Chip should have been born this week.
I'm so conflicted on how I should feel about this. I'm certainly sad. I certainly haven't forgotten about him (or her)--but it's almost like I knew from the very beginning that the little beaner wasn't going to make it. But there was hope, for sure. But hope and hope lost, again. I never pictured myself making it all the way to 38 weeks, preparing the nursery, folding little onsies again. But maybe I just wouldn't let myself picture those things. It's hard for me to picture them with this one, too, even though this is a completely different kind of pregnancy. It's a more pregnant kind of pregnancy, which I'm thankful for. But am I able to imagine October? Not really.
To think about how different things would be right now, this week, is difficult. I think about that nearly empty bedroom we call "the nursery" when no one else is around. The one that only holds a few plants, a garage sale glider rocker and Nate's chest of drawers. How different it should look today.
I'm sorry, little one. I'm sorry that you never got a chance. You're not forgotten.