6 Ways We Become Our Parents

 

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I took a class about the origin of the family as part of my undergraduate degree. One part of the class was focused on our parents and how they shape who we are, etc. At the time I was just a 22-year-old kid, who had gone back to college after taking two gap years, and to be honest I had no idea what it meant to be a parent or an adult really. It would be another five years before I welcomed my long-awaited first born son. However, it wouldn’t be until he was a few years old that I’d realize how much like both of my parents I am in my own parenting style and demeanor.
Perhaps you take after your parents in your parenting style, or maybe you are the opposite because of your upbringing. Or maybe you are more like your grandma, or a lone wolf in the approach you take to child-rearing. Here are six qualities many of us have as parents that most likely we learned from our own:
Tenderness. When I was a little girl, I’d lay on the couch with my dad and watch “Star Trek: The Next Generation” with him while he ran his fingers through my hair. That was always my thing. I’d fall asleep instantly. My grandmother did it for me too, but there was always something about that simple, alone time with my dad that I’ve never forgotten. Nowadays, it’s my go-to trick for times when either of my boys are feeling sad or fighting sleep. Luckily, the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree as far as sleep-inducing tricks go.
Tradition. This is one I get from my mom. She always went above and beyond for Christmas, birthdays, Halloween, Easter, etc. One Christmas, my sister and I received a gigantic, custom-built Barbie dream house and all of the furnishings that she kept hidden in our basement for at least a month prior. The headaches she must have gone through to keep us from finding that must have been insane. It was worth it. That is one of my most beloved holiday memories. My kids are still young, but I make it a point to properly celebrate each holiday and honor the traditions my parents instilled in me.
Protectiveness. There was never a time during my childhood that I ever felt unsafe or worried about something bad happening. I know that is because of my parents. Though, as an adult now, I know very well times weren’t always great for them, but they never showed that to us kids. Whether it was them letting me sleep in their bed when I’d have a nightmare, or one of them stepping in when an issue would arise at school, there is nothing more primal than the drive to protect our young. I would do anything and everything to keep my own kids safe. This one is a given, but one they taught me well.
Discipline. I use this one lightly because to be totally biased, I was a really good kid. Really, my brother, sister and I rarely got in trouble. I’m not saying we were angels, but I think we just knew to toe the line instinctively. My parents weren’t mean or harsh at discipline, but there was this inherent desire to stay on their good side. Whether that meant we just naturally respected them enough to not act out that much or they gave us enough freedom and rules evenly to let us develop our own sense of right and wrong independently, I’m not sure. Whatever it was it worked. I try to use the same approach with my kids. Let them know who is boss, but also try and let them figure out some of it on their own so that they can develop the skills to decipher what is right and wrong without me always having to tell them.
Practicality. My parents had three kids. Most activities, meals, or purchases were done so with the idea to kill two birds with one stone– a basketball hoop will benefit all three kids, if one girl plays softball the other one will be on the same team, etc. Things were kept simple, and that’s something I’ve carried over into my own parenting. I try not to make things harder than they need to be. Of course there are times when things get complicated and there’s just no other way around it. But, it’s definitely all about perspective. That’s something I learned from both of my folks.
Self-care. My dad is a runner. Running has always been his outlet. He even ran the Boston marathon one year. My mom has had a variety of hobbies throughout the years. She’s always been into some form of crafting and used to go to bingo with my grandma and aunt at least once a week. They both always seemed to understand the importance of taking time to themselves when the stars would align and they were able to step away for a bit. Now that I’m a parent, I wholeheartedly get why it is vital to take care of yourself in order to take better care of your kids. My husband goes hunting, and I go to wine-tasting events with my best friend or I write.
You may have noticed one thing I did not put on the list of qualities I’ve carried over into my own parenting – love. That’s because that’s a given for most parents. Love was something that was always present in my childhood home. It is something I tell my kids every day, along with more kisses and hugs than they probably care for.
I’m so lucky to have two amazing parents as role models. I know that’s not always the case. I just hope to be as good of a parent to my own kids as my parents have been to me. I want my boys to carry some of my qualities over to their own parenting someday. And by that point, well I’ll get to just be grandma.

