After your baby dies, the weirdest things will bum you out, make you think of your little one, make you cry, make you miss a life you never got.

And today, that little thing was the act of laying down on my stomach.

I haven’t done that in a long long time.

There used to be a baby in the way. Baby on the way, baby in the way…

I told the Hubs today that I wish I was 45 weeks pregnant right now.

Last night I was bummed out that my boobs are no longer swollen with breast milk. The evidence that I ever was pregnant, that I was equipped for parenthood, for providing another life with sustenance… it’s all dried up.

I even don’t like losing the baby weight.

Its a major set back, losing Hudson. We have this household full of baby paraphernalia – cribs and carseats and strollers litter the entryway, clog up the baby-room-that-used-to-be-the-guest-room, there is a box of baby laundry I still haven’t washed. I don’t want to put it away because I still feel like I should have a baby right now.

But we don’t have our baby. There’s this huge, gaping, unfillable hole where Hudson should be. Hudson didn’t get to come home and we can’t have another baby for a while. And another baby wouldn’t be Hudson anyway.

You try to rationalize it, to make it a little better. “Well when we have another baby, we will be better parents.” “Next time, we won’t take anything for granted.” “At least we hadn’t bought a mini van yet.”

But I have found that there is not one thing that I would not trade if I could just have our baby, Hudson… even for five more minutes, even if she was severely challenged, I want nothing in this world more than our baby.

Everything else is, and will always be, a sorry consolation prize.


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