To my almost son or my almost daughter,

I’ve been scared to talk about you, to think and dream and hope for you. I’ve been afraid of people’s misunderstanding, their ignorance, their judgment. I’ve tried to hide you from it, my almost child. I’ve tried to hide me from it. But today, God said to me, “It’s time,” and, as I hope you will learn to, I know I must obey my Father.

I haven’t been able to write much. I’ve been avoiding this because I knew it was you. I knew you were stuck in me like a scream I can’t get out. But today, I’m ready.

It’s been almost two years, almost two long years that I have prayed to meet you. I told myself that I would be okay if you took a while. I told myself that I didn’t need you and even told myself sometimes that I didn’t really want you. But every month, like clockwork, the lack of you would remind me how wrong I was.

It’s a strange feeling, to miss someone you’ve never known, but that is the only way I can describe this. I miss you in a literal way–that a part of me is not in place because you are not here, it’s gone missing and only you can fill that void. And though I love your cousins more than almost anything, I’m reminded every so often, that even they cannot take your place because they are not mine, not like you will be.

I’ve gone through stages of grief. I’ve bargained on your behalf. I’ve given myself deadlines. I’ve braved up and suffered the blood draws and the too-personal conversations with strangers. I’ve thrown tantrums. I’ve ripped up my insides searching for my transgression that sent you so far from me. I’ve asked for redemption. I’ve begged, pleaded, threatened, demanded. I’ve pulled out all the stops for you, my almost baby. Yes, I’m going crazy for you. Someday you’ll do the same for the people you love.

Test after test told us we failed. I didn’t know who to blame. Sometimes I’d blame myself, sometimes your dad, sometimes God Himself. I’d blame my past, present, and future. I guess I wanted to make sense of it, I wanted a reason–somehow having a reason made it feel more worth it. I’m still searching, sweet one.

But today, I got to thinking that maybe the reason for you not being here is so I could tell all the other almost parents out there that they aren’t alone in their impatient waiting, in their tears and trials, in their doctor’s visits and disappointment, in their prayers. They are not alone when they cry after “not trying” and getting a negative pregnancy test. They almost going to meet you, and don’t. They are not alone when they cannot be overjoyed at others who have been blessed with a child. They are not alone in avoiding the, “So, are you trying for kids?” question. They are not alone in the cold offices of their specialists, hoping for answers and not getting them. They are not alone in dreaming of you and waking up without you. They are not alone in building a fantasy life where you exist. Maybe not having you here is supposed to make me better than having you here would. I’ll say, though, at this point, I don’t care much about goodness if that’s the case.

People will say, “all in God’s time” and I know that they are right. I know that God’s time is perfect and that when you finally arrive, everything will be perfect and imperfect all at the same time. But can I just say, sometimes God’s time sucks? (For those of you who are judging, feel free to bite me). It’s not that He’s wrong. It’s just that His time is hard and, frankly, just straight up sucks sometimes. It doesn’t make me a bad person to feel that way (I don’t think). Trusting in God doesn’t mean not having human emotions. Trusting in God means that through the blinding tears and the aching confusion, you know that what He is doing is best. I know that. I do, but I still miss you, I still want you, and I’ll still be disappointed for every moment you aren’t here.

Don’t worry, my little one. I am living and loving my life with your dad. We love each other very much; so many people want our love as much as I want you. When you get here, you’ll learn that you are a very blessed child. You’ll be surrounded by a family who loves you. You’ll have cousins to play, fight, and grow with. You’ll have bunnies to hold and pet. You’ll have a home with your own room, painted whatever color you want. And, for what it’s worth, you’ll have a mom that will never give up on you–not now, not ever.

Even when I almost have, I haven’t ever been able to lose faith in you. I know you’re coming as fast as you can. You’re almost here, I can feel it.

-XOXO
Mommy