Me and spawn

Dear Spawn,

You're keeping me up, kid.

Just you and me, in the wee hours of the morning. From what I recall of Shea's early days, it won't be the last time I say that in the next few months.

I'm not going to lie, it's been a rough few days. Out of nowhere, a tiny sniffle turned into a cold of monumental proportions, making it difficult for me to even get out of bed. Yesterday your daddy succumbed. I envy him his ability to take drugs to relieve the symptoms - you and I have limited ability to do that. While we stumble about, feeling barely alive, you and your brother are happy, healthy, and exhausting.

When I was finally able to fall into bed tonight, your Cirque du Soleil audition began. If I hadn't seen the ultrasound myself, I would swear there had to be more than one of you in there.

Taken with the sniffling, coughing, sneezing, aching, not breathing, and listening to your dad do all the same, this whole beating mommy from the inside out business makes sleep very hard.

But I did sleep, eventually.

And I dreamed of Harper.

I don't very often, you know. Dream of her. At least, not that I remember. I did a lot in the beginning, lots of nightmares, mostly. Perhaps it's because so much of my conscious mind is sometimes occupied by her and my feelings about her, that my unconscious mind doesn't bother. Nothing left to process.

My dream tonight started out completely unrelated. Lou and I had been invited to some engagement dinner of a famous chef. Oddly enough, after dinner, we began to divide into softball teams. Even more oddly, Ryan Zimmerman was there, complete with uniform. We made small talk, he asked about our family.

In the dream, I began to tell him about Harper.

And it opened a floodgate of memories. I don't even know when I crossed the line between asleep and awake. But I was reliving her memorial service. The sunshine. The speeches. The readings. Holding Shea in my lap, him clutching my skirt as I stood to speak. It was suddenly very important I remember what Lou and I said. I think it was reaching for that memory that pushed me into fully being awake.

You were still wriggling, kicking, jumping. I lay there with my hand on my belly. And I remembered. And I worried.

My OB appointment a couple of days ago went perfectly. Other than me being sick as a dog, that is, and wanting nothing more than to go home and back to bed. But the word "perfect" was thrown around a lot: perfect heartbeat, perfect fundal height, perfect weight gain, perfect blood pressure. Then I went to schedule my next appointment and realized we've hit the "every two week" appointment mark. The third trimester. We get to meet you soon, spawn. I felt panic, I'm not ready...

Mind leap back to the dream.... Ryan Zimmerman brought about another sense of deja vu. Last year's season ticket draft with our Nats partners, joking over brunch about carting two kids to baseball games. Thinking about how we'll be doing it all over again, nearly the same amount pregnant, wondering if they know about Harper, or if I'm going to have to answer the same questions over again, see the same looks of sympathy and pain.

Remembering those first baseball games after, surrounded by Harper shirts. Realizing I can't nurse in my Harper bean shirt, so I probably won't be wearing it this season.

Suddenly wondering if I'd make our President's meeting at work, which is late this year, or if you'll already be with us, spawn.

Flash to a memory of Lou and I in Georgetown, a week or so after Harper was born. We saw a therapist for the first time, cried a lot. It was a beautiful day, and after days of being shut in the hospital, decided to take a walk. I was suddenly filled with determination to reach a high-end baby store on M Street to buy you a present. A present specifically for you, baby clothes you could call your own, price be damned. But I was only a few days past my c-section, and couldn't walk very fast. We reached the store, and it had just closed.

I thought, if I can make it to the President's meeting, I can get there and get you a present, spawn. Make up for failing to do that for Harper bean.

The one year anniversary of her birth, her death is coming up, and I wonder how I will handle it. I'll need to schedule my c-section date fairly soon, and I think about all the days we now need to avoid at the end of April and beginning of May.

And all this time, through all those thoughts and memories, you merrily kick away, little spawn.

I love you, you know. That's the real reason I gave up on sleep and came downstairs to write to you. To tell you that. Every miserable moment of stuffed up nose and burning throat (current state), every sense of deja vu and worry (constant state), every night you keep me up with your frantic antics - it's all worth it, baby boy.

I can't wait to hold you and your brother together in my lap. I can't wait to watch you grow into a sturdy little boy, like he has. I can't wait until these pre-dawn chats are over nursing, instead of crying and memories.

I can't wait until this stupid cold goes away.

Hush now, little spawn. It's time for both of us to go to sleep.

One last memory, kissing Harper's forehead, breathing in her baby scent, always tainted with the smell of rubber tubing and adhesive and hospital. Feeling the weight of her, light as it was, fall squeakily asleep in my arms.

Good night to you, too, bean.