**I started writing this while pregnant with our little Avonlea. It is nothing more than the scribblings of a newly-expectant mother, the beat of my heart written out upon a page. My womb emptied before I had the chance to finish putting words to the experience; and so, this post remains short and sweet and complete all on its own – much like our daughter’s life. I share it with you today, in memory of each of our babes gone too soon.**
Each week with you is a miracle.
A small poppy seed lies in my belly, growing and blossoming with each day; a peppercorn, a blueberry, who knows how big you’ll become. No one sees you yet, this tiny knot of cells that have buried their way into my womb and clear through to my heart, but you’re there.
I don’t know how long we have together. I don’t know whether you’re the one whose forehead I will kiss as I rock to sleep, or whose toes I will tickle just to hear the sound of your laugh. I don’t know if we will name you in the first trimester as we say good-bye, or if we will proudly announce your height and weight on birth announcements for the world to see. I don’t know if a lifetime of memories with you means weeks, or months, or decades. All I know is right now.
I pray for forty weeks. I pray for a heart that will start beating and not stop for another ninety-five years. I pray for a lifetime of graduations and family weddings, grand-babies and grey hairs upon your head. But most of all, I pray for another day. Like the sparrow who spreads his wings for the first time, or the flower who sprouts into the bright light of a new morning, today is a miracle too.
This week with you has been filled with the ordinary: the dishes and the washing, and the smell of fried beef sizzling in the pan making my stomach queasy. These little reminders that you’re here turn mundane moments into the extraordinary. I cherish each of these moments, never knowing when it might be our last.
The dreams that I hold for you are simple. I hope for lungs that expand with breath, and legs that kick and run. I dream of eyes that blink up at me from under pale lashes, and vocal cords that let me know you’re here. I dream of life abundant; but my heart whispers that perhaps you are called to live a life even more abundant than I could dream.
These first few weeks with you are difficult: they’re full of fears and questions and hormones, but I treasure them nonetheless. We wait for blood work levels and ultrasounds – confirmations that you’re not just passing through but that you’re here to stay. I read into each twinge, I google each symptom, and I wonder and worry and love. I can’t help but hover over you. I’m loving you like I’m going to lose you. I’m drenching you with my love. I’m covering you with the weight of my prayers.
The love I feel for you is the sound of a thousand flapping butterfly wings, and the rustling breeze across a velvety forest floor; it’s soft and gentle, it is mighty and fierce. I’m not letting go.
You are mine.
