When I cleaned up my blog a few weeks ago, I changed my "profile picture" over in the righthand column. For almost four years, that photo was this:
And while that seems like a happy enough picture, I can still remember the behind-the-scenes well enough to know that it wasn't. I mean, sure. I was eating Punch Pizza and celebrating Dan's birthday. But that's about as far as the smiling went.
That woman was mere days post-miscarriage. Still in shock, still angry, still physically wrecked.
That woman was certain she was broken. Surely two post-first trimester losses in a row meant something was seriously wrong with her. Babies don't just die. At some point in a pregnancy, you should be safe. Except they do. And you never are. Broken. Convinced her first two healthy children were complete flukes and coming to terms with the fact that another living child might not be in the cards for her family.
That woman was embarking on what she'd later affectionately refer to as the summer from hell. Her marriage was kind of a mess. She'd "celebrate" her 10th anniversary a month later, but there wasn't much celebrating past the over-priced dinner and the "happy" Facebook posts.
But that woman was a mother, both to her living children and to her sweet babies in heaven. She was a daughter. She was a wife and a friend. And those truths, those identities, would carry her through that summer and beyond.
But the night became morning. The summer from hell didn't last. The empty places were filled. Filled with love and light. Filled with hope. Eventually filled with new life.
So to my sweet boy, no more than an ounce in the palm of my hand, your tiny, brief life still had weight. Your name will be spoken by this family for years. Because you're ours. You'll always be ours.