30 weeks not pregnant

That's where I am right now. Counting the weeks and months of what should be. 

I have a 3 year old. 

But in a few weeks I should also have a two year old and a few weeks after that I should have a newborn. 

The world gives you permission to miss your newborn...for awhile at least. Not nearly as long as you really need, but still, most certainly a lot longer than they give you permission to miss a child you lose through miscarriage. 

Perhaps it's because someone, somewhere, somehow has decided my grief should be measured by how long my children were with me, but in my reality it's measured so much more by how long I am without them. 

I miss Lily with every ounce of my being. And I miss Clare too. Just as much. 

Some days it seems like more. Some days the pain of missing Clare is magnified so much more because of all the "things" I don't have. I don't have pictures or outfits or a memory of holding her that I can cling to. I don't have a huge trunk full of memories of Clare like I do with Lily. I have one tiny box with a handful of cards and one ultrasound picture.

Some will say this is a blessing. Because you can't miss what you never had, right? 

Then why do I miss this baby so much? Why did it feel just like losing Lily all over again? Why has my grief been multiplying over and over these past five months?

We've emptied our house of everything baby. I've given away clothes and toys, only holding on to a few sentimental items. The infant car seat has been stashed away and the crib has been lent to a friend. Because keeping baby items for 3 1/2 years seemed practical, but keeping baby items for 4 plus years seems foolish. Wishful thinking that I just don't have in me right now.

It's hard to truly believe that this is our reality. So many mornings I wake up hoping it's all been a dream and I wait for a second to see if I will hear the two sets of feet that should be running into our room and another set that should be kicking my ribs. But instead, I look down, and my belly is flat (or rather flabby), and just one set of feet run to greet me in the morning. 

It's only September and I am already dreading this holiday season. Desperately wishing for the holidays that should be. The Thanksgiving where I should be nesting and hoping for labor to set in. The Christmas that should be with two excited toddlers giggling in excitement for Christmas morning and a newborn who should be snuggled up in Christmas jammies. The Christmas card that should be sent out late because it would be a birth announcement too. The New Year's Eve with three kids in bed by 8:00 and a toast to my sweet husband for all this goodness that should be.

Everything that should be. And yet, every single day I still manage to find hope in what is, in this reality of life amidst loss where we find ourselves. Every single day, I beg and plead with God for all that seems impossible. I ask for faith that surpasses my understanding and can hope against hope. And I pray over and over and over, "Teach me Lord to pray with my whole heart, 'Jesus, I trust in You.'"