- amy lou.
- mommy. wife. teacher. yogini. writer. coffee drinker. aunt. crocheter. reader. dog lover. scattered. methodical. rational. irrational. paranoid. annoyed. lost. found. content. searching. peaceful. i am constantly in search of my story. the one i have never happened. the one i've lived i cannot write.
14 April 2008
stitches for my sweet girl.
when your daddy and i found out that i was pregnant, the first thing i wanted to do was run to the bookstore and find the nicest, biggest journal i could find so that could document every moment of this journey.
with your daddy's help, i picked out a large, plain, brown leather, hardback book with the word "JOURNAL" neatly embossed on the cover. it had hundreds of empty pages just waiting to be filled with the details of your growth.
i set to work immediately recording the reactions of your daddy and other family to the news of your impending arrival. i pasted "You're Expecting" cards in the pages and reserved other pages for your first baby pictures.
i was certain that i would document every moment over the course of the next eight months.
i didn't anticipate the lethargy that crept in in week eight of the pregnancy.
my lack of anticipation to the way my body would react to this pregnancy led to many empty pages and before i knew it, it was november and i had missed key moments in your development. the journal quietly got filed into a dresser along with my intentions.
i have thought about that journal often in the last few weeks and months, sitting idly in a dresser in a room in a home that is no longer the house we live in. you see, my sweet girl, despite all our best intentions and efforts, sometimes life steers us down another road. that is exactly what happened on easter morning. when your daddy and i were sent careening down that embankment, our lives - your life - changed course in an instant.
i have had a great deal of time to think in the last three plus weeks. most of my thinking comes between the hours of 2:00 and 4:00 in the morning when my leg wakes me up and i can't get back to sleep. i suppose the pain is a means of preparing me for those times when you will wake me to be fed or changed or loved.
lying in bed, i often work on the baby blanket i started for you nearly eight months ago. i started the blanket to assist me in my efforts to quit smoking once i found out you were on your way. fortunately for me, you took care of my cravings and quitting was easy. and so, like the journal, the blanket became neglected. however, the pain in my leg necessitates something that requires minimal thought and lots of attention, so i am hopeful (once again) to have the blanket completed before you arrive.
and with every stitch, i think.
with every stitch, i pray.
with every stitch, i anticipate your arrival.
last night, as i stitched for you, i decided i wanted to make up for all those empty pages. the journal still sits in the dresser, but i have this small window to the world, this little corner in the wires and decided that not only would i use this to whisper to you, but i would share this with all of those people who have been praying for you alongside your daddy and me.
so begins a series of letters for you, my sweet girl.
each one of them has already been stitched into your blanket.