I never wanted to be you.
All those years that my womb was hollow and when friends were shifting clothes in and out of their closets – moving out pilled maternity shirts (well-worn), and moving in those post-maternity jeans (worn much longer than planned) and pre-maternity sizes that never quite fit again but remained on the hanger as a “one-day, maybe again” reward – the hardest months for me were the ones when I was a few days late.
A few days expectant.
A few days, planning. Dreaming.
A few days hopeful.
The ones that ended in what I then labeled to be a few days foolish.
I inadvertently had given permission to this part of our life in God, that great mystery – one that I had patterned my life around boxing out: hope.
So, here’s why I didn’t want to be you – mama whose womb was filled, only to be emptied again, early. Those few days of expectancy were days when my hope could be mostly dismissed as girlish – even foolish – fantasy.
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