Originally published on Her View From Home

 

7 Reasons Why He Got Fixed Instead Of Me

 

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Within the dynamic of every relationship, the discussion of children usually comes up. Couples are left to decide if they want children, and then if so, how many? Some couples choose to not practice birth control, and let God give them what they are meant to have. That is all fine and well, unless you end up like the Duggars…
We are not those people.
My husband and I decided long before we got married that we were going to be a two child family (unless we had twins or something second time around). He was the oldest of two boys, I was the middle of three (older sister, younger brother), so we decided two of our own would be a good compromise.
Years of infertility, two miscarriages, and two beautiful baby boys laternand we are officially done. What was there to do now? Decide who was going to bite the bullet and get “fixed.”
After weighing the pros and cons of both, and long discussions while I was still pregnant with boy #2, we decided that he’d be the one to do it. Here are the reasons why:
It is easier for the man. We did the research. We asked women who got their tubes tied and men who got snipped. More men than women had positive things to say about their experiences with it. Most of the men we talked to said it was a very easy outpatient procedure and the recovery was not bad at all.
He was more willing to do it than me. To be totally honest, I didn’t want to do it. Google: “Post Tubal Ligation Syndrome” and then report back to me.
Metal clamps inside my body. Forever. (This is the procedure my doctor preferred.)
Typical recovery time for a vasectomy is two days. Tubal ligation is four to seven. I am the primary caregiver to our two young children – I cannot be out for the count for a week! Of course dad is important too, but that’s where grandma comes in for backup.
The cost. Vasectomies are cheaper. Insurance typically covers them, but if for some unforeseen reason they did not, a vasectomy is easier on the wallet.
Typically, a vasectomy is more effective than a tubal ligation at preventing pregnancy. It’s rare to get pregnant after either procedure, but statistically speaking, a vasectomy has a smaller failure range. Go look it up if you don’t believe me!
Last but not least is that part of me that likes to rear its ugly head from time to time. The “I’ve done enough” voice. It is ugly, but it’s true. I was the one whose body suffered two miscarriages, two rollercoaster full-term pregnancies, stretch marks, nausea, c-section scars/procedures, weight loss/gain, postpartum depression, hormone changes, and everything else that comes with having babies. I’m sorry, but it was his turn.
I’m really grateful for this guy. There are a lot of men who won’t go under the knife for the sake of family planning. They think it makes them less of a man or that it’s the woman’s job to get “fixed.” Not my hubby. He is a keeper. I do appreciate him taking one for the team.
In the end, we both know we are done. No more babies for us. To have the reassurance that we can enjoy our time together without worrying about getting pregnant again is reassuring. It is also nice to know that our little family of four is now complete.

Originally published on Her View From Home

You Were Here My Angel

 

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In the quiet stillness of the night, as I’m rocking my newborn son to sleep, I think of you. I can feel his sweet little chest rise and fall. As his breathing deepens and he starts to snore, I think of you still. On the baby monitor to the left of me on the nightstand, I see my other son sleeping soundly in his bed. He’s in a twisted position that only a young child could fall asleep in, with toys and books scattered all over his bed. They both sleep. Not me though, because my mind is with you.
My two sleeping sweethearts are your brothers. And you are our angel.
A few weeks ago, a day passed on the calendar that probably didn’t mean much to most people. But for me, April 16th will always be a part of my soul. It was the day I went into the doctor’s office to see you at my 12 week ultrasound. I’ll never forget seeing your little body on that computer monitor. The ultrasound tech had gone out to get the doctor, and they were both standing over me observing the image on the screen. I could see your little barely formed face, your little undeveloped hands, but I couldn’t hear your heart beat as I had been able to just a month prior. You were gone.
You were here though.
You were here when I told my mom and dad they would be getting their fourth grandchild that fall.
You were here when your daddy and I went on our first tour of our new house.
You were here when I stayed in bed, sick to my stomach with morning sickness.
You were here on Easter, when I was just starting to feel your presence in my belly.
You were here when I chased your brother around the house trying to get him dressed.
You were here for at least twenty grocery stores runs, picking up things I was craving because you were here.
You were here for St. Patrick’s Day, when I wondered if we’d give you an Irish name like your older brother.
You were here for so many things. For 10 ½ weeks you were here. You were ours.
Although, I found out you had left about a week prior to my 12 week ultrasound, you were still there.
You were there when I was sent home that afternoon, because there were no spots left on the surgical schedule.
You were there when your daddy left work to meet me in the hospital parking lot after that appointment.
You were there as we held each other and cried together for our lost baby.
You were there as I secretly tossed up a prayer to my grandmother, to hold you and take care of you in heaven until I’d be able to someday.
You were there that night, as I lay in my bed, dreading what was to come the following morning.
You were there as I cried myself to sleep that night, knowing I could feel your tiny lifeless body inside of me.
You were there when your daddy and I went back to the hospital the next morning.
You were there when they wheeled me in the operating room.
Then you weren’t. You were gone. At the advice of my doctors, for my own safety and well-being, and for the fact that my body just didn’t want to let you go on its own, you were taken away from me.
I cried in recovery. I cried for you every night for the next six months. I returned to my everyday life as a mom to your brother, secretly knowing something would always be missing.
It’d take me a long time, and another pregnancy lost not so far along, to put it all into perspective. You may not have been able to come into this world, but you are in fact still here. Although I’ll always wish you could be here with us…you are a part of me. You are a part of your daddy. You are a part of your older brother. You are a part of your new little brother too.
By all accounts, your little brother is what everyone would call our “rainbow baby.” He is our little blessing, but a rainbow is a beautiful occurrence after a storm. But to me, you were a ray of sunshine. I think that maybe your light was just too bright to be viewed for more than a short period of time. Like when one stares at the sun. It’s beautiful. It’s glorious. But, you cannot look at it for too long or you’ll hurt your eyes.
So, until I am able to look at your beautiful, glorious light again someday, you will remain my angel. I will love you always, my little sunshine.

Originally published on Her View From Home

 

10 Reasons Why Grandmas Are The Best

 

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I’ve never been one to dwell on the past. I’m the type of person that takes the time in each moment to truly relish in it, and then put it in that part of my brain where memory is stored, and move on. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I’m not nostalgic, because I am very much. I love looking at old family photo albums, I love American history, and there’s nothing I enjoy more than reminiscing with my siblings. I think the one area in which I wish I could turn back the hands of time, even if just for the day, it would be to spend one more day with my grandmother.
She died the day after my 16th birthday, with me wholeheartedly knowing that she had waited for me. She wouldn’t have wanted me to share my birthday with the day she had died. Her name was Lucretia, but don’t you dare call her that! She drank caffeine free Pepsi, went to bingo regularly, adored John Wayne, and loved Christmas more than anyone I’ve ever met. She was my mother’s mom, my Gram R. She was my favorite person.
I’m so lucky to have had two awesome grandmas. My dad’s mom (Gram B.) holds a very near and dear spot in my heart as well. She is a mean cook, raised nine children, and is one of the best bargain shoppers I’ve ever met! She tells it like it is and you can take it or leave it. I appreciate that. Luckily, she’s still with us. She can’t pronounce my sons’ Irish names correctly, but she tries and that’s all that matters. I love her.
Here are the reasons why grandmas are the best:
They always have candy. Gram R. always had “Fruit Stipes” bubble gum in her purse. She’d give me, my siblings and the neighborhood kids each a piece. Don’t even get me started on Gram B.’s homemade fudge. Not technically candy, but yes please.
They know your parents better than you. If you ever want to hear a good story about your mom or dad, Grandma has the dirt. I remember Gram B. telling me a funny story about my dad getting into a fight with his best friend over a game of marbles as a kid. My stoic father – fighting over something so silly is pretty comical.
They know how to cook. One of my grandmothers makes the best spaghetti sauce you’ll ever taste and the other never made anything I didn’t like. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit the cooking gene. Oops.
When mom and dad say no, grandma says yes. Oh, the times I got one of my grandmothers on my side to coerce my parents. Like a charm.
They have the best taste. After Gram R. died, she wanted her granddaughters to go through her jewelry and take what we wanted. The lady had some class. The pieces of hers that I have are some of my most prized possessions. I wore one of her rings on my right hand at my wedding because it’s beautiful and I wanted a part of her with me that day.
They will teach you how to love. From the very beginning, some of my earliest memories are of receiving hugs from both of them.
They are treasured time pieces. Is there anything better than sitting with your grandma and hearing a story about something from the past? Even as a young child, I relished in both of their stories.
They know how to have fun. I was never bored anytime I visited either of my grandmothers. Whether I was shopping with Gram B., or berry picking with Gram R., there was never a lack of something to do!
They will teach you how to be strong. Throughout the years, I’ve seen both of them go through so much. I watched Gram R. struggle with cancer, yet still laugh with us all while she cooked dinner on Sundays. Gram B. raised nine children! Need I say more?
They will impact your life, for the rest of your life. Although Gram R. has been gone for over a decade now, she continues to hold a special part of my heart. She always will. I feel lucky to still have Gram B. around. I’m glad one of them got to know me as an adult. She’s given me a lot of lasting advice that I’ve carried into adulthood and motherhood.
I hope you have been as lucky as I have in the grandmother department. If so, I hope you will take a moment to thank her this Mother’s Day, whether it be with a phone call, a trip to her house, or a visit to the cemetery. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it no matter where she is.

