It's here again—the day set aside to remember all the lost babies. I actually really like this day. It's heartbreaking that it has to exist, of course, but it really gives people the opportunity to talk about loss. I did a post on National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day last year, and save for a few numbers, nothing has changed.
I've spent a lot of time thinking about my lost babies today, but that's really no different from any other day. I always wonder if this will be the case forever, if I'll ever go 24 hours without thinking of them. I keep waiting to have the thought, "Hey, I can't remember the last time I thought about my miscarriages," but I can tell you in all honesty that they've at least crossed my mind every single day since November 27th, 2011.
Over the course of these last 2 years, at least 20 people have tried to rationalize my miscarriages by telling me that God was waiting until the time was right for us, or he was waiting to give us the greatest, or that Heaven needed my babies more than I did. These explanations used to drive me crazy. How dare they try to justify my losses. Now, while these comments still don't bring me any type of comfort, I just kind of brush them off. People want there to be a reason bad things happen, and there's really no shame in that. It's hard not having answers.
I won't get too far into my religious beliefs here, but tonight, while my perfect boy slept on my chest, I stared at his gorgeous face and asked myself to entertain the notion that maybe these people are right. Maybe somewhere, somebody greater than myself is surrounded by little Baby Celises, and if they're anything like Arlo, it's no wonder she (Yes, she. Because why not?) wanted them so damn badly.
As I felt Arlo's little tummy rise and fall against me, I imagined that somewhere, my four lost babies were being cuddled, too—that right then, somebody was admiring their faces in the same awe I was feeling as I admired Arlo's, astonished that it was even possible to love a love so deep.
And maybe she put them to bed a little too late tonight because she wasn't ready to part with the warmth of their breaths on her cheek, just couldn't bring herself to stop studying their features, stop rubbing their smooth little toes. Maybe, once she finally forced herself to put them to bed, she sang to them on the way there—a song she made up just for them, and wished for the hundredth time that something, anything rhymed with their names, but she did her best. (Arlo, Arlo, I'll see you tomorrow. Dream of joy, not sorrow, Arlo, Arlo.)
Maybe she was secretly happy that they woke up while she was changing them—despite how stealth she tried to be—so she could gaze into their eyes one last time before they closed for the night. Maybe she brushed their wild hair until their eyelids became heavy again, and maybe she let a few tears fall as she whispered in their ears, "Thank you for coming home."