The First Year

Hard to believe it, but the first year of my son’s life is past.  No longer an infant, he’s officially a toddler.  He decided to take his first four steps on his birthday, and watching him wobble from the kitchen island into my arms was an amazing moment — literally walking towards me, but figuratively taking steps away from his babyhood and into the little boy he is starting to become.

What a year.  It’s been hard, of course… but not as hard as I feared.  Mostly, it’s been amazing and surreal.  I still look at my son every so often and marvel at this little human, this creature who now exists and didn’t before.  This person who grew inside my body.  I wonder what’s going on in his mind.  I wonder what his life will be like as he grows.  I delight in watching him discover the world, discover his new capabilities, discover communication and connection.

He is his own little person, developing his own quirks and preferences.  He snuggles by rubbing his forehead against us (where “us” refers to my husband and me, our dog, his stuffed animals).  We discovered on his birthday that he has a healthy skepticism of helium balloons, which appear to defy all the laws of physics that he has come to know through experience.  All week we’ve watched him come to terms with the unnerving balloon in our living room, first glaring at it while pressed into my shoulder, then eyeing it warily while he played, then gradually moving closer, then touching it and recoiling as it drifted back towards him, then eventually grabbing it and giving it a good shake.  He’s cautious, but becoming an explorer.  Those first steps have been followed by an occasional one or two here or there, but he still prefers the speed and certainty of crawling.  He’s not saying any words yet, but he’s demonstrating that he understands a surprising amount of what we say to him.  He knows who Mama, Dada, Goldie (our dog), and Nana (my mom) are, he knows how to clap his hands (even if we just tell him without showing him), how to shake, how to dance, how to put one block on top of another, how to give us a toy (even if he doesn’t always want to), how to “come here,” how to “go get it,” how to snuggle, and how I ask if he wants to nurse.  He makes his wishes known if he wants us to read a book again, or press the button so that his stuffed elephant will sing again.  He is eating a wider variety of solids, and strongly prefers to finger-feed himself, generally refusing a spoon (unless it’s mommy’s spoon with mommy’s food on it). This week he ate blueberries, kiwis, clementines, quesadillas with beans, cheese, and avocado, polenta, toast with peanut butter, graham crackers with cream cheese, and a ton of fruit and veggie puree.  He is still skeptical of squash and green veggies that are not in pureed form.

My attempt at gentle night weaning has been a rousing success this week — after his birthday, I started nursing him for one minute less each night, and after the night when I fed him for only three minutes on each side, he just… stopped waking up.  Last night was night three of a solid 11-hour night without a feed, and without any fussing that required us to go in to comfort him.  All of a sudden my little guy is sleeping on his own, and it’s glorious.  He seems better rested and is sleeping longer too!  Now if only he’d nap longer than 30 minutes at daycare…

I love this little guy to the moon and back, and can hardly remember life without him.  Sometimes it takes my breath away how much I love him.

And… we are officially trying to have a sibling for him.  That’s probably a subject for a whole other post, but I am fully expecting it to be a long haul.  So we’re getting started now, planning to try on our own for a while before going back to the RE when he’s somewhere around 18 months.  I’m approaching this attempt much more like a marathon than like the furious, desperate sprint to get pregnant as quickly as possible after his sister died.  I just turned 34, so we don’t want to wait forever, but we can afford to take it slowly for a little while.  To be honest, I’m not exactly eager to jump into having two kids right away, even though we know it’s something we want in the longer run.  We’ve just hit our stride with one, and rewinding back to the newborn days looks daunting, to say the least.

In the meantime, we have an amazing little boy to enjoy and to care for, who fills our lives and our hearts to the brim.  We are so fortunate.  What a difference a year makes.

