Rewind, Pause, Fast-Forward

Today is the day. Was supposed to be the day, anyway. Only five percent of babies are born on their due dates. Lily's already gone, so no sighing when today comes and goes and I still have a huge belly to "sleep" around tonight. I wish I could rewind to the day I saw her tiny arms waving during her ultrasound. To the day our children's faces lit up at the thought of another baby. If only I could enjoy again those brief moments before we lost her. To rewind and not feel this pain.

Things are back to normal around here. However, it is not the same normal. After a tragedy, the old normal is never felt again. The same is true of any major experience. My life has to accommodate this change and all the pain, lessons, and inconveniences that go with it. It is a "process," it does "take time," but in the meantime, a new normal is constructed for survival.

We have a new normal and a new reality. Our baby plans have been pushed back. I am not having a baby girl, our last child, this March at the age of 36. We still want to go for another baby, because we are nuts. So, I will be pregnant this summer. I won't be able to paint and vacations must be considered. I have to wait another several months to find out if my daughter will finally have to share her room or if my oldest boy will get his own room. I will be another year older when our last Sullivan arrives.

These inconveniences won't mean anything when we finally hold that last little baby in our arms. The nine months we have to wait will be scary and tiring. Morning sickness and fatigue, etc. Before every ob appointment, I will be holding my breath until the heartbeat is heard or until the tiny image appears, moving, on the ultrasound screen. I wish I could fast-forward.

At the same time I wish to rewind and fast-forward, but we all know we have to enjoy life in the moment. The cliches are all true. Our children grow up in the blink of an eye. I have to remind myself daily to enjoy them now. So I smell the baby shampoo in my toddler's hair as he hugs his "Melmo," see my school-agers pretending to be spies with all their homemade gadgets, watch my husband squeezing our four-year-old who is giggling only as four-year-olds can. Pause.