Shea climbed into our bed this morning, curled up cuddly, gave me a kiss, and proceeded to tell me a long, involved story about a mouse who was hiding under my pillow, named Locohan, who liked to eat nuts. "You can pet it," he told me, sincerely.
I was so filled with happiness and love as I watched my boy's sweet smile. And then I was hit by an unbearable wave of sadness and pain.
I wanted two of these incredible creatures. I wanted two happy smiles jumping on me in bed, making daddy grumble, filling my arms with their loving softness, hearing their whispers and stories and songs.
Every moment of horrific nausea during morning sickness, every sleepless night, every piercing stab of heartburn or biting hip pain, the cesarean scar, the pain and indignity of the breast pump.
I still don't get two children bouncing into bed in the morning. And I want that. I want it so badly the pain and unfairness of it overwhelms me. I would have been such a good mommy to the child who isn't, for the child Harper will never be. Maybe I'm a good mommy to Harper, too, but no matter how good I am, she's still going to die in my arms, full of a life unlived and dreams unfulfilled.
"Don't cry, Mommy," says Shea. He hands me his beloved Aye for a reassuring squeeze, to make me feel better.
Just when the tears begin to stop, just when I feel I can breathe again, we begin to look for an oval for Shea to take to his preschool share basket - the letter of the week is "o" - and as we dig through the baby toys to find the box of shapes that Shea has outgrown, I am again smothered with sadness that these toys, which I so carefully separated from the "big boy" toys, will never make Harper smile. Will never make her laugh. May never get played with again.
"What can I do for you? How can I help?" Lou asks as I sob on his shoulder, yet again.
"I want a new baby," I tell him.
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