I'm finding myself a little bit at a loss for what to write, and I guess even what to feel. It's not that I feel nothing, it's just a little jumbled up.
Last January seems so long ago. During the months that we were TTC, the pain of miscarrying would come over me with fresh intensity each time that I looked at a negative pregnancy test or got my period. The memories were, if anything, too vivid, too uncontrollable, too accessible. Now, they are fuzzier and at a greater distance, and I don't really want to go back there in my mind. This pregnancy is a protective wall between my psyche and what I went through last winter. I could go there, but I don't want to. I occasionally think about going back through the archives of this blog - to remember - but I'm not willing, not yet.
There was one day, about a week ago, when I was driving to work in the morning and listening to some song - I can't even recall which - and suddenly I felt so sad again, about losing Baby Wednesday, that I teared up over her (him or her) for the first time in months.
I remember one day soon after the miscarriage when Mr. Ibis asked me if someday we would tell our children about the sibling that came first, the one we lost. I said I supposed we would, at some point. He said that he worried the next child would feel inadequate for not being our first, or feel secondary to the one we wanted so much but lost. I remember that it touched me that he too would hold Baby Wednesday in a place of honor, even though her life was so short - just nine weeks in the womb, then gone.
And then of course when I reached nine weeks with this baby, I was a mess. I was filled with dread that history would repeat itself, even though there was no reason why it should. It was hard to read all the same milestone markers and developmental updates that week that I was reading the week that we lost Wednesday.
Last January - or really, February, when we started to think about the future and trying again - all I could do was hope that I would be pregnant by August. I'd go over the calculations again and again... the possible due dates, when we'd have to get pregnant in order for me to be pregnant on my birthday, and of course the final deadline: get pregnant at the beginning of July in order to be pregnant, at least a little bit pregnant, by Baby Wednesday's due date. It loomed so close. And, of course, we were lucky.
I will be 17 weeks pregnant tomorrow. This baby has taken over much of my headspace, has taken over my dreams and hopes and fears. I'm seen him (or her) kicking, seen the five fingers of his hand, seen the profile of his tiny face. Amidst all my worries, I should - I will - be grateful to have him. I will confess I haven't been grateful enough. I've been obsessed, fearful, excited, but not grateful enough. So thank you, Little Pea, for bringing us so much peace.
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