Today is M's 31st birthday. Not a remarkable number; last year we went all out with celebration. This year it will be small and low-key, just a dinner with his parents. That's all the party I have in me at the moment.
As I sit here, the early morning fog rolling in over the shore, I can't believe, yet again, that our baby isn't with us. I secretly wish, with all my heart, that I will wake up and find this all to be a long horrible dream. As the days go by and I feel every pinch, every tear that rolls down my face, I know logically that this is my reality. But I still secretly hope, for just a moment each day, that it's not.
We're in the midst of babyland, M and I. We've been blessed with a group of friends, all couples, on the same life-timelines as us. We bought houses the same year, got married the same year, were all expecting babies the same year. Our close friends are ready to deliver their baby any day now. I was convinced that they had already headed to the hospital when an email I sent them remained unanswered for several hours yesterday. As I mentally prepared myself for the events, I finally got my email response, and resolved that I'll be repeating this paranoia again and again until their little one arrives.
I don't know why it scares me so much. I am praying they have a boy. Dear God, please let them have a boy. I will not be able to handle seeing them with an infant girl, day after day in baby bliss, with pink dresses and hair bows and all the femininity. I had so longed for a girl my entire pregnancy; I'm not even sure why. I adore little boys; my preschool nephew is one of the lights of my life, but I wanted my own girl. It was salt in the wound to have her born only to die within minutes. Pure salt.
Oh, please let them have a boy.
I want my baby back.
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