Tomorrow makes three years since this beautiful day:
My sweet Noah will be three years old. The days leading up to this day have been bittersweet in every possible way. Noah is the happiest, most joyful child. He is also the most loving. Every day is filled with declarations of, "I love you SO MUCH," and sweet nicknames for me (that he comes up with himself) like "Sugar Boo." Noah is my heart. He embodies every good thing I've ever done in my life and so much more. He is truly my guardian angel here on earth.
Noah's birthday is June 21st. The last baby I lost was due June 23rd. Instead of being massively pregnant or sleep-deprived cuddling a newborn, though, I'm empty; I'm empty inside and I have empty arms. Hence the bittersweet. I'm holding on to Noah as my baby, though I know that a three year old is no longer a baby. He's all I have, though, to hold. I'm grateful that he wants me to snuggle him to bed each night, saying, "Snuggle you?" while curling up against me. I'm treasuring every moment because I know that as he gets older, they will come less and less.
After I lost my fourth baby, I sort of shut down. I locked everything away; it was the only way to survive and to continue to get up each morning. But as Noah's birthday and that baby's due date approach, the walls that I so carefully crafted are cracking. It's almost as though I built a dam, but suddenly the pressure is too much, and with no flood gate, the dam is bursting. All of those tears I thought I'd locked away seem to be escaping this week in sudden and heart-wrenching bursts, mostly as uncontrollable sobs that wrack me with a grief I cannot fathom. But I'm trying to stay patched together for the three children I have on earth who need me, instead of breaking for the four I've lost. Such hard work, this living.
