Wednesday, October 7, 2015
I don't remember crying.
I was very matter of fact about it.
Something must have been wrong with it (him, I knew in my heart of hearts he was a boy).
It just didn't stick.
After months of being off birth control and desperately trying to become pregnant, at least I knew I could get pregnant.
I was 7 weeks pregnant on a Friday. By Monday, my uterus was empty.
He would have been born at the end of January, 2005.
We liked the name Otis.
We would try again.
Over the years, I've thought about that baby and what might have been. However, I could never picture him as an actual baby in Heaven waiting for me.
In 2005 we welcomed Porter, followed by Brooklyn in 2006. Our family seemed complete.
Every time I would walk by this framed picture in our house, I would think that it looked like someone was missing.
We knew there was a third child coming our way, we just didn't know when.
Along comes August.
August was the only name we picked.
We knew he would be a boy.
As he has grown, I've heard myself jokingly say many times, "It's a good thing he wasn't born first, because we probably would have stopped at one." (The kid is a handful.)
Yesterday I had this realization:
I can't picture a baby in Heaven, because he's right here.
You see, he tried to come here the first time and, for whatever reason, it wasn't his time yet. Maybe his tiny body was broken, or maybe we weren't ready for him. I don't know. But God does.
I am 1 in 4.