A Baby at My Ankles

The truth is... I am terrified.

It’s 5:00 and I have just gotten in the door from work. Without a moment to pause, I pick up backpacks, clean out lunchboxes, and try to answer all the voices that demand my attention. My husband is trying to tell me the news of his day, and our three year old is wandering around with wet underwear, screaming at her sister, making our conversation near impossible. I try to start dinner, while my six year old repeatedly asks me for a snack. All I hear is ‘mommy, mommy, mommy.’

I steal away for a minute to myself, and that’s when I decide to grab the pregnancy test that I had stashed away in my bathroom. I tell myself that I am being paranoid, but then again, my period is two days late.

My whole body goes numb, as I watch the second line appear. I am pregnant.

I am terrified.

I go about the rest of the evening on auto-pilot; cleaning up, trying to concentrate on all the little voices, and finally reading ‘Franklin Goes to the Hospital’ and tucking them into bed. Then I tell my husband, and instead of the instant joy and excited embrace that I was met with the last time we had this news, he looks at me with shock and fear. We sit there in silence and my mind floods with thoughts.

I think about having another C-section, possible ‘complications’, and more scar tissue.

I think about the trip we were planning, and I wonder if we will ever travel again.

I think about colic, bleeding nipples, sleepless nights.

I think about money, and how we will never have enough.

I think about my new job, and what this will mean for my career.

And I picture the scenario from when I came home from work tonight, except this time with a baby at my ankles.

I cannot possibly have enough time and love for three children.

The next week is a wave of emotions. I go about my everyday routines and start to try to understand how this is all going to work. I try to change the movie script that I had previously written for the upcoming year of our lives. I try to be happy. But every time I get close to acceptance, I think about daycare costs, or the stomach flu, or all that could possibly go wrong.

And then on Monday night, it happened.

I saw blood in the toilet.

My body is numb again. The tears sting my eyes, making the room before me a blur. I try hard to hold them in, but they overflow and fall silently down my cheeks. Somewhere along the way, I had fallen in love, and every part of my entire body wanted this baby.

I wanted the thrill of telling our two girls that they were going to be big sisters.

I wanted to see that little heartbeat on the ultrasound screen and see my husband’s face light up with wonder.

I wanted to have another C-section and that indescribable joy when you hear your baby’s first cry.

I wanted to feel a baby’s soft breath on my cheek as I rocked them to sleep.

I wanted another little voice to call me ‘mommy.’

I wanted that baby at my ankles.

In the days following my miscarriage, I feel guilt and I feel overwhelming sadness. I cannot even fathom ever not wanting this baby. I cannot remember feeling terrified.

The truth was… during the fear, there was love. There was so much love.