Guest post by Kristin
Just when I think it’s getting easier, it strikes again. Just this morning, I texted a friend because I was feeling guilty that I no longer felt haunted by thoughts of my son. I felt like a monster for “getting over” the death of my child so quickly. Then, I caught a glimpse of his urn and thought how odd it was that what remains of my baby’s body is sitting in a silver moon on a shelf. I saw a baby spoon in a drawer and was reminded how that spoon once made me both anxious and excited at the prospect of a new baby. Now it’s just a spoon again, and a reminder of a dream that is gone. Catching up my boys’ record books for school and coming across the date where I’d written “Chase died”. What a horrible sentence.
Part of me wants to get pregnant again-to have a baby inside me and, later, in my arms. But the feeling doesn’t quite feel right. I know that a new baby would be just that-a new baby, not Chase. I recognize that what I really want is Chase back. I don’t care that his heart was broken or that his head was misshapen. He was my son and I want to hold him again. Babyhood is short and often moms lament how they miss having their baby in their arms. But my time holding Chase was so short. Too short. He felt awkward in my arms because my body knew that he still belonged in my womb. But now I wish I could have him back, even still and silent, in my arms. Oh, how I would enjoy it more this time. I want to kiss his sweet face, kiss his fingers, his feet. I want to smell his smell again. A new baby wouldn’t take those feelings away. A new baby might fill a new place in my heart and it might fill my empty arms. But it wouldn’t fill the empty place he left in my heart. That part is his and always will be. And my arms will always feel empty for him.
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