Advent is a season of hope, of anticipation. The new Church year has begun and we await the birth of our Savior.
This is a shitty season to have just lost a baby.
In some alternate world, this is the first handprint of many that will be made by my sweet Psalm as she grows. I would have spent the last ten weeks rubbing my thumb across the lines in her palm and kissing her fingers one by one.
On 24th December, Psalm would have been 13 weeks old. Three months. Three month olds can do a lot. They can hold their head up. They can track you when you are walking by them. They can roll around, though probably not roll over. They're starting to nom on everything.
I bought little diapers when I was pregnant. Fitted diapers. Tiny little things, that in the end were too big for her and wouldn't have worked anyway because she only had one leg. I think oh, she would have been a big baby when she was born. I think. She was 4lbs 6oz. They say they grow half a pound a week, which would have put her at only 6lbs 6oz at term four weeks later, but if she had been healthy she would have weighed more because she wouldn't have been missing a leg and her chest would have been bigger and honestly I have no fucking idea why I am typing this. It's just word vomit at this point.
We went to church Sunday for the first time since Psalm's memorial service. Well, my mother and the kids and I did. Erik had a headache and stayed home. We went to Resurrection, which is closer to us than St. Mark's. They had a guest priest, because theirs in in Europe. Her sermon used pregnancy as a metaphor for Advent, briefly. How you wait for this child and then she comes and you are then presented with all the potential this child has, you get to think of everything she could become.
And Psalm, she couldn't become anything. She is written on my heart forever, but she will never grow up, never have dreams, never....never...never...
Also, this song tears me up every damn time I hear it, because Psalm was supposed to be born in late October in San Antonio: