One of the blogs I visit from time-to-time is thomas woz ‘ere 2005. It is a blog I discovered shortly after my first pregnancy loss in February. Jill has also experienced two pregnancy losses and I find myself nodding along with many of the feelings she describes. On Saturday, August 6th, she wrote these words:

Last Night, Under the Stars

I doubt this will be as eloquent as it was last night floating around in my head.

I stood standing looking up at the stars, my head swimming, glass of wine in hand. I realised that I don’t miss that foetus that left my body in February. I miss the baby that was meant to arrive somewhere about now.

To be prescise here is what I mean:

My breasts sting like they are full of milk and I ache for the mouth they will never feed.

The crook of my arm burns with the imagined heat of that heavy, downy head resting there.My forearm feels light where no baby will lay its body now.

My left shoulder is cold where his cheek won’t be all squished up while he dribbles milk and vomit over me.

And my heart, my breaking heart, is the one thing I have always used to soothe my babies. I place their chests to mine so they can feel its comforting, constant thudding inside their bodies. When they are upset I hold them close, their ears pressed to my breast so the can hear that my blood pumps for them, just as it did before they were born.

Today I would have been 37 weeks pregnant—full term, ready to kiss my baby’s face for the first time, eager to fall in love with the hurricane swirl of cocoa-brown hair on his or her crown, the pursed mouth, the pink toes splayed and tense, the child.

As the day has cracked itself open minute by minute, I am finding myself analyzing every action and every move through the lens of my first pregnancy loss. The most menial chores of my day are suddenly gripping me in a hold of regret, questioning, and self-pity. My life didn’t have to be this way…

I bend over to get Ryley and Sam’s whites out of the dryer. It is easy. I fold the rest of their laundry and carry it up the stairs. It is easy. I make the kids lunch, pour their milk, and it is easy. I go outside to rescue sandals from the dog. It is hot, but I am not overwhelmed by the heat. I climb in and out of the minivan and do not have to arrange the belt around my belly. I push the cart around the store. It is easy. I don’t find myself wishing for a place to sit, a place to put up my feet.

Joel falls asleep on the ottoman in the playroom. I carry him up two flights of stairs and place him in his toddler bed. I unload the dishes, reaching high to put away the glass measuring cup and the cheese grater. I see a sippy cup under the couch, and easily retrieve it on my hands and knees.

My calendar is open. There are no weekly midwife checkups scheduled. There are no plans for someone to come watch the kids when the time arrives. There is no packed bag in the closet. I don’t have a stack of clean receiving blankets and onesies.

My body is not preparing to do anything interesting, challenging, or miraculous. Unless you count staying away from McDonald’s for another week.

It is all so easy.

I wish it weren’t so easy.