A year ago tonight, I was in floods of tears, labelling our daughter’s clothes for her first ever day at preschool. It had suddenly hit me that, with four failed cycles behind us (and a fifth one to follow), all of our daughter’s firsts might be our lasts.
That was never something I anticipated—getting pregnant was never my problem—and the realization hit me hard.
Tonight I’m marvelling at how I’m 30 weeks pregnant with twins. And as my kiddo clung to me and wept for almost an hour at bedtime because she misses her daddy (who’s in Chicago for a family wedding), I had a few thoughts:
- Man, I am so lucky to have this amazing child in my life!
- Holy shit, this closeness she and I have, and that she and I have with my husband/her dad—that’s all going to change in less than 8 weeks’ time…
- If any DEIVF parent-to-be/parent-in-waiting ever feared a lack of genetic connection, I wish I could show them this scene.
I held my daughter until the sobs that shook her little body gave way to deep breaths and, finally, sleep. At her knees, her brother kicked and her sister rolled. I moved a hand over my belly. My boy’s roving foot on my left; my other girl’s butt sticking up on my right.
In three different ways, I held all three of my living children at the same time, and felt my eyes water.
One year on, I cried again.
Just a little.