Breastfeeding and Trying Again

OK, here’s the thing… we are three weeks away from my son’s first birthday.  There are many amazing things to reflect on at the end of this first year.  I am acutely feeling the parenting cliches: on the one hand, it feels like only yesterday that I was holding my wide-eyed newborn son in my arms, and on the other hand, it feels like he’s been with us forever, and I can hardly remember my life without him.  There are many more things I hope to write about as his first birthday approaches and passes, but another thing I’ve started thinking about as his first birthday approaches is our strategy for conceiving the  living sibling we hope that he will one day have.

Surprisingly for me, my thoughts on trying to conceive our third child are all tangled up with my feelings about breastfeeding my son.

Conception and pregnancy have never been easy for us.  It took 2.5 years from the time we started trying to conceive to the birth of our son.  There were two pregnancies along the way, including the loss of our daughter in the middle of the second trimester.  Both pregnancies involved consultation and testing with a reproductive endocrinologist, and the second time around the RE had recommended moving onto IVF due to tubal factor infertility, which we were in the process of preparing to do when I became spontaneously pregnant with my son.  I am not expecting conception or pregnancy to be easy the next time around either.  Tubal factor infertility (in my case, due to the infection and scarring that occurred after the loss of our daughter) does not tend to get better with time, and it might have gotten worse since the birth of our son.  It is likely, though not definite (we might get lucky again!), that IVF is in our future.

What does all of this have to do with breastfeeding?  For one thing, breastfeeding influences menstrual cycles.  My period returned when my son was 10 months old, but it’s been irregular.  While I’m breastfeeding, it may remain irregular, but I won’t know whether the irregularities are due to breastfeeding or some other hormonal imbalance.  Muddying the waters, I had wildly irregular periods for 11 months before conceiving our daughter, and then clockwork regular periods for 8 months before conceiving our son.  We’d like to try for a while on our own before going back to the RE, but it’s trickier while my periods are irregular.  There are also some data indicating that breastfeeding might impede implantation and reduce the likelihood of pregnancy.  Finally, most REs make a blanket recommendation that you should cease breastfeeding before starting fertility treatments, although it’s not clear how evidence-based that recommendation is.

Many women think of it as a tension between their living child and their hoped-for child: do I prioritize the breastfeeding relationship with the child I have and love, or do I wean in order to maximize the probability of conceiving the child I hope to have?  I suspect there’s a middle-of-the-road option I might be comfortable with, but I’m not yet sure what that looks like.  My breastfeeding relationship with my son is still going strong as his first birthday approaches, but he doesn’t seem to be as attached to breastfeeding as some of my friends’ children.  He doesn’t really ask to breastfeed very often, and he’ll often refuse when I offer because he’s much more interested in seeing what’s going on in the world around him and doesn’t want to take any time out to nurse.  So a bit of mama-led weaning might be well received.  At the same time, I love our breastfeeding relationship and am not sure I’m ready to encourage its end, plus I know that my son derives comfort from it, especially when he is sick or tired.

So, what does our plan going forward look like?  When he was first born I thought “We’ll start trying when he’s a year old, and go back to the RE at six months.”  Now, with no end to breastfeeding in sight (and, honestly, with sex still kinda uncomfortable thanks to the breastfeeding hormones), I’ve started to think “Maybe we’ll start trying when he’s 18 months and go back to the RE when he’s 2.”  I don’t want to wait too long, because I’m not expecting the road to be easy, and I’m not getting any younger.  I’m turning 34 next week, and staring Advanced Maternal Age squarely in the face.  I know that timing can make a huge amount of difference in IVF cycles, and that waiting to even go back to the RE until I’m already 35 (when my son turns 2) might be risky, especially since we’d love to keep the option of a third living child open if we are lucky enough.   I feel sad contemplating the end of our breastfeeding relationship.  But the experience of having our son in our lives has only made our desire for another living child stronger, and my husband and I don’t want to wait too long.

Two and a half years later

I got a phone call about my daughter this week.

It came out of the blue.  Hardly anyone talks about her to me anymore, and all the medical tests and analysis of her short life are long finished — or so I thought.

