There are no words to describe the anxiety of enduring a pregnancy right after a second-trimester loss. What if it happens again? What if I lose this baby too? Will I ever experience the joy of motherhood?
Every little twitch and twinge was a cause for concern. The baby isn’t moving enough. The baby is moving too much. What does that look on the ultrasound tech’s face mean? Is it concern or detached professionalism?
There are no words to describe the gut-wrenching agony of labour, and the bone-chilling fear of seeing your soon-to-be-born child’s heart rate take a momentary nosedive. You’re so close, baby. You’ve made it so far, baby. You can do it. Find your way into this world.
There are no words to describe the welling-up of emotion as you lie spent on the delivery table, hearing your baby cry for the first time as the doctor congratulates you on your brand new son. He’s here. He’s alive. I am a mother.
There are no words to describe how it feels to hold your newborn baby in your arms for the first time. He’s beautiful. He’s fragile. I have been entrusted with the most precious gift anyone could ever have.
There are no words to describe the joy and pride of watching your baby become a toddler, and then a child, and then a taller child. Adventure. Laughter. Bittersweet. Love. Exploding-heart happiness.
Maybe there are some words. But not nearly enough.
Happy ninth birthday to George. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being you. I will love you forever, all the way past the stars and the moon and the universe.
(Photo credit. Kirsten Doyle)
