the "w." not the "s."

tomorrow my second child Would be born.

oddly, i am able to write that without flinching; perhaps because it's a truth i've lived with for the past months, all those months i would have been growing him -- or was it her? i'll never know; it was only a flutter of intuition that i say "him." i never really knew him like i think i knew Isabela; the only thing i was sure of was that this baby was quiet. too quiet. and i found out why all too soon.
i also say "Would," not "Should." that "W" makes a big difference; who am i to say what Should and Should Not be? i decided a long time ago that when it comes to things in my life i cannot control -- which is to say most things -- that i would rather trust the Author of my life who knows all the pages and twists of my story, than try to do the Choose Your Own Adventure thing. (i mean, usually with those you end up being thrown in a hole or killed by pirates or eaten by sharks or worst, stuck in an endless loop. you know this is true.) can i honestly shake my fist at the heavens and demand that i Should be a mother of two? that i Should know why this is happening? or that i Should not have to bear this grief? or that my beloved husband Should be a father?
ah, this is what makes me come undone these days; the fear that he'll never hold his own child, never see his own eyes looking back at him, that he won't ever hear a little voice call him Daddy. currently we're in Germany; this weekend was the baptism of our nephew, who also happens to be our godson, and it was indeed a joyful occasion. i was quite fine the whole time; somehow "my nephew" has become a completely separate concept from "my nephew who doesn't have a cousin his age." i've never felt it was somehow unfair or upsetting that Thomas' brother has a child and we don't; as i've written here before, we always wanted them to be first with the family thing. but yesterday, before we said goodbye, Thomas scooped his little nephew into his arms to bundle him into the car. the small one gurgled and laughed and patted Thomas' face and was such the picture of pure joy & love that i thought i might never breathe again. it's no surprise to me that kids like my husband; this was one of the many charming and wonderful traits i observed in him long before we were ever married. but somehow seeing him with his own blood family, with a child in his arms that has the same big blue eyes and ready smile, cut far too close to the bone. Thomas says the most painful thing about losing our babies isn't so much missing them, it's watching me bear the grief of it. although sometimes i wonder how true that is; however, i would no sooner question the shape of his scars than i would want him to challenge mine. meanwhile, we can only hold onto each other while we grow in our trust and love, like green ivy and an old brick wall; soon it is indistinguishable what is holding the other up, where one begins and the other ends.
some days are better than others; i've found bigger windows and more fresh air lately, i'd like to think. i have plenty of time where i feel content in my already-rich life and can live with the reality of what has happened. or not happened. i feel the deep-down peace that comes from being able to live with the Future Unknown and i can accept that life occurs in very short increments, and that Today Is Good.
and then some days the fear is too much and it overwhelms with its icy grasp; like my fears about my husband not being a father or when i feel like i'm seriously running out of time when i see my birthday quickly approaching. or when i realise that i may actually not really believe that i will ever get pregnant again, let alone have a successful pregnancy, let alone have a healthy child. these days it seems to me that normal baby-havings is something that happens to Other People; i recently went to a baby shower where i was "incognito" (no one knew I'd had pregnancy losses), and i was slightly astonished to find that i had the same feeling i experience on the first day of exploring a new country i'm visiting: being the fascinated foreigner in an exotic land.

i have no idea what we're going to do tomorrow to recognise the child we Would have had. not Should have had. i can only believe that if we Should have had either or both of them, right now she'd be crying for a diaper change or he would be kicking his way into exit position. but that is not to be. so it is and always will be the "W," not the "S."
i have no idea if there is anything we can do to confirm personhood upon someone that i will never be able to have memories of. this time i have had no names come to me, no real grasp of who Tummymuffin II was, or Would have been. it's so different from last time, but still the crushing sadness is the same. how is it that my hopes and dreams were just as unformed and nascent as he was, and yet now that they are gone along with him, the void they leave is so enormous and defined?
how is it that you can miss so desperately someone you never knew?

