July 2018
This is it. We’re here. My due date month, though we are no longer pregnant, it’s still our month. As I sit here at our flame-lit kitchen table with tear painted cheeks and summer cocktail in reach, I am reminded of what could have been.
I am bloated today. Not because I am 9 months pregnant amidst the dry Utah July. But because I am premenstrual (A recurring aide-mémoire: Our baby will not be arriving).
I hear the rumble of an orange wagon drum by as a Father pushes his dinosaur-dressed son past my home and I laugh out loud at the simpleness.
The beauty.
The sorrow.
The unknown of whether or not pushing my dinosaur-donned kiddo will ever be my path.
Or if I even want it…
I watch a video of our friend’s newborn son and I find myself so happy-meets-deep-down-sadness at the realization that I don’t even know if our baby would have been a boy, a girl, or babies, plural.
I dreamt about our baby not long after our miscarriage…
A beautiful boy with a face of Buddha Joy. I’m not sure if he is our Angel passed or Angel to come.
I’m not sure I’m sure of much.
When you ask someone if they have kiddos, keep in mind the possible sensitivity of the question & please meet the answer of miscarriage with compassion. I am not trying to Debbie Downer you. I am juggling how to answer authentically while not drowning us in details.
Right now I am focusing on making the most of each moment. Enjoying my life, those I love within it, holding in full acceptance the moments I break out crying at the sound of a little one’s voice cutely asking his mom and dad a question about pool time.
July 2018 will forever hold a place in my story, my heartbreak, my perseverance.
I love you, baby Angel Wallingford.