Amira Gray snapped some pictures of our family recently, and I am just in love with them! Kudos to her — Owen acted up the entire first half of our session, and Jack was a little snarky the second half. They still turned out fantastic and I am so glad she was able to capture our family. We included Amelia by using a giant pink balloon. :)

Here are some of my favorites:

Amelia, meet your little brother Owen. Owen, meet your sister Amelia. Oh wait, you’ve already met her before you were born, haven’t you?

Over the Thanksgiving break, we traveled to Sacramento. On the way home, we made a detour through the Bay Area and stopped by to see baby Amelia. We brought her seashells and seaweed from our beach, and a succulent instead of flowers, because that’s all that I can seem to keep alive in our new house. ;)

It’s a weird feeling, bringing your new baby to visit your dead baby. I don’t know if it’s bittersweet or happy or what. But I realized that it isn’t as painful to visit her when I have a new babe in my arms. It broke me a little when I was newly pregnant and leaving her to move to San Diego last year, but now that Owen is here that pain has subsided. I don’t wish she were here instead of Owen anymore. I didn’t go to the cemetery with the same family she left us with. I haven’t forgotten her, but we’ve learned to live life without her.

I still think about you, Amelia. Every single day when I load the boys up in the car, I think to myself, “there should be a third carseat back here.” But there isn’t. And every time I see a little toddler girl with blonde curls, I picture you in our family. I think of the pictures you would have drawn me and the dolls we would have had around the house among the cars and airplanes. I think of you when I bathe the boys. I think of you when I do the laundry. I think of you when I learn more about albinism. And I think of you when I’m sitting in church. Miss you, Amelia, and all that you could have been.

But I am no such thing.

When we left the hospital with Amelia, we ran into a group of older ladies that stopped to check out the “latest model”. I’m sure they were shocked when they peered over my shoulder and saw her physical deformities, because the smiles all of a sudden turned to pity frowns and became whispers as they walked away.

I’ll never, ever be able to erase how I felt at that moment. It was the first time I experienced shame and embarrassment for being a mother. Didn’t they know we were bringing her home to die??

It’s happening again. When Owen was tiny, people didn’t expect him to look back at them. But he’s 4 months old now. And so many times a kind stranger comes up to us in public and tries to catch his eye, trying to coax out a smile. And my heart burns with fear and longing and sadness on the inside because they don’t know he can’t see. Will they understand his blindness, or will I get the whispers and pity frowns?

Owen obviously doesn’t even see them. It has happened so many times that I’ll never forget the slight confusion on their faces when we part ways, probably wondering what is wrong with my child.

I feel so blessed and so humbled for the babies we’ve been blessed with, no matter how long their time has been with us on earth. But is there peace to be found as a mother, or will it always be this way? Will the heartache and concern I feel ever turn into a full trust and reassurance in our Heavenly Father’s plan?

It’s been well over a month since we celebrated (what would have been) Amelia’s 2nd birthday, but I thought it might be important to share our yearly birthday family picture. We’re now five people strong, but still missing her each and every single day.

Sorry it’s been a week or two. Aside from the fact that I can’t seem to sleep a full night or turn off my dang brain for ten short seconds, we’re doing fine. We really are.

We’ve received much more devastating news than being told our son has albinism. I mean, we were told that Amelia was going to die right after birth. And then I carried her wiggly little baby self in my belly for five long months after that, and watched her die in my arms two days after she was born. And then I cried and cried and felt so empty inside and out for so long.

So in comparison to that whole phase of our life, we really can do this. It certainly won’t be a piece of cake, but Owen will live and thrive in his own sense of normalcy. What a blessing that is, you know? He doesn’t know any different, and who am I to tell him otherwise?

I won’t sugar coat it, though. Yes, it sucks. I’m rubbed a little raw with emotion right now because I feel for him and, just like Amelia, wish so desperately that I could fix him. Yes, I’d love for my sweet little Owen to have perfect vision like the rest of us. But he doesn’t, and we can’t change that.

But sometimes I do wonder, why me? Jack had torticollis (couldn’t turn his head left when he was born) and pretty severe speech problems, Amelia died from an incurable birth defect, and now Owen has albinism and is almost blind right now. I can’t seem to catch a break here. Am I even capable of producing a healthy child?! Should I even be having kids?!!