The call was from Natera, the company that runs the Panorama screening test that checks for common chromosomal abnormalities in the first trimester by isolating cell-free placental DNA from a vial of the mother’s blood (also known as NIPT or NIPS).  We used the test as our primary first-trimester screening in both my pregnancies.  When they called this week, they wanted some more information about the posthumous testing that was performed on my daughter.  When the autopsy was performed, there was so much autolysis that they were unable to definitively identify her sex based on anatomy alone, so the hospital contacted Natera to confirm the sex they had identified chromosomally.  Apparently the hospital also told Natera that we had decided to opt for a microarray analaysis of our daughter’s tissue to determine whether less common chromosomal abnormalities contributed to her death, but they never followed up with Natera to let them know the results.

So, two and a half years after our daughter’s death, Natera called to follow up, and to make sure that the microarray results agreed with their prenatal screening results (they did).  Apparently this confirmation provides valuable verification data for the company.

The woman I communicated with was lovely, and very sensitive.  She expressed sorrow for our loss, and apologized if the inquiry was in any way upsetting.  I didn’t find it upsetting at all, in fact — I like thinking that the data generated by my daughter’s short life might in some small way be helpful for improving the science of non-invasive fetal testing.  It’s one way in which her life has meaning to people beyond our immediate family.  And I am always interested to learn more about scientific fields other than my own; this gave me some insight into the scientific (and commercial) practice of genetic testing.  Even the corporate flavor of the interaction doesn’t bother me too much, since I believe that the development of non-invasive testing is already providing a great benefit to pregnant women as well as their unborn children (since the false-positive rate and the risk to the fetus are significantly lower than many other screening methods), and I’m basically OK with the fact that someone is making money from providing this service.

I did feel a sense of wistfulness about this conversation.  It’s probably the last time I’ll ever get a phone call about my daughter.  It also made me remember some of the other phone calls I have gotten about my daughter.  Some were very upsetting, like the phone call from my primary care doctor’s office the Monday after I delivered our dead baby in the hospital, congratulating me on my pregnancy (some seriously poor communication happened somewhere… I have since switched doctors, for this and other reasons).  Or the phone call from the campus daycare several months after her death, informing us that a spot had opened up for our daughter.  Those were very difficult calls to receive.  But some calls about our daughter were thoughtful and loving.  There were calls from friends and family — and not just immediately after her death (when I wasn’t always up for a whole lot of talking anyway), but weeks and months later.  These days, it’s hard to imagine that a call about my daughter would be upsetting.  Those wounds have been healing for a while now, and while I still miss her terribly and often wonder who she would be today if she had survived, her memory is not painful to me.  My pregnancy with my daughter was a time of extreme joy, hope, and love.  Her death was the most difficult experience of my life.  But my memories of her now are mostly of the experience of being pregnant with her and our hopes for our lives together with her. I love remembering my daughter, even when it also means remembering the pain of her death.

She lives on in our family.  Our son will grow up knowing that he had a sister.  When he was born, one of the most precious items I packed in my hospital bag was the hand-knitted had that the hospital dressed her in when she was born — the only clothing she ever wore.  Because her life was so short, the few reminders that I have — ultrasound photos, the hat, pictures of her after she was born, her hand and footprints, some certificates from the hospital — are all the more precious.  Even though I was surprised by the call this week, it was nice to talk about her for a little while, and to have an opportunity to remember her presence in our lives.

Nursing on the Tenure Track

Hello, everyone!  It’s been a while, but I’m still here, mostly reading and commenting on all y’all’s blogs, but also thinking about writing once in a while.

First, a quick update: Little S is 10.5 months old.  He has 7 teeth (with tooth #8 about to pop through any day, poor guy), and is right on the brink of walking and talking (he walks with a push toy, and can stand for a couple of seconds before plopping down on his bottom.  I think he’s been trying to say the word “cow” for one of his favorite toys and “dog” when we see dogs out on our walks).  The best parts of the last week have been (1) he learned how to splash in the bathtub (wet, but fun!), and (2) we took him sledding for the first time after Saturday’s snowstorm — he was skeptical, but didn’t cry, so it’s a win, I think!

