You know how they call the last 20 yards to a touch down the red zone? OK, I will acknowledge that most of my readers are female and you may not know that. But, they do. Apparently, all progress to the 20 yard line matters not at all if you can’t make it out of the red zone.
Pregnancy also has a red zone. It’s that 20 days prior to the guessed delivery date when the arrival of your shiny, new, bouncing bundle of happiness really could come ANY MINUTE. Like now… or maybe now. It’s also the 20 days that really start to amp up the grief when you fumbled early on and lost the ball. I am so in the red zone. (No more football analogies, I promise.)
As I prepare for Thanksgiving and Christmas it’s very hard not to dwell on all that I’ve lost this year. In April I was planning a quiet Christmas at home with my own shiny, new, bouncing bundle of happiness and his wonderful, doting, affectionate, loving Daddy. I was planning on being big as a duplex (for, I’m already big as a house) and being the guest of honor at Thanksgiving. Not cooking and hosting and being the one who does all of the work for everyone else to have a memorable holiday. No, me being the one everyone was concerned about, because I could go into labor ANY MINUTE. These were the holidays when we would finally be a trio. We’d finally have OUR family to create traditions for and be with. This was supposed to be MY year.
Yes, I’m fully aware that I sound like a selfish cow right now. That’s because, I am a selfish cow. I want to FINALLY be the one everybody fusses over and takes care of. I want to finally be the one that everyone loves. I’ve paid my dues on the taking care of everyone else front (at least as far as childless holidays are concerned) and I was SO ready for my turn.
Right now I grieve for my baby. I miss him so much. I never even felt him move, but I’ve never heard anything that can compare with his perfect heartbeat. I would give everything I have to get him back. Including these perfect holidays I’ve dreamed up.