We got her dresser. We ordered the chair. Her room is almost perfect. In the corner there are letters that say “Elliott Jane” (what we will call her). Her clothes are all washed and organized. It is the happiest of rooms. Everything is white, because she is our dream truly coming true. I can’t believe as I write this, I can feel her little body moving inside of me. That I only have 9 weeks (we are delivering at 37 weeks) until I get to see her face. I think about that moment often. When I went for the anatomy scan at 21 weeks and they said, “do you want to know what it is?” and I replied, “oh, I know…” and then they told me…I bawled, laying there, harder than I may have ever cried in my entire life.
I’ve wanted to write about this pregnancy for a while now, but pen to paper seems permanent and just hard. It makes it real, like something I can’t erase. With all my other pregnancies and heartache surrounding infertility, I just wanted a big eraser to erase that time and space and hurt, but even today I feel it — so I didn’t want to hold on to tightly to this girl for fear.
But she has a name. She has clothes. She has a bed. She has diapers.
I’m so thankful for every part of these long and short days. I wake up exhausted and go to bed exhausted but smiling outwardly and inwardly because I know why and I am just so grateful to get to experience this movement in my soul and my belly.
She responds mostly to the Dave Matthews Band and Vern. When Dave is singing she is moving and when Vern is barking she is moving –which is worrisome considering Vern is so mischievous and she seems to be in on the joke. I laugh and tell Brad the moment Vern realizes she is a human that has potential to throw Santa, she will have a toy dropped on her face within minutes of them meeting.
Mostly today, I feel really grateful that I get this opportunity to raise her. To see her blossom before my eyes. To teach her to be lovely, gentle and kind. To love others well. To watch her personality come to life, to tell her the story OF her life. To be her mother, watch her with her daddy, to hold her hand and tell her stories of my daddy.
I don’t take one minute of these days for granted. It makes my throat catch to think about meting her, dressing her, seeing her little hand with dimples and her face. To change her diaper, to love her, to rock her…to never give her back because she is mine.