Our nursing relationship is still going strong.  I didn’t really think much about nursing long-term before he was born — in fact, when our weirdly aggressive breastfeeding instructor demanded to know my nursing goals while I was still pregnant, I stammered out “um, try it and see how it goes?”  Then, my kid was a born sucker (there’s one born every minute, after all), and I was surprised to discover that I really loved our nursing relationship.  It’s not all roses, of course — I seem to be prone to plugged ducts (not mastitis, thankfully), and it quickly became apparent that the downside of nursing is that a small human is still physically dependent on your body months/years after you’ve finally evicted them from the inside, so your freedom is a bit limited.  But on the whole I feel so fortunate that it’s worked for us, and I love the closeness and the special relationship that it’s helped to develop between my son and me.  Nothing beats that snuggle time.

Another thing that I didn’t think much about before my son was born was how moms combine nursing with work, particularly academia.  I mean, I vaguely knew that women pumped while they were at work, and that lactation rooms were supposed to be a good thing.  But man, it’s a whole lot more logistically complicated than I ever imagined.  We had a few challenges that were somewhat particular to my baby: for one, he never took a bottle, which made it complicated for anyone other than me to feed him.  When I went back to work part-time four months after he was born, his dad finally figured out a labor-intensive cup-feeder solution, which the daycare ladies gamely continued until he was 6 months old and learned how to use a sippy cup.  But he would refuse to eat from anyone other than dad or the daycare ladies, and actually these days he generally refuses to take a sippy cup from dad.  When I organized a conference at my university that took place on a Saturday when he was 7 months old, the little guy went on a hunger strike and my husband brought him to me to nurse over the lunch break so that he wouldn’t have to go 12 hours without eating.  Even if he had been one of those normal babies who takes a bottle without a fuss, it’s never easy to leave home as a nursing mom, because for every feeding you miss you have to pump to keep yourself comfortable and keep up your milk supply.

Which brings me to pumping circumstances.  I’m very fortunate to have my own office with a door that closes and locks.  However, all the faculty/staff offices in my building share a single key, and occasionally people will let themselves into my office if they think I’m not there, to leave something on my desk or change a lightbulb or whatever.  So, yeah, after one awkward incident, I made a great big sign for my door as well as a smaller sign that hangs from the doorknob and covers the keyhole when I’m in there.  Also, my window shades are almost as old as my 100-year-old building, and don’t close all the way, and my window is right at eye level on a staircase that students sometimes use to leave the building.  Oh, and the electrical system in our 100-year-old building is flaky, so there have been days when the lights in my office flicker in time with my breast pump, which is a little disconcerting.

I thought that lactation rooms sounded like a great idea, until I had to use one when I went to a conference at a large research center in November.  Don’t get me wrong — I think they’re infinitely better than what most women have, which is nothing more than a bathroom or a broom closet.  But once you’ve been pumping for a while, you realize how critical the timing is.  I found that with my tendency towards plugged ducts, I couldn’t safely go more than about 3 hours between pumping sessions (maybe 3.5 if I stretched it), at least when I was at peak milk production when my son was around 6-8 months old.  If I fed my kid at 8 before we left for the day, then my ideal pumping times were ~10:30, 1, and 3:30, and then I’d nurse him when I got home around 5:30.  The problem with a lactation room is that most of the other women are on the same schedule, so everyone wants to pump at ~10:30, 1, and 3:30, and nobody wants to pump at 9:30 or 4 — so the lactation room is empty most of the day, but crowded when you need it. Surely there must be a better solution!

