Christmas is upon us.
Tomorrow will be two months since Lincoln was born.
At this point, I thought I would be showing a wonderfully huge stomach. I thought I would be complaining about leg pain. Tiredness. Sore breasts.
Instead, I’m mourning the loss of the son I’ll never know.
Christmas, besides Halloween, is my favorite time of the year. Seeing family, give gifts and the fact that it’s always been a loved Holiday in my family has made it so. But not this year.
This year, when I should be letting people feel my stomach to feel his kicks and answering “When are you due?” 300 times a day, I’m avoiding certain parts of our family because they have new babies. Instead of lovingly grasping my stomach as to cradle our baby, I’m trying to stay festive enough for my kids. It just seems as each milestone of weeks and months pass by, it gets harder knowing I’m not actually counting down to anything but rather getting farther away from the firsts and last with Lincoln.
At the happiest time of the year, I’m just so sad, angry, heartbroken and empty.
I feel empty.
I’m supposed to be growing a baby. But I’m not.
I’m supposed to be annoyed that people are trying to touch my stomach. But I’m not.
I’m not pregnant. I’m not okay. I’m just not.