no medals

anyone who has struggled with pregnancy issues -- infertility, miscarriage, etc. -- will tell you that every month or so it's the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics of Mental Gymnastics. there are several events: maybe you're a ribbon twirler who wants to stay positive, and you let yourself hope that This Time is going to be it...and then your cycle starts, right on time. or maybe you're the more stoic balance beam walker who just gets up there and puts the tampons in your purse around day 27 and expects another round of disappointment because that way you can concentrate on Just Not Falling. or maybe the whole thing has worn you down so much that you just wish desperately you could just dismount and forget it and stop counting days...but you just can't, compulsively spinning around and around the very uneven bars of your sanity.
there are no medals awarded in these events. there's no real audience because generally all this sweat and blood and tears takes place in the very private confines of a woman's heart, mind, and body. sometimes partners or friends are clued into what's going on, but generally the monthly heartbreak is downplayed, hidden, and pushed aside for the demands of everyday life. even Olympians have to pay bills, especially when Wheaties is most certainly not endorsing you.

well, i fell off the balance beam completely, and i think i might have a concussion.

i actually, mercifully, didn't even notice how late i was until i was well into I Guess I Better Pee On The Stick territory. yet somehow, even as the dumb stick was, uh, marinating, i somehow knew that there would only be one line showing when i looked at it. and sure enough, that afternoon, the blood came in very full force. i was surprised to find, as i sat there under the balance beam, dizzy and head aching from my fall, that i was angry. not at anyone or anything in particular, just plain angry.
i was glad i had an appointment with my TCM doctor towards the end of the day, as she has been so supportive and trustworthy, and has really helped me stay at peace with my body. i was totally unprepared for her response though: "i think you conceived again." she said. "i think you conceived but it just didn't implant. i can't confirm anything, of course, but when i last treated you, your hormones were strong and high and i suspected something might be happening." she continued to explain this period would be especially heavy, the treatment she'd give for that, and to encourage me to see this as a positive: that if it's true i conceived again, it's a "step closer" and that my body is still healthy and fertile. before she left the room, she hugged me and said she was sorry -- and more or less implied that while all this is "normal" physiological stuff, it's certainly not emotionally easy.
as i lay there in the darkness, body bristling with acupuncture needles, i cried and cried. and i knew why i was so angry. it wasn't so much that the tiny window of hope had opened a crack and then slammed shut. it was that i realised that the damn window is not only miniscule, it is filthy and painted shut with the big sloppy letters F-E-A-R. fear of having no more pregnancies. fear of having another pregnancy with all the ways the next baby could quietly leave me before i ever know him or her. fear of having a pregnancy with complications or loss farther into the baby's gestation. fear of actually making it to a live birth and then losing the child soon after.
as the needles did their healing work, and i drifted into half-sleep, half-wakefulness, i started to understand maybe that window isn't supposed to get cleaned or pried open. i have to accept that my innocence is polluted. hope is no longer fresh, naïve, and sparkling. i won't ever feel the clear exhilaration of a positive pregnancy test again. the purity of excitement that we had with Isabela is not going to be repeated. i will never be able to wildly and freely dream about a future child without it being tempered by the knowledge that life is never guaranteed. the grime and dripping letters are a part of my story and a reality i cannot try to scrub away or pretend isn't there.
almost a year ago, the first Mother's Day after Isabela was gone, i wrote about how "fear is a liar, a confuser, and a cheater. fear keeps you isolated in your pain because even as you slog your way through anger, confusion, and sadness, fear blinds you from seeing the love that's running beside you that cheers for you, prays for you, brings you meals, listens to you, energizes you." (see, another good thing about this blog: it keeps me honest about what i've learned.) i'm so tired of being lied to, confused, and cheated. i've got another Mother's Day coming up, and i don't even know what we're going to do to commemorate Tummymuffin II, who still seems like someone i just dreamed about, and now i'm awake, and i can't hold the memory.