Speaking of schedule issues, when I was teaching last semester, my class met from 10:20-11:40am, which meant that I had to pump around 9:45am to get to my class in time to set up, hand back papers, and have everything ready to go.  Then after class I’d be swamped with students until at least 11:50, which meant that if I had a lunch meeting or seminar I had <10 minutes to pump, which wasn’t quite enough time, so I either had to arrive late at my lunch meeting or pump after the lunch meeting, which meant stretching the time between pumping sessions to >3hours — and then if I got held up at the lunch meeting, it could easily go to 3.5 hours or beyond.  Two plugged ducts later I decided it wasn’t worth the risk, so for the rest of the semester I was late to all my lunch meetings and seminars on teaching days.  (I was totally ready to play the “breast pump” card, but nobody ever asked — I hope they don’t think I’m flaky now.)

The other thing is, I have no idea how nursing moms manage all the travel in academia.  I have a number of advantages, including a husband who works from home and has a very flexible work schedule, plus my son has three supportive grandparents, two of whom are retired.  For the conference in November, my husband came along.  The conference was three days long, but we compromised so that I went for 1.5 days and then we came home so that my husband only missed two days of work but I still got to go to half the conference and give my invited talk.  In February we are going to a two-week-long workshop in California (I was actually invited to attend for all three months of the workshop, but that was totally unrealistic, so I settled on two weeks instead).  One of the grandparents is tagging along to babysit for the first week, and my husband is coming out for the second week.  I am already dreading this, partly because upending my son’s schedule is going to make him a cranky, whiny, sad little baby, and partly because I suspect he’s going to go on a sippy-cup strike which will stress my mom out while she’s trying to babysit and will mean she’ll probably wind up bringing him to me at the conference at least a couple times a day to nurse.  He’s doing pretty well on solids these days, so the nursing intervals are starting to stretch out, but he still nurses quite a lot.

When people talk about how to support young parents, especially young mothers, in academia, they talk a lot about conference daycare and lactation rooms.  What I could really use to help me continue traveling is money, with the flexibility to use it however I need.  In addition to my normal conference costs, this two-week trip is going to also require us to pay for two extra plane tickets (my mom’s and my husband’s), two weeks of a rental car (which I wouldn’t normally splurge on, but with a baby it seems necessary), all the extra food for my mom and husband, and then there are the hidden costs of my mom and my husband taking vacation time from work.  We are fortunate enough to be able to afford it, but if we weren’t so lucky, it would be a real barrier to my attendance at the conference.  If I were going for only a day or two, it would also be immensely helpful to have funding to pay for a service like Milk Stork — I know people in business careers whose companies have agreed to pay the cost of Milk Stork while they are on work travel, but it’s not exactly the kind of thing I can charge to a research grant (as far as I know).

As a pumping scientist mom, I have had some fairly wacky pumping experiences, including pumping in an old Nike radar station and a transmission electron microscopy lab.  It actually felt weirdly empowering to pump in such super-sciencey places — I am science mom, hear me lactate!  🙂  And as tricky as it’s been to combine pumping with academia, I’m still more than a little bit sad to think that our nursing relationship is already starting to wind down as my baby grows up.  Honestly, part of me loves that nursing gives me a reason to bring my son along to conferences, instead of leaving him for days at a time.  In his whole life, I’ve never been away from him for more than the length of a daycare day, and I’m dreading the first night that I spend away from him (y’know, except for the uninterrupted sleep part).  I’d also really like to continue nursing for as long as he’s interested, but I’m just not sure how realistic that is with all the travel that my job requires.  I’m a little bit worried that I’ll inadvertently wean him (or totally distress him) the first time I have to leave him for several days.  It’s also having an impact on my career: for example I’m probably going to turn down an invitation I received to a conference in Germany in April because I just can’t imagine that a week-long separation is going to work at this point.  That said, if having a baby has taught me anything, it’s that with babies, change is the only constant.  He’s already getting very fidgety at our nursing sessions and nursing for shorter times and less frequently than he used to, so maybe he’ll surprise me one day and just decide he’s done, and I’ll shed a tear and pack up my pump and move on with life.  We’ll see.  I feel fortunate to have made it this far, and I know that I am luckier than many women who don’t have the flexibility to make an extended breastfeeding relationship practical.  And knowing that our breastfeeding relationship is finite makes those snuggles all the more precious while they last.

