I lost time, when I lost it. I lost details, and memoreis. Some of them are small, minute details that would mean nothing to anybody else. To me? They mean so much. When did Violet learn to tie her shoes? When and why did I stop cloth diapering John? I enjoyed it so much. How did Sarah stop wetting the bed at night? Did we use pull ups? Cloth training pants? How did I transition Sarah and John from bottle to sippy cup? I remember that with Violet. I don't with Sarah or John. I remember Violet's chubby legs as she toddled across the floor, learning to walk. I barely remember Sarah's. And John's? Only when I see pictures can I put those images into my mind.
Want to talk guilt? Because I've got some.
And then there's the possibility of time that I lost.
My husband and I always said we'd have four children. We have three. And after John he made sure we were done. I was completely fine with that. God knew what was coming and that we could not have another baby in the coming years. So this was a blessing. My mind understands this. My mind knows that we had to do this. My mind knows.
But my heart? My heart beats out the words, "If I hadn't gone crazy I could be holding a baby. If I hadn't gone crazy I'd be loving on a sweet, soft newborn. If I hadn't gone crazy I could be nursing again."
My heart beats these words every night. Every night as it grows dark and I crawl into bed my heart begins the pattern. I lay close to my husband and know that we will sleep all night, uninterrupted by a baby's cry.
And so my heart cries.
Because if I hadn't gone crazy I would remember all of my babies sweet, chunky legs. I would have clear memories of bedtime, and birthday's. I would have cherished all the hugs. If I hadn't gone crazy I'd have another baby to hold and rock and nurse and love.
If I hadn't gone crazy.
But I did.
And so my heart cries. And I grieve. But I know that I will heal. I will.