Is there something I’m missing? I have plenty of friends who the worst they’ve been through with their children is the flu. What the heck.

I’ve cried a lot over this, about why Heavenly Father would send me these trials over and over again. And they’re not even MY trials – they’re placed upon my sweet children instead. On top of how harsh life already is, my Owen baby will struggle time and time again with low-vision in a vision-focused world.

If I think about it for too long, I just get all worked up and frustrated. My mind is plagued with “what-ifs” and sleep always seems to be juuuuust out of my grasp because of it.

There isn’t an answer (other than plain ol’ genetics) as to why Owen is affected. So I have to be done mourning what was never meant to be.

Our family has been blessed with the most pleasant, joyful spirit, whose vision is steadily improving teensy bit by teensy bit. One day we’ll notice he sees the poster above his changing table. And then the next day we’ll notice he sees his fox. And then all of a sudden, I swear he can see the lights on his play gym.

Or maybe just the butterflies on top, but hey!—progress.

He’s all smiles and giggles. You’ve really gotta work to get him going sometimes, but if he’s in the right mood he’s quite talkative. He’s cheerful and so darn happy to be alive.

Owen, you will thrive and can do anything you set your mind to. As much as I’d love to protect you, mark my words—I’m not going to be the one to hold you back.

There once was a little girl in our family, born in-between Jack and Owen. Her name is Amelia, and she died when she was a newborn. Today she would have turned TWO, and my heart still aches everyday to hold her (perfect) body in my arms. Happy birthday, dear girl. We’re one year closer, and what a sweet reunion it will someday be.

My sweet Amelia Lynn,

Another year has come and gone without you. I try not to think about the “should-have-beens” or the “would-have-beens” but you’d have been TWO, my darling dear! I can just picture your blonde little curls in pigtails and your tiny little hands learning how to grip a marker.

It’s been yet another year that we’ve lived and loved and laughed as a family here on earth without you. Another year that I didn’t get to buy dresses and dolls and watch Frozen with you. And maybe part of me just wishes time would stop so your brothers could be little forever, but personally I don’t mind getting older. Every year we celebrate your birthday brings me that much closer to seeing you again.

We moved closer to the beach, did you know? I think you would have loved the ocean. We’re far from your grave, but you still get visitors every so often. There are so many that love and adore you, but never even got the chance to meet you. We have some incredibly loyal friends, Amelia. Friends who don’t quite know what it’s like to lose a child, but have compassion and an intense love for you nonetheless.

And Owen. I’m sure you’ve met your newest brother Owen, and have even spent more time with him than we have. He’s a brave old soul, isn’t he? He’s been the best little baby and we all adore him. Remind him that we love him, would you? Because sometimes I worry he doesn’t know that. Sometimes I worry that I think of you too much and he senses it.

I just miss you and what you could have been, Amelia. Owen isn’t a replacement for that but it still doesn’t take away the heartache of seeing him hit milestones you never would have. Do you ever wonder about that too? About what life would have been like had you stayed here with us?

It hurts too much sometimes. I don’t know how or when the pain and anguish will ever go away. I mean, on the surface I’m fine. Our family is fine; your dad is strong and well and so are your brothers. But deep down we know you’re missing, and sometimes that just makes me a little too heavyhearted and sad. Sometimes I just need to cry about you, is that okay? Is that normal and good?

I don’t ever want to forget you, Amelia. And now that Owen is here and we’ve made new friends, life has gone on, full-swing without you. People don’t know there was a little girl in our family in between Jack and Owen. It’s a bitter sting that I know will always haunt me.

But know my love for you runs deep. Your brothers will come to know you, and your father already knows you. I know you, Amelia Lynn, and will never forget you.

Happy birthday, love.

xoxo, Mama

He asked Heavenly Father to bless you with health and strength. I kept getting the impression during the blessing that you are to be a healer. Not just to me, but to those around you. You will be a source of strength and intelligence. You will continue to be a peacemaker, my little one, as you already have been.

Yesterday was all about you, Owen. I wouldn’t have had it any other way, really.

the cure for anything is saltwater. sweat, tears, or the sea. – Isak Dinesen

It’s been almost two years since we lost little Amelia. I miss being able to visit her grave, to sit in the grass next to all the other little babies who died too soon. We really didn’t go all that often, but I miss having the choice to go at all; to bring her flowers from our yard after church on Sunday, or drop in for a quick visit after Jack had speech.

