Happy Mother’s Day

I thought a lot about my first Mother’s Day with you.

I would probably tell your dad not to get me anything and then complain when he didn’t stop at Starbucks on his way home from work & get me flowers I wouldn’t keep alive longer than a day.

But I would give up Starbucks & nature of any kind for the rest of forever if you could have been here with me today.

Half of me is scared I’m always going to be known as the girl that lost her baby at 22.5 weeks.

The other half of me is scared that I won’t.

That people will move on and I will be the only one that even remembers your name.

That people will ask if I have any kids and it will no longer elicit an awkward pause wanting to talk about you, but half a breath and the expectation that I will answer “no”.

Like the moment you came and left this world and for weeks we had flowers & meals delivered every day.

Then they stopped arriving.

The flowers died and the meals got eaten and everyone moved on.

But to this day, I’m still in that hospital bed, clinging to my stomach, begging you not to go.

I’ve received Mother’s Day emails at such a rapid pace I can’t keep up with unsubscribing.

I went to Target the other day and while walking to my car, the lady next to me said “oh sorry, you go – I have him” and pointed to her son.

I should be the one at Target letting people next to me get into their car first so I could take my time putting you in your car seat.

I hate that I can run to Target and back in 20 minutes.

What I would give to have you here with me.

We’d sleep in on Sundays, get dressed, go to Target, order Starbucks and browse the store for hours together.

Then we’d come home and when your dad woke up, he’d take you to Menards.

I always imagined you loving Menards.

Not the store, but going with your dad.

And I hate that I don’t get to watch you fall in love with him as much as the rest of the world.

I hate that I don’t get to see the bond I know the two of you would have had.

And I hate that I didn’t get to carry you in to watch him get sworn in at his new job last week.

Did you know, the day before we received your diagnosis, your dad was at work and was faced with a situation involving a young teenage girl?

When he got home, he told me that he sat down with her and explained that he was going to be a dad to a little girl soon, and wanted to know what he could do to be a good parent.

Not even 24 hours later, we learned that we might lose you.

Three weeks after that, we did.

Every time I think of you, I think of that story.

And I can’t believe I got to tell him he was going to be a dad, and then had to take it back.

You would have had him wrapped around your perfect little finger from the moment you opened your eyes.

And I would forever be okay coming in second to him.

Since you left, approximately 180,000 people that we know have had healthy pregnancies and babies.

And I can’t figure out why you didn’t get to be here.

I had a garage sale this weekend and didn’t sell any of your items.

And I’m not sure whether I was too scared to unpack it all and watch someone else buy it or if I just wasn’t ready to part with it.

I went shopping this afternoon for items to put in the Mother’s Day basket for your Grandma.

She’s the greatest.

And I hate that I never got to attempt to be half as amazing of a mom as she is.

That I never got to bring you to her house and watch you absolutely adore her, like everyone else on earth.

I hope that you know how much I love you.

I hope you know all that we did to try and keep you safe.

And when it all failed, I hope you know how much it hurt.

But I hope that you’re happy and not in pain.

That you found my sweet friend’s daughter that also lost her battle before it started.

And that the two of you only know of happiness and hiking and frozen yogurt.

And that you forever know how lucky I am to be the one that gets to love you, even if from far away.

Thank you, Raya, for making me your mom.