you know what? f**k the monthly Olympics; i want to opt out. i don't want to do the compulsory exercises anymore. i don't want to need an elusive medal that doesn't exist anyway. i'm going to need all my energy to find another window, one that's bigger, cleaner, and can be thrown wide open.

happiness vs. joy

well. here it is, already the end of February and i seem to have survived the holidays and beyond. somewhere in there Thomas and i had a good, restorative getaway together at the little mountain cabin we like to escape to every now and then. that cabin has seen us through the loss of two children now, and we're always so grateful for the generosity of the owners who freely offer its use to us. the healing has been gradual, as expected, and because, well, i've had what you might call a sneak preview of how this goes, the violent bouts of grief aren't as shocking as they once were, and they are less frequent. i am still asking what it is that i am to learn from this experience that i didn't last time, trying to make sense of the alternation between the dull acceptance of the reality that we are back to square one again in our family-making journey, and the jagged stabbing void of no children where there "should" be now two.
one of the things that has been deeply bothering me these days is wondering if i'm also actually grieving the loss of joy, which, if true, would be a fanged, nightmarish terror. yet i find myself often furious that what should be cause for joy instead gets stolen or mutilated or vandalised. recently, a local friend (who is as yet unaware of our two pregnancy losses) buoyantly announced her first pregnancy via e-mail, and i found that my immediate reaction was to want to avoid seeing her as long as possible. other friends who know my situation have shared good news of conceiving in a sensitive, solemn, and gentle way, wanting to be careful of my feelings: this i find quite generous, but the need to do so is utterly regrettable and makes me angry that they must not initially be demonstratively open with their celebration. and meeting people's "freshly-hatched" babies is always a total crap shoot: hey, i might be just fine and be able to fully rejoice in the tiny life on my lap, or i might emotionally collapse and create an incredibly awkward situation. in any case, this has left me confused, outraged, and a bit bewildered. it makes me feel like someone sucker-punched me, stole all my valuables, and left me dazed and bleeding on the pavement.
three weeks ago, the world said goodbye to author J.D. Salinger, best known for that book about a very conflicted teenage boy. Salinger himself was a supremely confused and conflicted man, but there's a quote from him that got me thinking -- it seems he once said "The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid." although some might say that the happiness/joy difference is merely semantic, i do beg to differ. i was brought up believing that joy is a long-lasting, soul-satisfying, transformative internal state of being that is a choice. happiness, on the other hand, is a more fleeting thing that is based upon circumstance and the self's pleasure. while one may think that Salinger's solid/liquid analogy is the opposite of this, i'm inclined to disagree. the "solidity" of happiness is what makes it fleeting. the "liquidity" of joy is part of its sustaining presence. happiness is rooted in a concrete time & place; it is experienced and then left behind as one moves on. joy, on the other hand, is quicksilver; it surges and moves with you, completely free of the confines of time.
so i think this is what i am wrestling with: i need to accept that solid, time-bound happiness can indeed be snatched and stolen away. and i should not try to cling to liquid, numinous joy, which will just flow through my clutching desperate fingers. the key to living this truth is, i think, to choose to commit to restoration and healing. standing still or insisting on staying in the past is what leads me to believe that those baubles of happiness should be, must be, need to be mine and that their disappearance is catastrophe. moving forward, even through emotional exhaustion or my own stubbornness, is what lets me stay with the flowing currents of joy, even if they seem to be only a trickle sometimes.

