I see her. The one walking down the isle at the grocery store. The girl who looks to be about my age. She’s the one with a shopping cart full of brightly colored packages of party plates and decorations, diapers and wipes for days, a single helium balloon hovers over her that simply states “It’s My First Birthday!”
And I see him too. The little boy, buckled into that cart full of blissful, brightly colored happiness. Smiling from ear to ear, his sparkling eyes catch mine, the dimple in his right cheek could be seen miles away. And he claps his chubby little hands together, letting out a squeal of delight. As if the girl in the dairy section, juggling far too many Greek Yogurts amidst an arm full of salt and vinegar chips and the cheapest red wine, had somehow been the funniest thing his little almost one year old eyes had ever seen.
She looks up from her cell phone. The one she had been staring at. My gaze not shifting to hers for a few seconds. The corners of her mouth quickly changing from a smile to a furrowed brow of confusion. I suppose if I had seen me, looking like I was going to throw up all over the floor, staring at my baby, I probably would have been confused too.
But she doesn’t know. She has no idea just how deep, and painful that moment cut through my shattered heart.
Edwin would be about that age. We would be planning his first birthday next month. We would be, and we should be. If only…
I see her too. The overjoyed announcements. The carefree, untainted photos of two smiling faces. Full of such hope. Such trust. The progression of ultrasounds, growing bellies, pink or blue, baby showers and bassinets. How many hours with how many contractions filled with smiles and tears of joy.
The brand new, living, breathing, crying miracle in her arms. Nothing but incandescent and pure happiness.
And no matter what happens in the future for us, I will never experience that. The carefree, unbridled 9 months of bliss. The sheer joy and trust…. the ability to hope for something good. I’ll never know that.
This goes beyond a state of envy, or jealousy. You see, those words do not even come close to painting the picture of my broken heart. Of our shattered hopes and dreams. No. I am not jealous of her. No. I do not wish an ounce of our pain upon her. No. I do not want what she has. I do not covet her baby, or her innocence, or her complete and total trust in the future of her healthy and happy baby.
You see, I do not want anything she has at all. I want what was, and should, be mine. I want to be the carefree, hippy girl my husband married two years ago. The one who could fall asleep at night in minutes, and stay asleep for hours. The one who doesn’t wake him up screaming from another nightmare. The one who doesn’t still sometimes here a baby crying in the house, and have sudden moments of panic in groups of people.
I do not want her baby. I want ours. I do not covet her 9 months of joy. I want mine. I do not wish I were her, holding her breathing, crying, smiling baby. I want Edwin.
This goes beyond envy. Because what my broken heart yearns for, I will not receive soon enough. Heaven seems so far away when your heart is already there.
It is ok that my heart begins to race when I see yet another pregnancy announcement on Facebook. It is normal that sometimes the sight of a swollen belly, and healthy baby, and carefree mother sends me to the nearest place to hide my uncontrollable tears. It is ok that I feel this way. I do not hate them. This hell has nothing to do with them really. They are a snap shot of what used to be, and what should have been.
There will always be an “After Edwin” There is no going back. This is my new normal. No matter how devastatingly painful it is… It’s mine.
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Jamie Maurer is a bereaved mother from Phoenix, AZ. She has a perfect baby boy in Heaven named Edwin George. He was born sleeping on April 6th, 2013. She lives her life every day to keep Edwin’s memory alive, and to give glory to God even in the midst of grief.
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I’m not a still mother but I lost mine 16 years later. Not sure what’s worse, knowing them or wishing you knew them.
So sorry for your loss.