If things had gone according to my plan, I'd have a baby in my arms right now (probably would have had a scheduled section sometime last week) as I sit in a chair in our living room watching a football game on TV. I'd be nursing, or holding a sleeping baby, or nursing a sleeping baby if she (or he) was anything like Luke.
But things didn't go according to my plan.
So I sit not with a baby but a laptop on my lap, as my husband excitedly watches the game, while my stubborn three-year-old sleeps with his head on the kitchen table where we left him during a dinner-(take-a-bite-of-chicken-or-else)-standoff, and my two girls dance around the living room in giggles.
And I feel very content.
After my miscarriage, my womb felt empty. I had gained some weight, yet there was no baby inside. My stomach should have been growing, yet it was painfully flat (at least in the not-pregnant sense). I watched those who were as far along as I should have been with wonder and it stung. In me, there was nothing where there should have been something.
And I feared the empty arms that I had heard mentioned as well. I wondered if they would become obvious as my due date neared.
But they never did.
I know not everyone has other babies to help ease their pain, and my heart breaks for them. And I also know no one replaces a little one lost. They are unique and the pain of their absence can last a lifetime.
I still mourn Catherine Gerard and often cry at the mere mention of her. But I am embracing the good - literally. And it is most definitely good that I have three sweet kids to keep my arms and lap and home and heart full.
