My first pregnancy had been SO easy.
First try. Pregnant. Not a day of morning sickness.
And notwithstanding the fact that I'd had my son the old-fashioned way because no anesthesiologists were on hand when I arrived at the hospital, his birth was also easy.
Two years later, I was ready to have another baby.
I'd get pregnant in late August; an early summer baby wouldn't interfere with my busy time at work, and allow me to enjoy a summer off.
Baby number two — coming right up.
Until I miscarried.
I was only one month along. No big deal – I told myself.
But it was a big deal.
My body and world were reshaping, welcoming new possibilities — I was going to have another baby.
And then I wasn't.
Several months ago, one of my girlfriends' dreams derailed.
Oddly enough, I immediately thought of a miscarriage.
Perhaps we've hoped and planned, planned and hoped. Perhaps the dream was borne of necessity as was my friend's.
As we dare to dream, we are preparing to birth a new piece of our self.
Something wonderful is going to be.
But sometimes the dream dies.
And we are sad — very sad.
Do we eventually make meaning of the experience, tell our story?
Do we try to have another baby, dare again to dream?
In the meantime, do we need to grieve?
I'm trying to — I hope you will too.
Google's Lesson on Dreams vs. Expectations
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