I wish this pregnancy could be as carefree as the last...but it's not. I haven't taken any belly pictures. I haven't started a journal of letters to this child. I panic every time my midwife pulls out the doppler to find a heartbeat at my appointments. Shaun and I haven't discussed baby names or nursery decor...actually, I haven't even walked into the baby room in weeks.

40 weeks feels like it might as well be 40 years right now.

This past weekend we were at a family wedding. As people happily meandered around and music played through the speakers, my eyes caught the form of a little boy 'dancing' on the dance floor. He was adorable... curly blonde hair, dressed in his wedding garb, and totally unsteady on his feet as he waddled around and rolled on the floor. I couldn't help but wonder if that's what my little boy would look like at 13 months...what it would be like to be the mom standing over my toddler to catch him if he fell while busting a move.

A little while later, I was standing next to that little boy's mom waiting for the restroom (no surprise), and she noticed my little baby bump. After sharing that she was pregnant, too, and exchanging all of the standard questions...when are you due, how many weeks along, etc., she asked me if this was my first. Without hesitation, I smiled and said, "yes." It just didn't seem worth the emotional expenditure at that moment to launch into our story, and it hurt.

Because this isn't my first baby. I've been through all of pregnancy and delivery. I've done this before. And I grieve the fact that this child will never know his or her older brother. That this child will be forced to answer questions like, "how many kids are in your family?'..."are you the oldest?", etc. I just realize more and more every day that we can't simply leave our loss behind us...that it's part of our story, part of our family forever.