This piece was originally published on Her View From Home

 

I Found God Again In Alaska

 

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The call came on a hot summer afternoon when I was on my way out the door to run some mundane errand. As I went to answer the phone, I noticed on the caller ID that I didn’t recognize the area code but answered it anyway, which I never do. The voice on the other line was a man with a southern accent who confirmed my identity and then uttered several words I’d longed to hear, “We would like you and Sergeant LeBoeuf to join us in Alaska for our last week of the 2014 season.”
We’d been picked. Finally. We were going to Alaska through Samaritan’s Purse. Their project, Operation Heal Our Patriots, ministers to wounded military personnel and their spouses.
Not more than a month later my husband, the aforementioned, Sergeant Kevin LeBoeuf and I stepped off the plane into Ted Stevens International Airport in Anchorage, Alaska. We’d been up since 3:00 AM Eastern Standard Time, had a layover in Chicago, and finished the last leg of our journey with a six-hour plane ride into Anchorage. We were exhausted. We were greeted at baggage claim by the super-sweet Carol Wong, and waited for another couple that was joining us at the week-long marriage enrichment event. We were loaded onto a small bus that was being driven by her equally kind husband, Kent Wong, to a private reception area. We were given a much-needed lunch and got to meet some of the other couples that would be going to Port Alsworth with us. Before too long, two smaller planes arrived that would transport us to the secluded Alaskan town.
As we took off in the small plane, I looked across the aisle at my husband and could see Denali out his window in the distance. The flight to Port Alsworth was something of wonder. As a lover of the state (thanks Life Below Zero), I was amazed to see its beauty firsthand. The chance to go to Alaska was the first reason we had applied for the trip after all. But, as the plane landed at the small runway of Port Alsworth, Alaska, the trip took on an entirely new meaning for me.
When I looked out the small window of the plane, I saw a long line of people with American flags, large signs saying “Welcome Patriots,” and other sentiments of that nature. They were clapping and jumping up and down. That’s when I knew this was going to be something big. As we exited the plane, we were given handshakes and hugs from complete strangers. I couldn’t count the number of thank-yous that were said to my husband, the other veterans and spouses, and even me. It was overwhelming.
At the end of the line we were ushered to our own personal tour guide, who took us around the beautiful community of tiny cabins, a chapel, a dining hall, and a workout facility. It was gorgeous. Then she took us to one of the small cabins that sat right on the lake. We were staying in the Fox cabin. As we entered, I saw fox-themed colors, wall art, and a beautiful view of Lake Clark. The other couples each had their own cabin, with an animal native to Alaska as the theme.
What happened over the course of the following week is really hard to fully explain. That first night, we shared a delicious meal prepared by the late and much beloved staff chef Jean-Claude Mille and we got to meet all of the Operation Heal Our Patriots staff, as well as our fellow military couples. Some were vets, some were still active-duty. Some were from out West, some from the Midwest, the South, and up North like us. All walks of life. We were all different ages, had children of various ages, but we all shared one thing in common. We had either been injured/wounded in the military after the September 11 attacks, or we were married to someone who had.
Operation Heal Our Patriots, a project of Samaritan’s Purse, flies ten former or active military members and their spouses to Alaska, at no charge to the family, each week for 16 weeks every summer. We all participated in a Marriage Resiliency Workshop, led by former military chaplains and their wives. When not attending the classes, couples have the opportunity to go fishing, bear watching, kayaking, hiking, sightseeing, boating, or just relax by taking in the majestic view of Lake Clark at the wilderness center, or Samaritan Lodge Alaska as it’s called.
The workshops and seminars were very rewarding for us. With God as the focus of each lesson, we learned more about one another and acquired skills we could bring back home to use in our marriage. When we weren’t in one of the educational workshops, we were out living out our Alaskan-driven fantasies. I caught a gigantic salmon off of a beautiful 34-foot fishing boat called the Jay Hammond. We hiked to the thunderous Tanalian Falls, where I learned to fly fish for the first time. We flew on another small plane, called The Otter, to Brooks Camp, part of Katmai National Park and Preserve. Envision being not 20 feet away from a 900-pound Alaskan brown bear and watching him as he rips a sockeye salmon to shreds for his lunch!
The best part of the trip was when, one evening, my husband and I sat down with one of the staff members, Chaplain Dan Stephens, in the beautiful dining hall of the retreat. We were told we could request an audience with any of the chaplains or staff members for personal one-on-one counseling at any point. We thought why not, we’re here. We thought we’d discuss with Chaplain Dan some of our issues we’d been going through at home, nothing too serious, but worth addressing. When we sat down, Chaplain Dan gave us some great insight into our issues and offered up a prayer for our marriage, which was very much appreciated. But then, he did something amazing. He asked me if I was a Christian. I replied, “I was raised Catholic.” To which he replied, “I mean do you live in Christ’s way?” The question puzzled me, I didn’t know what he meant. Chaplain Dan went on to explain what it was that Jesus did for us and ways in which we can live like Him in our daily lives. The impact of the conversation is hard to put into words as it was something that really made me think and question everything I’d known as a lapsed Catholic.
In my past religion classes, we were taught about God and his Son Jesus and all of the other Bible stories, but never really shown what it means to be a Christian. That night, in that dining hall, with my husband by my side, and with the help of Chaplain Dan, I accepted Jesus fully into my life and became a true Christian for the first time.
It was the kindness of the Operation Heal Our Patriots staff that had shown me what it means to truly live as a follower of Christ. The trip is something I’ll never forget, including the people I met and the things I got to see and do. It renewed my faith in the Lord and in humanity. It also brought me and my husband closer together and provided us with tools to enrich our marriage. I’ll always be grateful that Samaritan’s Purse selected us to participate in such a memorable experience.

