What Happens to What Isn’t

Baby Two, or The Seven-Week Old Blob
Baby Two, or The Seven-Week Old Blob

We’re very impatiently waiting to find out if Baby Two is a boy or a girl. And by impatiently waiting, I mean this countdown is in serious competition with Christmas itself. Until then, I can’t help picturing both.

Picturing the daughter with dresses and headbands and daddy’s eyes. Watching princess movies and singing Taylor Swift songs at the top of our lungs and watching those eyes light up over prom dresses and first dates.

Picturing the son running to keep up with his big brother, just as mischievous and wide-eyed and kind. Playing trains and Legos and coming home with grass-stained soccer jerseys. Worrying me with every battle scar.

My Madelyn, Isabella, or Caroline.

My Alex, Jack, or Matthew.

So what happens to what isn’t? It’s a strange feeling, really. You don’t even notice it at first, until you’re putting those tiny onesies into tiny dresser drawers and you remember that one of those futures you pictured is happening, and the other one isn’t. With Landon, it didn’t feel quite as heavy because there was always Baby Two somewhere vaguely ahead of us. A chance for What Isn’t to happen. But this time, I’m not sure if Baby Three is out there waiting for us. I can’t be quite as confident that What Isn’t this time will eventually come back around.

I feel like I’ve spent so much time picturing both in these first sixteen weeks that a part of me will be grieving What Isn’t while the rest of me celebrates What Is. Is that okay? To be happy and also a little sad at the same time? I’m not sure, but I know I’m not alone.

I also know that I can’t wait to snuggle up whatever this nugget is, because babies are just the best. Boy or girl, we’ll be singing “Shake It Off” in our grass-stained soccer jerseys, and my heart will be so full.


Author: Erica the Great

Wife, momma, teacher, and a twenty-something for a little while longer. Every day, I'm a lot of things for a lot of people. This space? It's just for me.

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