From the moment you see those two little pink lines on the pregnancy test you begin planning. I knew what my due date was before I even called the doctor. January 13th, 2017; a winter baby. I envisioned at least a foot a snow on the ground when we brought our baby home. I dreamed I would be rocking our baby in a big comfy chair in the nursery while everyone else braved the snowy roads. I thought, I am going to be so big at Christmas! We might need to think twice about traveling far to visit family this year.
We started preparing for baby. We picked out a daycare, bought a crib, changing table, and bassinet. I had nursery decor all planned out, and we started planning a baby shower. We signed up for infant classes, and even had Mr. J go to the doctor for a check up. We were ready. We were ready for everything but the worst.
I should of been swelled up like a balloon at Christmas. I should have been making Mr. J take baby bump pictures of me in front of the Christmas tree. I should of been hibernating from the snow, and rocking our baby in that big comfy chair. I should be talking about baby milestones and struggles with the mamas in my life. I should be complaining about sleepless nights, and breast feeding. I should be worrying about whether our baby is eating enough, has enough clothes on, or sun block.
I often times go back and forth about how old I think Mia should be now. Sometimes I think of Mia as being born in September when she passed away and that she would be almost 10 months old. Other times I think if she came closer to her due date she would be close to 6 months old. But right now I should be worrying about who will be taking her 6 month old photos and what outfits I plan to dress her in. We should be having play dates with my friends who have babies about her age and talking about how they will grow up to be best friends. We should be going on dog walks with a stroller, and filling up a kiddie pool in the back yard.
This wasn’t suppose to happen.
Our baby should be here.