Today is a day in which I find myself not only missing my son, but missing that part of my life and identity I was so looking forward to. I always knew I wanted to be a mom, that I was meant to be a mom. The only thing in my life I have been as sure of is that I wanted to marry my husband. I can remember long discussions at various points about what I wanted to do with my life and the only thing I ever knew was 'be a mom.'

I finally thought that was happening. And then it didn't. Three times over. After the miscarriages, I never considered myself a mother, because those babies never really existed in that way. But Gabriel - he did exist, he had a personality, he had a name, he was born, he lived, he died. He made me a mother.

But now I'm a mother to a dead child. I don't know how to be a mother to a dead child, let alone a good mother. Parenthood doesn't come with a manuel, and even if it did, it wouldn't cover this, would it? God knows the pregnancy books were very vague and quiet about it.

I've been doing a lot better lately, but I know I am not all done with grieving or all better now. Today is one of those sad sort of days. Two new babies in the last few days, and looking at pictures and reading the birth stories and whatnot . . . leaves me hollow. I'm so glad for them and relieved they were safely delivered and healthy all around, but it's reinforced that they are what I am not.

I miss what I was going to be. I am sad that I don't have the struggles to establish breastfeeding and the sweet snuggles and the wonder in staring at my son and realizing I made him. I am sad that the next pregnancy will likely require medication to keep me sane throughout. I am sad that my plans for birthing my children are so disrupted that my next appointment with the new OB will be to discuss the high level of monitoring I will require in the future and to discuss elective induction and c-section as possibilities for my own mental health - me, the avowed home-birth advocate.

I wish I knew that someday I would be a mother to a living child. It might make that loss of my dreams and portion of my identity easier to cope with, knowing it was temporary. Right now, though we are planning for another pregnancy, hoping to start trying in December and assuming that the ease of the last three conceptions will occur again, it's hard to picture any other outcome. Which makes me question why we are even bothering.

I guess because it goes back to what I said at the beginning. I've always known that I wanted to be a mother. I am a mother. And not a mother.

Eliza, just sitting here on this rainy day abiding with you. xo

Thanks, Kate. Does it get easier when you are through the firsts? We're still counting in weeks and months. There are a lot of firsts still ahead of us, and I'm not foolish enough to think another pregnancy will completely distract me from them.

I'm certainly not in any place to give advice, but I wanted to let you know that I'm thinking of you. A mother is a mother is a mother. But like you said, it makes it and it doesn't.

I'm right there with you, Eliza...you expressed what I'm feeling perfectly.

Eliza... 'easier' is one of those perplexing words, but yes, I'd say so. The first year or two is just so damn vivid. For me it was crying in the car, mini panic attacks, nightmares/insomnia combined with a near-exquisite awareness of his presence. Which was pretty much sado-masochism. (smile)

I wrote about it once as a burnt ruin. At first, charred and still hissing, smoking, hot coals, loss and shock thick in the air. Eventually, a meadow begins to reclaim that ruin. It never goes away - it's always a part of the landscape. But eventually it stops spitting and hurting in that desperate way. Things grow up and around and through it. The earth reclaims it, and it almost becomes beautiful and peaceful, like it belongs there just as it is. xo

The burnt ruin image is perfect, Kate. That totally sums it up. I just hate that there's no fast forward button to get us through to the meadow without living in the charred landscape. I don't want to escape the ruins, but it's just so raw and hot and ugly. Every morning I wake up, see the dark cloud and choose to get out of bed knowing that the cloud refuses to be ignored and continues to make itself known. I will survive this -- I know I will, but it sucks. So much.