Beautiful Dreamer

Sunday, August 28, 2011

This is a love letter to you, my beautiful dreamer.
My last born child.
How I prayed for you, waited on you. Seven long years I dreamed of holding you. Seven long years of imagining myself as the mother of another child.
“Hopefully a girl,” I thought, during the time before you came.
My small baby, how I love you so. From your crooked feet to your clinically too-large head. All of those things that they said were deformed (How I HATE the word deformed now.) All of those things that made you so very special. So much more delicate than all of those other babies.
I packed away your little dresses the other day. The dresses I had bought for a future where you came home. They were so sweet.  I imagined putting braids in your hair, and little shoes with buckles on your feet. You were going to be a cowgirl, dressed in ginghams. Old fashioned in long hair and sun kissed skin. I bought you a pair of sandals, thinking of the time when you would walk in them, maybe on a beach. I remembered how those same type of sandals felt on my feet when I was a girl. Your feet were chubby in my thoughts. Your toenails were painted red.
So many dreams linger. Today, you would have been 8 ½ months old, No one else realizes that, but I could never forget to mark the passing days. You would have been in that dimpled baby stage. Even though your hair was so very dark when you were born, your eyebrows were carrot red, so I envision you with a curly carrot top and blue eyes.
I miss you so much. I would never have believed that I could miss you so much. I would never have believed that I could miss anyone this much.
I hear people say things like “I would give almost anything to…” and then they list a bunch of silly things like “have an ice cream bar”, or “go to the Bahamas.” I don’t think that they understand exactly what it means to want something so badly that you would give anything for it. I would give up so many things to hold you for seconds more. I would give up a scary number of things just to look into your eyes.
My arms ache at times, for you. It’s physical. My muscles need the weight of a baby to heft up against my hip. A baby to hold against me while nursing, sweating and sleepy.
I go places and see things and I imagine seeing them with you. I was in New York City yesterday, and I saw things through a baby’s eyes. It was so enchanting, with cars and people and 1,000 other sights to see. But it was missing you, so it wasn’t complete. Nothing is complete without you.
I want to nuzzle your face with mine. I want to feel your new baby skin. I want to mother you. Kiss your boo-boos. Even use your full name with a stern voice. So many wants.
It’s not all about me, I promise. I just wish I could have known you. Known who you would be, after you were the baby in my womb. It’s not supposed to stop there.
With fiery red hair and a name like Beatrix, I would like to imagine you as wild and strong willed. I imagine you growing up and wearing purple hair barrettes, and rainbow tights. I imagine you being able to talk about books and art and doing both easily. I imagine you laughing and falling in love. 
My sweet baby, how much I have missed you, these last months. Projections of the future aside, I miss the smell of you. All of your things smell like hospital- although I still pull them out of your box sometimes because even smelling hospital is comforting. I miss your hair- so long and thick. I miss spending time with you.
 I kissed you, and now I miss your lips.
Your absence has gone through me like a lightning bolt. It electrifies me. It makes things vibrant. It is like a permanently opened wound. It is a permanently opened wound.
I will always want more of you, I think.  

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