It has happened. The tiny flutters. At first I thought, no, it is just my imagination, but as it has become more frequent and more familiar I have had to admit it to myself, yes, I can feel this baby moving.
Before now, I had only referred to this pregnancy as "it", doing everything I could to remain detached and removed, just in case. Now, it seems cruel to deny this little one's existence, to hold off loving this maybe baby just to spare myself. What if I actually make it out of this pregnancy with a baby and I have trained myself not to love this baby or if the fear of him or her dying becomes so great that it spills over into his or her entire lifetime, so that I can never really attach myself to my own child?? I can't let that happen. I have to let myself love this baby.
Whoever said that deciding to become a mother is being brave enough to let your heart go walking around outside your body, only knew a part of the story, the part where it's all happy endings and fairy tales. After losing a child, deciding to become a mother again means not only being brave enough to let your heart go walking around outside your body, but also being brave enough to risk your heart being shattered into a million tiny pieces, everyday. It feels as though everyday I have to take my heart, lay it in the middle of the highway at rush hour and stand on the side of the road watching it, helplessly, hoping like hell no one runs it over.
And so now, each morning as I lay on my side and feel the small, gentle rolling motions of this tiny creature, I think to myself, please, please, please baby, please don't die.