What we can't see, but will always feel

It's the second Mother's Day since Sarah died. And the first one with a new little baby, still inside me, waiting to meet us. The combo is a stunning mix of emotions. All of which I'm trying to embrace, rather than push to the side.

Husband and kids made it a very special day. Original art, an illustrated bound book by my first grader who is proudly boasting about his ability to read chapter books. 

And a beautiful necklace. A mama, holding hands with not just two kids, but four: a Jonah, a Rachel, a Sarah, and a wee-one who has yet to reveal his name. A blessed reminder that I'm not just a mama of the two who bounded through the park with me today, but an extra one in my heart and another one who is close to earthside, kicking me in the belly. 

What it looks like

A boy. A son. A new picture in my mind, of what our family will look like in August. 

With Sarah, it was easy to imagine her sharing a room with her sister, Rachel. Just two years apart, my girls.

This boy will be four years younger than Rachel. And seven years younger than his big brother. Perhaps it's a good thing I've never gotten around to painting any of the bedrooms. At some point, there will be a shuffle. But I'm not sure what that will look like, yet.

The ultrasound was as good as it gets. A kind tech, a sassy doctor. I was annoyed to be kept waiting for our appointment, but that was my nerves more than anything else. The heartbeat was immediately found, a round head and little dawdling to discover a penis. Apparently my jokes of Baby On Board (Bob) and cravings for Frank's Red Hot Sauce (hello Bobby Frank!) were right on target. And the doctor found nothing remarkable. Boring and normal, other than an awesome thumbs-up that our son flashed on screen. 

Jonah does this eyebrow raising, nose wiggling face of joy when he is excited. And when we handed him an envelope later that afternoon, revealing the sex of the new baby, it was epic. Both he and Rachel were so sure that they were having another sister. But there was no disappointment on their faces. Only joy and hope. It's a scene I'm going to playing over and over in my head, for months to come,

Brave, not Frozen

We're heading off to our level 2 ultrasound in an hour. The AFP test came back as remarkably boring and didn't point to any increased risk for open spina bifida, Down Syndrome or Trisomy 21. But it rarely catches closed spina bifida, which is what happened with Sarah. A level 2 ultrasound may give us a better look - or maybe not. 

I'm trying to remember to breathe. And be present. And to focus on the part where I know there should be an answer: is she a girl or is he a boy? I'm trying to imagine Jonah's face as I tell him, later today. Will Rachel freak out if she has another brother? Will she dress him in tiaras and insist in painting his toes? 

Bravery, for me isn't pretending everything is okay. It's putting one foot in front of the other and continuing to move forward, remembering that no one knows what is ahead of them. 

Are we there yet?

Almost halfway there. Except I'm not really sure where "there" is and if I'll ever get there.

I took my other pregnancies for granted. That if I made it through the first 12 weeks, that I'd have a sweet babe in my arms in another 30-32 weeks. I never worried about much related to the actual pregnancy. I was tired, cranky and achy. But that's normal. 

This time I worry if there will be a baby at the end. One who looks me, one who will eventually recognize me. One who will cry and learn to smile.

One who will live and grow up.

This pregnancy reminds me that all of these moments should never be taken for granted. It's both a blessing and a curse. To appreciate what I have, without the promise or guarantee of ever getting "there."

Reckless crazy and wild love

Sarah would have been 15 months old today. She would have been walking, likely running. And I'd be exhausted. But in an awesome way.

Instead, I'm exhausted in celebrating Jonah's half birthday, chasing Rachel through the grocery store and being pregnant way. About 200 more days of being pregnant. 

I'm happy that I'm pregnant. I'm happy that my body works that the stars aligned. But I've spent most of the first trimester being angry, upset and anxious. I really thought I was ready. Those hormones on top of everything that happened with Sarah just brought me back to a bad place.

Turns out you can't outrun it. Trauma forever changes you, for better or worse.

I wanted to wait to tell the kids for as long as possible. Like maybe until I was waddling. I wanted to wait because I didn't want to hurt them. I never wanted them to live in a world where babies die. Where their sister dies. And how horrible would it be for that to happen more than once? 

Except that's me. Those are my feelings. Not theirs.

So we told them, earlier this week. Jonah had this beautiful smile and Rach totally ignored us. It only took him a moment to process and ask if this baby would die too. Of course, we gave him the honest answer - that we hoped not and that most babies do live.

The next morning he lashed out, using hurtful words to express his fear. I should have expected it. But I didn't - at least not quite so soon.

How do you allow yourself to get attached, knowing your last baby died? How do you teach your kids to do what you fear most? 

So this is what I'm working on. 

I spoke with my dear friend Rebecca, who faced a similar dilemma, after being told her baby would likely not survive outside the womb. How do you go on, knowing that you may be disappointed and crushed the biggest way possible? 

And she's so right. SO right. I don't regret loving Sarah. I don't regret the nights she kept me awake, kicking my bladder and making me eat midnight snacks. I don't regret the joy she brought to our family, or the big grin she put on my face while I was picking out matching sister dresses for her and Rachel. I don't regret it one bit.

I'm scared and exhausted, still. But I'm going to do it with love.

Again

We waited a year. A year to do all the firsts without Sarah. A year to be angry, sad, and accept. A year to want no other baby but Sarah. But now... Now we know there is still so much love to give. And the only way to do that is to start the journey again. Brave, hopeful and scared. And pregnant, again.

Space

So many wonderful friends and family joined us on Black Friday at the cemetery for Sarah's stone unveiling. It officially marked year of mourning, a year of everything moving way too fast and at the same time creeping along, dreadfully slow. 

My kids did well at the ceremony, and eventually, when Rachel became antsy, I reached into my pocket to find a distraction. Gloves, tissues.... And a shiny pink jewel.  Which she promptly place atop Sarah's marker. (You can see it nestled on the right side of the stone.)  

Never has such a crammed space felt so comforting to look at.