Dear Sweet Baby,
I announced your existence today. With a sweet picture of your daddy, mommy, and laughing big brother, we let the world in on a little secret. A blueberry-sized secret. A seven weeks along, maybe-it’s-a-bit-early secret.
We are pregnant! Our second baby is in the works.
Friends told me I was crazy. “It’s just so soon,” they said.
They were worried because things are a bit shaky this early in your little life. Statistically speaking, your future is a bit…unsure. I could be glowing today, celebrating your growing little soul, and mourning your loss tomorrow. Miscarriage is real, and the possibility is looming.
For weeks, I let the fear of your loss into my heart. I let it silence me, quieting the joy of this coveted pregnancy. I let that fear snuff out the flame of excitement that I had for you, until each night I spent waiting for the monster beneath my bed to pounce. I was nauseated, but refused to accept that was a “good sign.” I had food aversions, but convinced myself it was “all in my head.”
I was scared to accept you were here for fear that I might lose you.
There were too many losses around me. There were friends and family who had experienced the roller coaster of pregnancy’s joy and the grief of loss. It was safer to stop hoping for you than it was to risk all of that hurt.
So, the fear consumed me. I stopped discussing name possibilities. I stopped talking about nursery decorations. I stopped wondering how my other child would be at his “big brother” job.
I let the fear in, and it was making you disappear.
Then, on a Friday, you showed me your heartbeat. All it took was a few thump-thump-thumps, and I was head over heels.
Yes, it’s early. Yes, it’s scary. But it doesn’t matter that I’m scared anymore. You are here now, and I want to celebrate every minute that you exist.
Don’t worry about those friends of ours—the ones who fear about it being too soon. They love me—and they love you, too. They are just concerned.
The truth is I’m tired of being stuck in that holding pattern. All that worry and fear was making you disappear—from my dreams, my joy, my hopes, and my plans.
What a tragedy that already was.
So today, I want to celebrate your life—tomorrow, too, and every day after. I want to celebrate the miracle that is you, for as long as your heart beats. Your presence is a gift that was prayed over.
And I choose to celebrate this gift as long as I have it.