A teeny tiny baby formed slowly in my womb. Each month we listened expectantly when you pressed the white microphone against my rounding belly. Thump thump. Thump thump. We both smiled hearing that little heart beat away: you counting rhythms and me dreaming dreams.
We often guessed boy or girl, blue or pink, with the old wives’ predictions. Finally, it was time to know! The pictures on the screen showed 10 teensy toes that kick, kick, kicked; 10 slender fingers ready for the holding; round cheeks waiting to be kissed, a plump bottom lip assuring I’d always give in; girl parts to match her big sister; long, beautiful hair already flowing; and a heart with one half missing.
Missing!? But how could that be? This isn’t the right baby for me!
But you weren’t as easily convinced. When another doctor confirmed it was true, still you said you knew. You knew that there was another option than the one he gave. An option that was scary and hard but brave.
Still more doctors told us there was a short time left to choose the easy way. They said we would be worry free and could try again. These doctors were certain that we’d come to our senses and assured us that a last-minute decision would be accepted.
I called to tell you about the details unfolding, the choices they gave, the decision we made: We were keeping her. Was that okay?
You answered in comforting confidence , “Of course, you should keep her! There’s no better way.” We’d do it together, you and me. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Praying. Knowing that through it all this was exactly the baby for me.
Thank you for this gift of life that you knew was worth it. Thank you for standing with me. Thank you for being an advocate for this perfect little mess who calls me momma today.