lessons in tea

the day i went to the airport to pick up my mother was the day that i expected to have to finalize the physical loss of my baby. i sat in the barren LAX cell phone waiting lot in my car and listened to a sermon that my beloved sister had sent me: her pastor had just delivered it that Sunday, and it was on grief. it was short, heartfelt, full of truth, and gave me much to think about.
one of the illustrations he used, from the great author and literary critic C.S. Lewis*, was so vivid that i spun my little iPod wheel back several times to listen to it repeatedly: grief, he said, is like a steaming hot cup of tea. if you drink it too fast, you will scald and scar yourself. you must sip it, slowly, but you must finish the whole cup. and in the slow sipping of your grief, as with tea, there is comfort.
i remember sitting in the car, planes roaring overhead, crying as i remembered the raging ferocity of the grief that followed losing Isabela, and knowing that the grey numbness of waiting for the end of this Tummymuffin was about to give way to the same storm. and so in the following days, filled with blood and pain and sorrow (but balanced with comfort, warmth, and blessing), i thought a lot about my cup of grief tea. i think the metaphor extends itself in several ways.
first, you can’t put off the drinking of the grief tea. i think just as Lewis says it’s dangerous to try to gulp the whole boiling cup down at once, it’s just as dangerous to push it away, refusing to drink. the point is that one way or another, you must finish the cup. better you do it of your own volition while it’s fresh, than wait too long and discover that you’re having a years-old, scummed-over, rotted cup of grief tea forced down your throat by circumstance, another person, or even your own subconscious needs. sip the hot tea now – and it may take a long, long time to finish your cup – but do it before the comfort and healing in the drinking has evaporated, coagulating into some horrid apparition that will haunt you.
next, no one else can drink my tea for me. i cannot pass it off to anyone else to finish. especially not my husband; he’s got his own mug of grief tea to work on. and besides, it’s a completely different flavour than mine. our teas have been brewed in different pots, at different strengths, from very different leaves. he will not grieve like me; i must not expect that. nor must he be afraid of my grief; he should not think that i will ever push my cup at him, wanting him to take a sip.
however – and this is, i believe, the most important part of my extended tea metaphor – he can sit with me, each of us clutching our own steamy mug, and we can sip together. just as in real, non-metaphor life, while sometimes it’s cozy to have a hot cup of tea or coffee by yourself, there’s something almost ritually powerful about sharing hot beverages with friends and loved ones (you never say “meet me for a glass of water!” or “please come over for juice!”). and so yes, there is something also extraordinarily soul-affirming in having someone sit with you, mugs of grief tea steaming in one hand, the other holding yours.
right now, as i write, i’m sitting at my table, sipping a cup of very tangible, non-metaphorical tea. it was one of many thoughtful items in a “box of love” recently sent to me by a precious friend, for comfort and cheer. as i’ve been drinking it (needing its realness next to me to help pull this whole tea metaphor together), i’ve thought of her compassion for me every time i catch a whiff of the delicious vanilla aroma -- but i also think of the losses she’s suffered. and so here we are, physically thousands of miles apart, but somehow sitting side-by-side, finding comfort in the sipping of our sometimes bottomless-seeming cups of grief tea – together.
my friends and loved ones, whether your losses are old or new, if you ever need a companion for tea time, please let me know. i would love to sit with you. thanks for sipping with me.

*i've since learned that the original tea metaphor might or might not come from a slim book called A Grief Observed, which Lewis wrote after his wife died. my dear friend gave me a copy and i hope to start reading it soon.