This piece was originally published on Her View From Home

 

I Love My Kids But I Don’t Like Babies

 

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There’s that look again. The same “Oh my God what is wrong with you?” look that I’ve received enough times for me to know what they are thinking. I just told her that I don’t like babies. All while holding my eight-week-old and my four-year-old is running around. People look at me like I have three heads or just told them that I don’t like Tom Hanks or something/someone else everyone else in the world loves.
Yes, I do not like babies.
The look usually is accompanied by a series of questions. “How did you have two of them then?” or “How can you not love babies?” It never takes me long to retort my standard answer, “They are a lot of work.” But, in reality that’s an understatement. In the confines of my own home, with my like-minded husband, we complain to each other almost daily about how much work it is. You could say we were scarred by our first experience as parents. Our older son had one of the worst cases of colic that has probably ever existed. He cried and cried for about six months straight before he even started to calm down. It was awful.
Then, we were crazy enough to do it again four years later. Our current baby is actually what most people would call a “good baby.” He doesn’t cry that much, and if he does it’s because he is wet, hungry, or needs a good burp. But, he’s still a baby. I had forgotten how much work they are. The endless days that turns into endless nights that turn into days again, all without sleep. The not fun parts: constantly washing bottles, trying to get tiny diapers onto a wiggly body, the 7:00 p.m. crying jags, having to constantly carry him around, and the awful smell of newborn baby poop.
This is just my own baby I’m talking about. Forget about other people’s babies. When a friend or family member has a baby I, of course, will go visit or look at their pictures. But, deep down, I’m really not that interested. I’m happy for them to have a new member of their family but I really don’t want to hold them or sit and ooh and awe over them for hours on end.
This is a feeling that goes back as far as I can remember. I was never that little girl that carried around her baby doll or wanted the role of the mommy when playing with friends at school. When my little brother was born when I was eight years old, I really wanted nothing to do with him until he started crawling around and could play with me without being broken.
I know I sound like a monster. I swear I am not. I can appreciate how darn cute they can be. The chubby cheeks that only get chubbier with each passing month. The way they look at you and you just know they are studying your face and associating it with the voice they’ve been hearing for months while in your womb. The quiet little noises they make while they sleep soundly in your arms. I enjoy all of those things. But, I am very realistic in my life and in my parenting. Having a baby is a lot of work! Anyone that says differently is not telling the truth.
I love my children and being a mom is my most beloved role. As a woman that struggled with infertility and lost two babies in that process, I am very grateful for my two healthy boys. But, my oldest is now a four year old and I have to say I love this age. He can tell me what he wants, for the most part is quite independent, and I can walk around my house hands free to do what I want or need to get done. Now with a newborn in tow, my time is limited, as well as my sanity.
My mother-in-law and mom keep telling me to “Cherish this time, it goes by so fast,” and I appreciate their insight, but I’m not going to look back on all of this and wish I was here again. Not the 3:00 a.m. feedings when I’m watching yet another infomercial on no sleep while my husband snores upstairs. Nor carrying the car seat out to the car, alongside the diaper bag, packed with everything except the kitchen sink. No, I’m not going to miss it.
I really look forward to celebrating my son’s first year of life. From there on out is my favorite time. The first year is tough. No matter how good your baby is. I can’t wait for the days of attending karate lessons, events at their schools, and being able to take both of my children out to a restaurant without a crying infant. Until then, I suppose I can try and enjoy the smell of his little head as I rock him to sleep. I can try.
OK, I do enjoy some of it.

