest idea of how this pain of missing Lennon should ever be different. 

So, I guess this is an experiment. Maybe one unimaginable day my blog will be proof that one can learn to live with such traumatising loss. Or this blog will show that the saying "Time is a great healer" is a load of sh***.