My daughter and I just finished circle time while my son takes a long morning nap. Naps (especially long ones) are relatively new for him and I’m grateful for every one. A hot shower is calling my name, but my daughter wants me to read. We finally settle on Little House in the Big Woods and one of her alphabet books. We try some basic phonics and laugh about the color yellow (which begins with y, but my daughter says yellow like it begins with L).
Yesterday I cried when I read about a woman who delivered her son, still born at 31 weeks. I cried because for the first time in a while I grieved for the baby I lost almost two years ago. Last year I delivered a healthy baby boy right around the same time. So it’s all muddled together in my head. I can see and hold two of my children, but there is another one (boy or girl, I don’t know) who I won’t meet until heaven. I cried and totally freaked out my daughter who let me hug her tight and tell her I love her. I nursed my son and kissed his cheeks over and over again. I kept staring at the willow tree figurine my husband bought me on our lost baby’s due date. I miss him. I wonder if he would have looked like his siblings, if he would have had much hair at birth, how his laugh would have sounded. Would he have been a good sleeper, an early walker?
I miss him.