This article was originally published on Her View From Home

A Letter To The Daughter That I’ll Never Have

 

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You were someone I always thought I’d get to meet. I had dreams of you running around in my parents’ backyard as I once did as a little girl. You would have had the same long, light-brown hair that I had as a child, blowing in the wind as you chased one of the many pets around. You would have liked being outside of course, just like your daddy and me. I suppose you would have been more on the tomboy side, rather than the girly. But, then again, you may have been into makeup or dolls too. I had envisioned myself pushing a shopping cart down the “pink” aisle at the local Walmart and fawning over all of the new toys that were being offered to girls your age. Somewhat jealous that they didn’t have some of those toys when I was a kid.
Then, when you got older I knew we’d probably fight sometimes, as most girls do with their mothers when they turn into teenagers. Though, you secretly would have needed me for those tough times, like when a boy broke your heart or you started your first period. And I, of course, would have relished in being there for you anytime you needed me because you would have been my baby girl.
By the time you were grown we would have finally become friends. Like I did with my own mother, there would have come a time when you started to see me as a human being and not just as your mom. You would have realized that I wasn’t perfect or some sort of superhero, but a woman with real problems and just struggling to get by. We would have shared good times together. Such as shopping for your prom dress, girl road trips, days at the spa, getting our nails done, and of course, eventually we’d prepare for your wedding together. I would have loved that, every single part of it.
There would have been other milestones along the way that I would have loved to experience with you. I saved you so many things from my own childhood that I thought you would have liked: the jewelry box my grandpa made for me out of popsicle sticks, all of my Barbie dolls, all of my photo albums, my expensive jewelry, and my own wedding dress that was sent away to be preserved in a special box for the possibility of my own daughter perhaps wearing it someday if she so chose.
The idea of you was always in my mind. When I got pregnant for the first time, I knew my husband wanted a boy, so I was happy when we had a boy first. Then, when we got pregnant again two years later, I was sure you’d be arriving soon. However, that baby wasn’t to be. At ten weeks along, he or she decided to go to heaven. Later, that same year, another sibling joined the second when they too passed at five weeks utero. Then finally, three years after my firstborn’s birth, I got pregnant one last time. I held my breath as the weeks passed by and amazingly the pregnancy continued to progress normally. I prayed for a healthy baby, but secretly in my mind I also prayed that it would be a girl. At around twelve weeks, I got the phone call from my doctor telling me the results of the genetic testing we had done at ten weeks, and was told that the gender was also available if I wanted to know. I wanted to know! When the doctor told me it was a boy I nearly dropped the phone. I was shocked. Everything had pointed to a girl. And again, I always thought that you would happen.
I cried that night and several afterwards. The “experts” call it “gender disappointment.” It is a real thing. Of course, I felt awful for feeling that way. However, I was mourning the daughter I would never have. I had to let go of all of the things I always thought I’d be able to do with my fictional daughter. I just knew that I couldn’t have any more biological babies because of all of the heartache of loss and my age rapidly creeping up on me. My body couldn’t take another pregnancy. So, the grief process went on and I got more comfortable with the idea of having another boy. I felt him kick, we gave him a name, and I fell in love with the idea of being a mom to two boys. By the time he was born, I had made as much peace with the idea of never having a daughter of my own as I think I ever will find.
I just want you to know that the idea of you will always be within me. I will always wonder what you would have looked like, what your name would have been, and who you would have become. I will also always wonder if one of my angel babies was you. If so, I hope that we get to meet someday after all. And yet, perhaps fate is waiting to have one of my beloved boys make me a grandma to a granddaughter someday.
We shall see.

This article was originally published on Her View From Home