So, are you going to have another one?

The questions have started.  It really didn’t take long.  Mostly I just shrug them off with a blithe “We’ll see!”  But in the past few weeks I’ve had lunch with a couple of friends who really helped me through the dark time between our daughter’s death and our son’s birth, and both times it’s come up.  With them, it was harder to shrug it off.

The honest answer is “We want more kids, and I’m terrified.”

I guess it shouldn’t be a surprise that giving birth to a dead baby scars you for life in the baby department (literally as well as figuratively, in my case, alas).  But I still found myself tearing up as I talked with my friends and admitted that we absolutely want another baby, but that the thought of going through all of this again is terrifying.

I do think it’ll be easier to handle the uncertainty this time around, because I have a beautiful baby boy to distract me and I won’t have to deal with those awful feelings that I might never be a parent at all.  This time, I’ve got my son, and he’s a precious and amazing gift that I will never take for granted.  He also makes the time speed by — without him, as we waited for him, it was so easy for time to crawl.  So, there are a lot of things that will hopefully make this time around less daunting.

But it’s still daunting.  When my period does come back, I may still have to deal with irregular cycles.  The scarring of my uterus and fallopian tubes won’t have gotten any better, and might have gotten worse.  IVF might well turn out to be our best/only option.  If I manage to get pregnant, I’ll go back on daily injections of Lovenox.  I have to face the possibility that I might lose another baby, miscarriage statistics and my history being what they are.

It’s not something I’ll have to face immediately (for one thing, my period still hasn’t returned, hallelujah!).  But we also don’t want to wait too long.  It took us 2.5 years to have a living baby the first time around, and I’ll be 34 by the time we can start trying again.  Biology is ticking along: Advanced Maternal Age, here I come.

For now, I’m content to hang with my amazing son who is getting more amazing by the day (he just started pulling himself up to a standing position this week!).  His presence in our lives is so incredible that it feels extremely greedy to hope for more, and difficult to imagine that another baby could be as wonderful.  And I won’t lie — as things finally get easier, it’s also daunting to think about starting all over again with a newborn.  But my husband and I both want him to grow up with a sibling.  It still feels like there’s someone missing from our family.  There is no doubt in our minds that we’ll try again, however scary it feels to take that leap.

And as I snuggle my baby boy, and watch him grow bigger and stronger and start to become he independent person he’s supposed to be, one of the things that consoles me about the loss of his babyhood is that there might be another babyhood on the horizon.  As excited as I am to see him grow, I’m also not ready to give up being mom to an infant forever.  It’s such a special time.  I’m sure all ages are special in their own way, but as my baby stretches taller and moves faster and transforms into a toddler before my eyes, I can’t help but yearn to someday have another infant strapped into the carrier on my chest, snuggled into my lap, sleeping sweetly (if only occasionally).  What a beautiful time of life this is.  How tantalizing to begin to hope that I might get to experience it again.

Half a Year

Working in academia means that the year has a distinct rhythm.  Last week the students moved into their dorms again, a fresh batch of misty-eyed parents unloaded minivans full of stuff and left their precious children to their own devices, and this week I got up in front of a classroom for the first time since last December, before my son was born.  As the start-of-school milestone passes yet again, it makes me think back on our journey, and how our quest for a living child has ticked against the start of classes during my time on the tenure track.

Three years ago we were just starting to realize that getting pregnant might not be easy for us.

Two years ago I was four and a half months pregnant and deliriously happy; I had no idea that on September 11 we’d find out that our daughter had died.