blood and silk

i remember last time the blood; dear God there was so much blood, and this time was no different. 
only it was different; let's just say that having to induce your own miscarriage does not exactly rank in anyone’s list of top 10 fun things to do. but it avoided the need for a D&C, and i did have excellent care; my mother’s presence was such a blessing and a comfort, and i am forever thankful that she dropped everything and just came. it is not something to do when alone. it was not easy; there was a lot of cramping and contractions and of course, the blood.
assuming most of the eyes on this blog are female (and apologies to those that are not!), i can safely say that we’ve all been used to seeing our own blood for many years, since that first momentous period. we finally got to use those pads that had been sitting in the hall closet for so long, those neatly wrapped packages that were like tickets out of girlhood into the mysterious world of women. it was only later that we realized menstruation was nothing to get excited about, and that every month Auntie Flo, or The Visitor, or whatever we called it would force us to rearrange whole parts of our lives to accommodate that cycle. and so somehow, with physical maturity that came long before any sort of other maturity, we first learned that blood was an inescapable part of our identity as women.
i am realizing again that this loss also is an inescapable part of that identity, and not just as part of this wise and strong community of so many women – and those that love them -- who remember their lost children long after others have forgotten them. it is also that these babies are literally part of me now, since in both cases, my body took most of them back, leaving behind to be expelled only that which nourished them for the short time they took over my body.
somehow both of my children are part of my wholeness -- yes, my wholeness -- because who i am authentically must include these losses. this is why i decided that i would never lie to people who ask if i have children; i have said yes, we had one but she didn’t make it; we remain hopeful for another. this weekend i found myself now saying yes, we had two, but they were lost and we remain hopeful. a few people don’t know what to do with this; they never considered that this was a possible answer to their innocuous question. but i have found that the vast majority of responses have been: i’m sorry, i understand; my second baby was stillborn, or my wife had three miscarriages between our living kids, or my nephew was lost at 21 weeks. and then we all remember our lost children together and it’s absolutely not tragic; see, that is the miracle, always there is a brightness and grace in the memory of a tiny person you loved being spoken back into a moment of existence.
of course i am grieving, and grieving hard. i’d like to write more on that later, but for now it is enough to say that i still believe in grace, which is as strong and delicate as spider’s silk.

dreaming kelp

i found this lovely poem about lost children before i even knew i'd lose this Tummymuffin too. these last few days i've thought of the tiny body, before my body reclaimed it, as a dreaming kelp, serene and graceful, full of promise.

my love does stay, where now almost nothing is left.

EVERYTHING
by Sharon Olds

Most of us are never conceived.
Many of us are never born --
we live in a private ocean for hours,
weeks, with our extra or missing limbs,
or holding our poor second head,
growing from our chest, in our arms. And many of us,
sea-fruit on its stem, dreaming kelp
and whelk, are culled in our early months.
And some who are born live only for minutes,
others for two, or for three, summers,
or four, and when they go, everything
goes -- the earth, the firmament --
and love stays, where nothing is, and seeks.

Week Ten - Again

i've returned all the maternity library books...again.
i've filed away the "congrats on your pregnancy" cards...again.
i am putting away all the bigger bras and looser pants in the plastic bin...again.
i'm getting out the tampons/pads/ovulation strips/etc....again.
i'm back to kickboxing, surfing, and all the other physical stuff i couldn't do...again.
i'm drinking wine and eating sushi...again.
i've lost a baby...again.
there are a lot of things that are happening again; it's painful to have to re-live some experiences from the last time i got to Week 10 and had to say goodbye to a child of mine. at the same time, as horrible as it is to go through this a second time, there are a lot less surprises. there's a lot that i can expect, and i'm thankful for that. and there are some marvelous "agains" as well:
i'm receiving the most wonderful notes of encouragement from loved ones...again.
i'm finding out how incredible my husband is...again.
i'm discovering that our marriage can withstand things like this...again.
i'm healing in the company of good friendship and laughter...again.
i'm so surrounded by your prayers and love that feel so strong...again.
there's also a lot that is different about this time around. as i said in the last post, when i lost our first, Isabela, it was swift and unexpected, and i felt like i was losing someone i'd already started to get to know. with this one, it has been all foreboding and waiting and quietness. i don't know when i lost this Tummymuffin; i will never know how much of him or her developed before he or she went silent and my body started to take him or her back. and this endgame won't be quite as physically easy; because of how much time has passed, i have been advised by all the medical professionals who have treated me, including my TCM doctor, that i will have to use medical intervention. since everyone involved is trying to avoid a D&C, this means that tomorrow i will have to dose myself with a synthetic prostaglandin called misoprostol and induce the miscarriage.
this is a big, big "Not In Category of Again;" i have no experience with this, and while i have some idea of what to expect (which is not pleasant, so i'm not dwelling on it), every woman is different, so there is no guarantee of how this process will go. in a surprise twist, my mother has decided to get on a plane and fly out here and be with me through the experience, since Thomas won't be able to stay at home. i am nervous, but thankful.
thanks to all of you for standing by me through this storm...again.