I’ve since then replaced those longings for her with visits to the beach. When I’m missing her the most, I head straight for the salty, ocean air.

But it’s still not her.

I feel like she’s been with us lately. Having a new baby in our home makes heaven feel especially close — and sometimes I swear the times Owen smiles just past my shoulder he must be smiling at her.

He doesn’t know it but that only makes the aching in my chest grow stronger.  I’m jealous and confused and hurt — shouldn’t she be here with me, too? The days become harder the longer I go without seeing her face, without knowing her as my baby, my daughter.

And so I block it out. It takes a lot to bring me to tears these days, and my emotions are buried far, far from the surface where they used to be. I want to love this, and I want to be whole. I want to be the mother my children need me to be.

Some days I just don’t remember how.

I can’t help but shake the thought lately that someone is missing.

Not a day goes by when I don’t think of my little Amelia. I’m realizing more and more how physically empty it is between Jack and Owen.

That little blonde, fuzzy-headed, spunk of a toddler is gone, gone, gone.

It’s less than a month away from her second birthday and as always, I’m having a rough time. She’s infiltrating my thoughts, day and night. I have this beautiful, perfectly healthy (and literally quite strong) newborn sleeping upstairs, and yet I’m obsessed with the thought of my Amelia. What would she have looked like? Would she be talking by now? Does she still know me at all as her mother?

She’s still a baby in my head. But I try to picture her as an almost two-year old, with her gangly legs dangling off the kitchen counter as she licks the cookie-dough spatula. I can almost see her wispy, unruly white-blonde hair that won’t stay put no matter how hard I try, and her sticky, fruit juice fingers as she pops in grape after grape at lunchtime. I can see her careful scribbles in her princess coloring book, insisting I tape them on the fridge for Daddy to see after work. I can see her building lego castles and lego airplanes with her brother, and despite his protesting, bravely snatching a piece right from his hand every once in a while.

I somehow miss all these things I never had. I miss our tickle fights and our bedtime stories and going on walks together, hand in hand. I miss that when Jack went off to preschool in the mornings this past spring, she wasn’t there with me to see him off.

But was she? I hope she’s here in our home. I hope she’s right next to me as I type this. I hope she sits on an empty chair at our dinner table, joining us in a good meal. I hope at bedtime, she tenderly kisses her brothers goodnight along with us.

I hope you’re here, Amelia. There will always be a spot for you.

My dearest little Owen,

Thanks for letting me finally feel this “natural childbirth” thing everyone is raving about. At least you made a quick exit, eh?

I remember yelling, “just get him out of me!”, and giving one last desperate push to birth your shoulders. You didn’t slide right out of me like I expected — you have your sister Amelia’s broad, strong shoulders that stalled us for a few seconds.

When they laid you on my chest, I was unprepared for your peach-fuzz (i.e., bald) little head, and wrinkly, saggy skin. But you were unmistakably blonde-haired & blue-eyed like I’d guessed. (I knew I should have wagered a bet with your Dad on that one.)

But most importantly, you were mine. You were finally here, and I was your mama.

They let me hold you for a long time before you were examined and measured. My eyes brimmed with tears as I was able to look down on your perfect, whole, complete body and realized you were going to live.

How blessed we have been to welcome you into our family, Owen. You are so loved.

xoxo, Mama

Hence, the innermost parts of me are frozen with fear for what the coming days will bring when I birth Owen into this world. And I’ve tried to suppress that fear for so long that it’s eating away at the good parts of me.

I think the human body is amazing. The ability my body has to create and birth children is incredible! But goodness, is it ever agonizing and painful and beautiful at the same time.

I’m figuring out a lot of things. That subconsciously I’ve been worried that when Owen gets here, he will replace all my newborn memories of Amelia. Or that I’ll compare them, that I’ll look at Owen and wish he were her. It’s really, really hard to admit this to myself because I already love this little boy so much. He means the world to me and is so loved already. It’s heartbreaking and confusing to me that deep down I would ever feel this way.

But is he just as scared to come to me? Are we scared to meet one another? Or am I the one pushing him away without realizing it? Is there room for both of their memories?

This grief and recovery process is a beast.

