Yesterday was D Day. The due date for the baby I lost in January.
For reasons that are entirely our own, and not backed up by any sort of medical science, we were convinced that this baby was a boy.
I picture this phantom baby, and how he would fit in our family. The final miserable weeks of pregnancy in the hot desert heat. In all reality he wouldn't have been born yesterday. My babies tend to come early and he would have been born weeks ago. I picture the chaos of juggling the first day of school with the first days of life with a newborn. I picture myself carting him around in a heavy car seat carrier to the kindergarten gate to pick up Sweet Pea every afternoon. She would rush to kiss her brother before she would acknowledge me. I picture the pride with which Meaty would shine with as he showed his baby brother off to his friends after school. I picture how helpful Bird and Pork Chop would be fighting over who would get to rock the baby while I made dinner each night. We would have been so happy.
I mourn the child that is not to be.
As I sit and type this I can feel the busy kicking in my tummy. Not phantom kicks of a child lost, but the strong sturdy kicks of a new life. A little girl. A girl whose in utero acrobatics have already displayed a personality that is sure to set her apart from her sisters. A child who is about to change our lives in ways I can't even begin to imagine. A special little girl who is already so loved by her siblings. They read to her, and talk to her, and plan what they will do when she is FINALLY here. They argue over who will be the baby's favorite sibling. Sweet Pea rushes from the kindergarten gate to kiss my stomach, then she tells me about her day, but she must love the baby first.
A daughter who would not be if not for the loss of my son.
Life is funny and cruel that way.