*subsequent edit to post: since some readers are finding this blog to be an information resource about dealing with all aspects of miscarriage, including physical, i've written a detailed description of my experience with using misoprostol (Cytotec) to complete a miscarriage. you can find it here. i hope that it will help other women who have to go through a very sad and painful experience. my heart is with you.

Week Nine - Limbo

am i really pregnant?
i'm used to the low-level nausea, the feeling that i just did three shots of Nyquil, the ridiculously sore yet alarmingly plump breasts, the stunning burps that just rip out of me whenever they want...in other words, physically, i'm still pregnant. but if the baby i carry is no longer a living embryo, then who -- or what -- am i pregnant with?
the diagnosis is that Tummymuffin stopped developing some time ago, and that it is only a matter of time before my body figures this out and expels what is left. sorry to be clinical about it, but i think it's easier to put it in these terms; i am still trying to wrap my head around this and it's not simple at all. as i am not willing, at this point, to use medical intervention to hasten this process, i am now in this bizarre limbo, waiting for the end instead of a beginning.
this is very different from when i lost Isabela; she always felt so alive and glowing to me -- i felt her presence inside and when i saw her shape and heartbeat on that first ultrasound, it wasn't really a surprise, as i'd somehow pictured her already. i think that's why choosing a name and personifying her as a real child, and a girl, was easy; she'd been with me for those weeks. her loss was a swift and shocking surprise; totally unexpected -- but i was thankful i'd known her for at least a short time.
but this? this is utterly confusing. i'm already mourning the loss of a baby i never really got to know. i'm around the same number of weeks as i was with our first, but there is a heartbreaking, panicky void as to who this second one was. i constantly wonder when Tummymuffin actually left me. and i constantly try not to think about what that answer could be. it makes me wonder if i ever had a Tummymuffin at all. was our confirmed hope & expectation of a child enough to actually "make" a real one? if the space between pure physicality and metaphysical existence is what we call "life," then it's a bigger, greyer, messier space than i realised.
i think what i'm most pregnant with right now is sadness.

to leave such a mark

remember how i talked about that liminal space between sleep & waking, where my crazy monkey brain is quieter, so it's easier to hear Truth? it was a hard dose of that yesterday morning when, as i was floating up through the layers of muzzy consciousness to awaken, i heard clearly: please don't stop loving your baby.
my eyes flew open and filled with tears: it's true, ever since the last ultrasound i've begun to detatch myself. i haven't been chatting with Tummymuffin like i usually do, i stopped looking at the daily pregnancy journal, and i've been building a cold and careful wall around my heart.
i know what the stakes are. with Isabela, i naively and blessedly had no fear of losing her, so my love for her never wavered. even though it made losing her so painful, it also made having her so real. i've known that struggling with love for this Tummymuffin might be a challenge, from the first moment i saw the pink double lines on my 99¢ pregs test. but i had no idea how easy it would be for me to go into You Might Get Hurt Again Begin Shut Down Process.
as i lay in bed, quiet, listening, i realised that i have two options if i continue to shut down: 1) Tummymuffin is just fine, and i will look back on this time of uncertainty with regret, because i lost out on those days with my child. 2) Tummymuffin may not be fine, and i will look back on this time of uncertainty with regret, because i lost out on the last days of being with my child. as is usually His nature, yet again, God is right: i need to stay engaged, present; yes, i need to love my baby.
if i had any doubts, the last few days of messages of encouragement and hope from you all have convinced me that i must remain open to giving -- and especially to receiving -- love. after all, this is what Bono (and I) sang a few nights ago: Only love, only love can leave such a mark/
But only love, only love can heal such a scar.

