I am a mother. Whether of one or two or three is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose. This much I know: I've held three in my womb, and hold three in my heart. I've given birth to two, and hold just one in my arms now, just one who walks this earth beside me.
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My first pregnancy brought me a sweet baby boy, now a lovely, boisterous, almost-3-year-old. My last two pregnancies combined have totalled 40 weeks - but haven't resulted in a baby I can bring home. One ended at 13 weeks, the other at 27 weeks and 5 days. The latter ended just over five weeks ago - she should still be in my belly. Most mornings I stand in the shower and think, "only me in here," looking down at my slack, empty, slowly flattening belly.
I miss her so much, my little Sierra girl. Two weeks ago we camped on the beach, a couple hours from home. I wrote her name in the sand and watched the waves erase it almost immediately. I wrote it again, then walked away from it as her big brother Austin ran playfully ahead. It felt a bit like birthing her lifeless body, then leaving her at the hospital...