I don’t know how or why I started writing. It just seemed to be an outlet that worked for me and I stuck with it. When my words hit the page, my burden is suddenly lighter. Thus I quickly became addicted to writing as a way of personal therapy.

My friend Holland is in town and we were able to meet for lunch today. We always have the best talks and had an interesting discussion today about what I post and don’t post on my blog. Is there a line to be drawn and if so, where is it? Obviously you can tell I’m pretty open and honest here, but there are still plenty of things in my life I keep private.

But all of this is besides the point. There’s a lot this past week that I didn’t want to mention, that I’ve just wanted to forget. Yet it’s been weighing heavily on my mind and maybe if I’m being truly honest with myself, it needs to be shared. If not for you, then for me.

My feelings as of late range from completely embarrassed to exhausted to feeling very, very alone.

Let’s start with embarrassed. We’ve gone to the hospital TWICE now for “false labor”. I hate calling it that, because there isn’t anything false about it. I have had two bouts (last Sunday night and last Saturday night) of 8+ hours of regular contractions that grow stronger and stronger. I just didn’t progress fast enough and got sent home both times. (They gave me one hour to walk around and if I didn’t “progress” — dilate more — then adios, amigos.) And then hours later at home there would be complete radio silence from my uterus. Thanks, uterus, I thought we were friends.

Both times I cried the whole twenty minute drive home, ashamed and feeling stupid. Blaming myself for inconveniencing everyone for nothing.

I KNOW what true labor feels like. I’ve labored with both of my babies, so shouldn’t I be certain “this is it” with my third? Apparently not.

I’m just shy of 39 weeks and dilated to a 4 but that’s not good enough. I’m terrified the next time I get a bout of contractions I won’t have time to get to the hospital or drop off Jack or Tyler won’t make it. I know, I know, everything will be fine.

If I’m being honest with myself, the most frustrating part of it all to me isn’t the hospital trips at all. It’s that no one really seems to understand my internal struggle of just how long I’ve waited for this baby, and then the disappointment of being sent home without him.

My last newborn died. I went through an entire miserable and emotional 38 weeks of pregnancy and ended up with just a memory. And now I’ve already been through 39 miserable weeks of pregnancy again, and there’s still not a baby in my arms. Try explaining this to a casual friend, to your sister, to your husband — they can sympathize but unless you’ve been through it and carried these little babies the understanding is just not there. There’s sympathy and love and concern, but no true recognition of what it feels like.

I hate coming to terms with that. It’s mean and gloomy and heartbreaking. I know there are so many of you out there rooting for me — for us! — but all the same I don’t feel like I have anyone who can physically throw their arms around me and say, yes Alie, I’ve been there! Because frankly, I’m hysterical and emotionally fragile right now about Owen’s impending birth.

But I wouldn’t want anyone to have gone through the hell of losing a child that I went through either, and for that I’m grateful to be alone.

So maybe it isn’t such a bad place to be after all, in such isolation. So many of you have shown such deep affection and tender hearts for me. You remember, you care.

And even if you don’t understand, I wouldn’t want you to. It means the world to me that you try anyway.

I don’t even have words in me anymore these days.

It’s like I’ve shut off the thinking and feeling part of my brain so I’m not in constant tears all the time. It’s how my body copes – I either feel so deep it’s almost destructive or I just don’t feel at all.

And towards the end of this pregnancy with Owen (28 days & counting today!) I guess I’m subconsciously choosing not to feel at all.

What I do feel, I wish I didn’t. Yesterday at church I felt like this could be my last pregnancy. And I was completely, 100% okay with that. It wasn’t that I was in severe pain or was uncomfortable, either. Owen would just wiggle inside of me and I felt like, “I’m not really going to miss this.” It’s like I’ve hardened my heart but I wish I hadn’t.

Maybe it will change when he’s born. But right now (and it’s not due to my large, 36 weeks physical state of being) I just don’t ever want to be pregnant again. Done, done, & done; this ship has sailed.

My heart isn’t completely numb. I’m still excited for little things like the clothes Owen gets to wear, breastfeeding, and the brotherly bond he and Jack will develop. These are things I missed out on with Amelia. She was a newborn – she came home with us – yet she didn’t get a nursery or a crib or diaper changes. Jack didn’t even realize she was there, and then all of a sudden gone from our lives forever. And it’s kind of unfair to me, when I think about it.

