So lying under the stormy skies she said, “Oh I know the sun must set to rise.”


Little One, last night, RB and I were watching a show called How I Met Your Mother (which is kind of ironic, considering this blog is how we met you- and your biological mother when that happens!). The plot-line in last nights episode was about how three of the characters got together every three years and watched the Star Wars trilogy while imagining where they’d be three years from then. Every year the main character Ted had the same aspiration for three years down the road- to be married and have a family. And now in 2012, everyone around him is realizing that dream but him, even people who didn’t want that for their lives originally.

I am Ted. For the past few years, I keep telling myself, “next year this time, maybe we’ll have a baby. Maybe this will be the Christmas we’ll be chopping down a tree for three, or buying little gifts from Santa.” But every year like clockwork my time-line keeps going without my dreams on it. Every holiday passes with no children, every birthday I get older is one year gone from my life that I’m not a mother yet. And with Mothers Day just around the corner, I feel the ache the hardest. Will I be a mother next year? Every year for the past four years I thought, “OK, not this year. But next year- that’s the year I’ll finally celebrate being a Mom.”

But not yet.

That doesn’t mean all hope is lost, Lo. In Ted’s defense, in 2015 he was watching Star Wars holding his newborn baby girl. It made me wonder- in three years, where will we be? Will I be holding you as an infant? Will you be three years old, if you are in fact born to the expectant Mom due in June? Or, worst case scenario:will we still be waiting for you?

I don’t know what the future holds, Little One. I wish I did. And honestly, a lot of what the future holds is far beyond my realm of control, and to be honest that kills me deep down inside. It hurts to know that I can’t say this is the year we’ll have a family and then boom, it magically happens. It works that way for a lot of other people, but not our family. It’s a curse and a blessing. We appreciate the time without you, because we know we won’t waste a single second when you’re finally here.

I have hope that in three years I’ll either hear the sweet pitter patterof your tiny toddler feet throughout the house, or be rocking a squirming you to sleep. I have hope that in three years I won’t be writing on this blog to a nameless you, a hope out there in the ether – but instead I will be writing to a very real you, a person made of flesh and bone and kissable cheeks. I have hope that even though I’m the one who has been saying next year, it’ll happen for the past four years, that next year it really will happen. I have hope that this will, in fact, be my last mothers day not being a mother.

I have hope for you, Lo.

I know the storm must come on strong to make a beautiful rainbow. I know the sun must set on a bad day in order for the sun to rise beautifully to a new day full of hope. I know you’ve got to hit the very worst before you can get to the very best.I don’t know if we’ve hit the worst part yet, Lo. I know that we’ve been waiting out this storm for a long time, and we’re just now learning how to dance in the rain.

I can imagine that the best feeling in the world will come when the sun peeks from the skies again, because we’ll appreciate sunlight more than anyone else who hasn’t been stuck in the storm for four years.

Waiting on a sunset in a storm,



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