Week Eight - Confused

this post was going to be so many things. i was going to talk about coming full circle, about how i took my last work trip to Italy and lit two candles this time in the Basilica, one for Isabela and one for Tummymuffin. i was going to be amusing about the amount of gas i have and how i feel like a jet-propelled Muffin Oven sometimes. and i was going to more widely ask for the community's involvement and announce the news. and maybe at some point, i will.
but then we went for a second ultrasound -- the first one was scheduled too early due to a clerical error. and this one showed...irregularities. basically, Tummymuffin is too small and hard to find for an 8-week-old. so i have to have blood work done next week to find out what is going on. it could be as simple as another date miscalculation. but given what happened last time, it is hard to trust and be at peace; to reject the destructive worry and fear. i just have to wait and hope...and i've gotten a lot of practice with that over the last year.
i'm sorry this isn't more chipper but life isn't straightforward, and i've always tried to be honest in this space. so that's what's happening right now, and i hope to have better news with the next post. and then i can talk about all those other things, and maybe even tell you about the adventure of taking Tummymuffin to hear U2 play in Las Vegas.

Week Seven - Anticipation

part of me still can’t believe that i’m actually, finally typing a header that begins with the word “week.” yes, it’s true: after much learning, healing, hoping, praying, and of course, trying: we have another Tummymuffin.
i’ll give you (and me) a moment now.
hopefully, your moment was all rejoicing; mine mostly is too, but honestly, there’s a wide streak of anxiety too. i know this is completely normal no matter how many pregnancies and deliveries a woman’s had; every new one comes with its own batch of worries. but i’m not surprised that the pregnancy after a miscarriage has its own unique brand of apprehension, no matter how trusting or serene i try to be.
i’m not trying to put a damper on the (very genuine) excitement; it’s just that when i decided to continue this blog after losing Isabela in week 10, there didn’t seem to be any reason to sugarcoat anything. so in the same vein of forthrightness, i want to be honest about my feelings and thoughts. i wish i still had the same giddy innocence i did with the first pregnancy, but instead i find myself filling out a pregnancy journal with the clenched little fist of defiant hope, with marking a due date being now an act of faith.
when i told Thomas and we both held one another and alternately giggled and cried and laughed and freaked out and smiled, i told him that i was disappointed to not be “more excited.” luckily, because the fabulous Muffin Daddy is a surprisingly intuitive sort of guy, he correctly interpreted that i meant “more full of joyous wide-eyed wonder about a small life growing inside me but alas, i’m not so wide-eyed anymore.” he wisely pointed out that we need to let others’ joy and excitement feed and nourish our own, and that we should probably call our parents sooner than later.
i’ve wrestled with how and when to start announcing the news to people and i’ve come to the conclusion that no matter what happens, i need the support and love that i’ve experienced from this community. i absolutely am certain that i could not have made it through losing the last baby without you all; i am also certain that i may not make it through the experience of gaining this one without you either. or as a dear friend put it: the number of people knowing or not knowing isn’t going to control the outcome of this pregnancy…except as it pertains to the amount of support it provides. she’s right.
i guess that’s my request this week: i welcome your delight and happiness because i need it. it is too easy to let whispers of fear begin with this Tummymuffin, and i refuse to let the mind games get the better of us. i find that your pleasure in our good news has been a wave of encouragement that has made it easier for me to embrace this pregnancy as wholeheartedly as the last one.
so, welcome back if it’s been awhile since you’ve been reading this, or thanks for staying with me through all the twists and turns, if you’re one of the three people (i know there are more of you, but i get a little daunted if i think about that) following along this whole last year. my vision for this blog is the same as last time: to shamelessly ask for the knowledge and input of all you wise women who i’ve come to be so deeply grateful for. click here for the original entry giving instructions on leaving comments. also, please feel free to share the news/blog with any of our mutual friends; i know i’ll eventually get around to telling people, but i think it’ll be harder for me to drum up the same enthusiasm for sending mass e-mails out!
thanks in advance for doing this journey with me…again.