I’m thinking now that just about everyone that was pregnant at the time when I was pregnant with Jack has either by now had 1 to 2 more children, or is pregnant again as we speak. There are people that had no children when Jack was born that now have 2 children.  As of last week, 4 of my closest girl friends were all pregnant at the same time.  Now, I am truly ecstatic for all of them, let there be no question. Truly. Ecstatic. Ecstatic. Truly. Ecstuly. Tratic.

And, as all of these special women know, it’s also hard for me.  Since most of them live far away from me, it was easier to just be truly ecstatic because I didn’t have to be involved in the daily joyful process of growing bellies and giggles over tiny kicks that I just want so badly to feel again for myself.  That is, until my sister-in-law, who lives 1 block away from me, told me she was also pregnant. She wasn’t sure how to tell me, she said she even felt bad telling me (what a gracious sister she is), so she’d known for 2 weeks without telling me.  I was stunned, because I knew the baby was a surprise.  Well, surprise!  I looked like a deer in a headlight for a moment, smiled, laughed a little, and told her congratulations…and then against the will of every atom that makes up my body, I accidentally cried.  I accidentally cried a long time.  She came and sat on my lap, and hugged me.  So we sat and cried happily and nervously for the little doodle growing in her belly, and we sat and cried sadly for my empty belly.

This was about 2 or 3 weeks before Thanksgiving/Happy Heaven Day for Nathan, so I was already struggling emotionally and spiritually with my losses.  All these pregnant women, and one to stare at daily…I got angry with God about it.  I mean, Death was never His wish for any of us, but Life is only given by Him.  So why, at the most painful time of the year, was He increasing my pain by surrounding me with what I couldn’t have?  I don’t talk about them often, but Nathan and I had planned on having at least 2 more children, who were named Daisy Grace and Finnegan – who never got a middle name.  (By the way, if I hear of any of you naming your children these names after this post, I will come through the computer and strangle you…just so you know. Ahem.  Love you, though.)  I grieve them as if they were real people.  Not like I grieve Nathan, but like in the way if we had found out that Jack would be our last child and we could never have children again.   We wanted them, and, even now, I want them still.

Upon hearing of Mandi’s little doodle, I then took a few weeks to myself where I didn’t see them much.  I did it in order to work out my anger at the fact that I cannot have children at the moment, and can never have Daisy or Finnegan. I wanted to be fully happy for them, without feeling this selfish, stupid, lingering sadness that was all about me. It was a good and much needed addressing of an issue I had not really brought up with God much.  I became more okay with God’s plan for me to mother Jack only for now, I let go a little more of little Daisy and Finnegan, and I worked out that the reason they were never born was not because I would not have been a good mother to them, but for different reasons. After a couple of weeks, I felt stronger and my anger fully subsided, so I went over to her house.  I told her I was sorry I had avoided her, and she admitted she had felt hurt by my avoidance but forgave me.  We hugged, where I proclaimed the little doodle a girl, and told her I was going to teach her prenatal yoga and attempt to guess where the baby’s head was located on a weekly basis in her already growing belly.

The next day, she miscarried the baby.

Mandi and Tim came home from the hospital, sat on my couch, and we all cried a little. We cried for the little soul we would never know in this life.

“Now we can spit at all the pregnant women we see together,” Mandi wearily joked.  And we laughed, though we both know we’ll have to rise above spitting at pregnant women.  Actually, I prefer beebee guns.

I knew that they both knew it, but I had to say this sentence: “Guys, you know…this doesn’t make me feel better.  I loved that baby, too.”  Because I did love that baby of theirs that I never knew.  And they knew it.

Yesterday, we went out in the snow, and dug a hole.  Mandi had made a soft little bag for the tiny baby out of the corner of a bassinet sheet with pretty ribbon around the edge.  We laid the baby down in the hole, and said prayers lifting her to Heaven.  Her? I don’t know.  We think so, maybe.  We thanked God for her, and asked that her Uncle Nathan could help watch over her until we get there.  Nathan… Only a father for 3 months to his own child, but possibly fathering many babies who got to go straight to Heaven instead of face the cruel world.  We sang “Silent Night” for her… Holy infant so tender and mild. Sleep in Heavenly peace.  Sleep in Heavenly peace.

We were laying down Tim and Mandi’s tiny baby in that hole, but I was also laying down Daisy That Never Was and Finnegan That Will Never Be.  With the hope that though I may not have those babies–no more of Nathan’s babies–maybe there will be other ones, someday.

Goodbye, Little Doodle niece of mine.  I’ll see you again, bub.  Goodbye, Daisy Grace. Goodbye, Finnegan who never got a middle name.  I won’t see you, but I love the thought of you two.

Then we went inside the warm house, hugged the babies we still have, and listened to them giggle until they wore themselves out.

Thank You, God.