Last year I was four months pregnant and completely freaked out but hopeful.  The other faculty knew, but I waited to tell the students until it was obvious.  I was juggling an academic schedule with frequent prenatal visits and trying not to lose my mind as the anniversary of our daughter’s death approached.

This year I have a six-month-old bundle of snuggles and love.  He has ten fingers, ten toes, blue eyes and blond hair like his daddy, two teeth(!), and an intense desire to crawl.  He’s now been in full-time daycare for one week, and I miss my little sidekick, but he’s doing great.  He just started drinking from a sippy cup (after adamantly refusing a bottle his entire life), which means I have a little more freedom and my baby is a little more grown up.  We’ve survived his first two illnesses (the first a week-long epic fever followed by ear infection followed by full-body rash from antibiotics, the second a plague that swept our household and left me delirious with my first fever in a decade and left our poor little guy a drippy-nosed, coughing mess for a couple of weeks).  Completely disordered sleep suddenly seems to have resolved this week into once-a-night wakeups (knock on wood!).  He sits, he laughs, he explores his world.  Our baby is growing up.

And still, I teach.  I love being back in the classroom, talking about physics, prompting discussion, fielding my students’ intense questions about our place in the cosmos and how it all fits together.  My first class of freshman majors are graduating this year, and the amount of growing they’ve done since I first welcomed them into a college classroom is staggering.  In a seminar I’m teaching this fall (packed to capacity), during introductions the first day several students mentioned that they’re taking the class because I brought them into the field with my introductory course, and even though they ultimately chose majors in other subjects they wanted to keep taking classes in my subject because they loved my class so much.

Brown-nosers, the lot of them. 🙂

I’m in a very happy place now, but the start of the school year reminds me that it’s been a long time in the making.  Seeing the students arrive on campus also reminds me that my hopes for my son involve him leaving me to join a similar tree-lined, ivy-covered campus about 18 years from now.  As he started full-day daycare last week I sobbed to my husband, “Today it’s daycare, tomorrow it’s kindergarten, the next day it’ll be college and we’ll never see him again!”  Possibly an exaggeration, but the feeling of time passing is inescapable.  I love his emerging personality and his increasing independence, just as much as I love having my tiny baby to snuggle and hold and nurse while he lets me.

Healed

I finally felt it this week.

I was walking the dog in the sunset of a beautiful June evening, down the road to our house with the fields of wildflowers that feed our neighbors’ apiary in full bloom, with my husband and son walking to meet us for the last few minutes of our journey.

I felt happy and satisfied with life.  I felt happy about our family, about the growing bonds between my husband, son, and me.  I remembered our daughter, and was glad to have the memory.  I felt satisfaction about being back at work, about the science education and research that I do.

And then I realized that it was the first time I’d felt that way since before our daughter died.  It took almost two years, but I finally feel healed.

Part of the shift comes as my son (four months old this week!) has grown out of the newborn phase and into a giggly, chubby infant with an emerging personality of his very own.  When I was pregnant with him I spent the whole pregnancy in a haze of anxiety and fear that our terrible experience of loss might repeat itself.  Once he was born I feared infection, SIDS, and developmental delays.  I know I’ll never move past the fear entirely, and that worry is part of parenthood, but I’ve realized recently that it’s no longer the dominant way I think about his life.  I’ve started to see our son in every facet of our future, which is something I couldn’t allow myself to do for a long time.  I’m invested in raising a child, a child who will hopefully be part of our lives for a very long time.  I suddenly believe that he’s here to stay with us for a long while.  And that belief has largely filled the empty place left by our daughter and allowed me to feel happy and satisfied with my life again.

God, I’ve missed this.

Pregnancy loss takes such a toll, physically, mentally, emotionally.  Part of me is amazed that it has taken this long to feel that I’ve healed, and part of me is amazed that I’ve gotten here at all.

Soren is growing and changing every day, and his big blue eyes seem to just swallow up the world and all the new things he sees.  What an amazing experience it is to be his mother.  What a life we have to look forward to.

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