Maybe this is why I don’t think. I’m afraid if I open my heart I’ll be an anxious puddle of tears all day long, swallowed up in the ifs and buts and couldhavebeens.

It’s been a while. We have six weeks left. (Or more, or less. Let’s pray for less.)

My point is that my belly is huge and it’s getting real.

I’ve been trying really hard lately to prepare for Owen, mentally and spiritually. I don’t know what kind of child would want to come to our family to complete an Amelia sandwich, but he must be one incredibly persistent and compassionate spirit to love a broken mama like me.

I’m nervous for what it will feel like to hold him in my arms, because I still avoid babies. I’ve held my 7-month old niece a handful of times, but it took me months and months to get the courage to do so and frankly it doesn’t feel very natural so (no hard feelings but) I kind of avoid it.

I’m sure all those feelings of being a mama will come back to me, right? Right?

When I’m not ridden with anxiety about meeting Owen, I’m trying to relish my last few weeks alone with Jack. He’s so grown up but in the best way ever. I never, ever dreamed I’d have my kids spaced so far apart, and over the past two years in some ways I’ve learned to embrace and love the gap. But in many ways I’ve come to hate it.

This morning Jack read a book to a snail outside (completely his idea, I had nothing to do with it) and was very intent on making sure “Mr. Snail” could see the pictures. My heart rejoiced at his cute innocence but simultaneously broke a little that he had no siblings and had to resort to reading a book to a snail instead.

So I’m finding there’s a little bit of guilt associated with me and this so-called gap. I know there shouldn’t be, but all the same, there it is, staring me right in the face. I can’t help but feel like I’ve somehow messed up along the way and our circumstances are my fault. That The Gap between children is my fault.

I’m the Mom, and I should be able to fix this. I should be able to cover this wound with a band-aid and kiss it better. But deep down in my heart I think Amelia must in heaven preparing Owen to do that instead. I think he’s probably one tender and sympathetic spirit to come heal our family.

I can’t wait to meet you, Owen. Your daddy is going to cry, and your brother will no doubt kiss your cheeks and call you a “tiny baby!”. I might stay really quiet at first, but I’m here, I promise.

I’m here, I promise.

It’s weird for me to think back five and a half years ago to the day when I married Tyler. There were a lot of good and bad decisions I’d made in my life up until then, but I can (and will always say) that marrying him is the single best decision I’ve ever made.  I remember we both had big, toothy grins through the entire ceremony and the sealer who married us just laughed and said, “I’ve never seen two people smile as much as you two are today!” We just fit together, unlike any relationship I’ve ever seen or been in.

And the best part is, nothing’s changed since then. Despite all the crap our little family has been through, we’re still that giddy, innocent, smiling couple. I wish I knew our secret.

But on to other things that weigh much heavier on my mind. I think I’ve mentioned before that this pregnancy has been unexpectedly hard. Hard on me physically, and hard on me emotionally. I thought going in that I would get an overwhelming sense of gratitude, for this is supposed to be the great blessing I’d longed for, the great blessing that was robbed and ripped from my arms.

It hasn’t felt like I thought it would. I’m still scared and uneasy, when I should be full of excitement and gratitude for my rainbow baby Owen. I’m trying. It should feel like a blessing to be pregnant again with a healthy baby, but why can I not wrap my head around it? I have nightmares that he is taken away from me, or born with anencephaly like Amelia. I’m scared he’s not truly mine.

I’ve really struggled to know where I fit with friendships and acquaintances since we moved here. How much of my burden should I give to my new friends and how much do I need to hold within myself? I’m tired of being the “broken” friend, the one who is emotionally vulnerable and weak. I lie and say I’m fine most of the time, but I can only keep it in for so long before I start to explode with my deep, dark feelings upon some poor, undeserving individual.

I’m a feeler, a crier, a compassionate and emotionally sensitive being that apparently cannot be tamed. I’m exhausting as a friend, is what I am.

Baby Owen is not unwanted or unloved, but he hasn’t been easy to accept, either. I know our family needs him. I need him. And I’m sure, just as everyone tells me, that when I see those baby blues look up at me when I hold him in my arms, that I’ll fall in love. I believe it, because I’ve seen it. But where is the peace and solace to be found until then?