Well, the cat’s out of the bag so they say. It would be futile to wait any longer to share the news, considering second children apparently like to make their presence known as soon as they are conceived (i.e., helllllloooo maternity jeans from week 6 on up). There is no hiding the child steadily growing in my womb.
But I really wanted to.
We’ve been public about our losses in hope that it would be a light in someone else’s darkness. I haven’t hidden the hit my faith took this past January as we let go of a child long awaited for. Our third we sent to meet Jesus before us. In some way, it’s almost easier to share things laden with sorrow, hands outstretched and open, having already given up. This hope thing, that is much harder.
I struggled with telling our darling girl we were expecting again. We waited, in fact, until just a few weeks ago. Every time I opened my mouth to share the news with her, the images of her brokenness over the loss of our last one played on loop in my brain. If I could have hidden it until delivery, I would have. Alas, my body betrayed my plans. This little one wanted to be recognized- to be known. Don’t we all?
I wish I could say it has been easy this time. That I didn’t wake with nightmares several times a week of cold, hospital beds and empty cribs. I wish I didn’t spew my worries to heaven instead of praying. Please let it live. Oh God. Please let me live. Please let us live to see each other.
Each ultrasound with a beating heart is a tearful event. The relief to hear the rush of pounding. Every time I walk in thinking I will hear nothing. Every time I walk out in streams of watery gratitude. We made it one more week. One more day.
But this one. This one wants to be known. It waves and dances on the screen, mouth opening and closing rapidly as though it was talking already, telling me all of it’s secrets.
I want to honor it’s request, though it is so very hard for me to have hope. The fact that we discovered it was a girl right in the middle of my sermon series concerning women’s Biblical equality is not lost on me. She has been listening. She wants to be known.
So, Cecilia Jayne, little Miss Cece, now everyone knows. And we are waiting, with desperate hope, for you.