I have been dreading August 1st.
Today I would have been 36 weeks pregnant. This holds some significance for me because Ethan was born when I was 36 weeks pregnant. I know nothing of pregnancy past the 36 week mark. The last time I was 36 weeks along, I got to hear the cries of a baby who would be coming home with me. Any week of pregnancy past 36 is something that I haven't experienced to imagine -- but 36 weeks, that I can imagine. That I can remember.
To be honest, I've been dreading the month of August in it's entirety. Once I realized that the first of the month coincided with when I would be 36 weeks along, I couldn't help but shake my head at the irony. The cruel irony. The confirmation that, yes, August is going to be a rough month for me and that, yes, everything seems to work out in a way that guts me the deepest.
A friend sent me this article and I've been reading it over and over and over since it popped up in my inbox. It has spoken to me in ways I've been dreaming another human being would at least try to. In 2011, I took my 36 week old belly-in-the-mirror shot and then my water broke and then I was meeting my beautiful little boy. In 2014, I get to ring in what would have been my 36th week of pregnancy looking at photographs of the beautiful baby girl who I will never see open her eyes or smile.
I wish I had something profound to say. Writing has long since been my outlet, my crutch, my stability when life keeps knocking me off balance. Today, though, I can't find the words.
and it’s more than your heart will allow.
And August and everything after,
you get a little less than you expected somehow.
- The Counting Crows