I'm existing in a strange place these days. Truth be told, it's been a while now. I got pregnant, quite intentionally, about 6 1/2 weeks after we lost Chiara. There were many reasons: I'm 41, and time wasn't stopping for us, we really wanted to grow our family, and I was desperate to be pregnant again, to be making our way towards another child. It seemed the only way I would heal.
Now I'm 33 weeks 5 days, pregnant with a boy. I knew he'd be a boy, before we even started trying again. In some ways, it is easier. It clarifies things. In some ways, it is harder. This is likely our last child, and I have moments when that is fine and moments when the thought of not raising a daughter breaks my heart. Although it's not just about not having any daughter, it's about not having my daughter, who was here with me, who grew and moved inside me, who I delivered, who I loved.
Our boy is a mover and shaker and I am so grateful. It keeps me (somewhat) sane, feeling him, knowing he's still in there, heart still beating. Alive. All I want is to hear his first cry. I want to hear him announce himself to the world. We are so close, and sometimes I can imagine holding him, feeling his warmth on my chest. But I am still afraid. Part of being a babylost mom is knowing all the many ways that pregnancy can go wrong. There's a bad outcome for every week, every day. It's pretty terrifying. Even knowing that most babies do fine doesn't help. Statistics screwed us once, why not again? Sometimes I think, we're not special, not more or less lucky, and I feel OK. Sometimes I think that, and I think that we could end up with the short straw again. Just because we endured one loss doesn't protect us from another. Nothing will protect us. So I will prepare for this new babe, this second son, this third child. I will believe in him and trust that he has his own story, and that it is yet to be written.