They couldn’t find a heartbeat, where one had been just a few weeks before and everything changed overnight. Instead of eating crackers and making plans I was arranging for a hospital procedure and care for my daughter during the recovery.

 

Then four years later, I sat in a different exam room, thinking that this was all happening all over again. Except it wasn’t. It was just too early, the tech said. She didn’t give us any guarantees but told us that she couldn’t tell us for sure either way.

 

Two weeks later we heard the most beautiful sound, the heartbeat of our baby. Now, all these months later as I’m trudging through the final weeks of what has been a difficult pregnancy I find myself remembering those fearful days of uncertainty. The other night he didn’t move for a while (at a time of day when he is usually most active) and nothing seemed to motivate him to do so; all those feelings came rushing back and I saw myself losing yet another child. But fortunately he finally woke up and wiggled around enough to let me know he was OK and the following day’s scheduled ultrasound confirmed that all is well.

 

I just can’t wait to finally hold him on the outside. (Or let someone else take a turn holding him, as the case may be). I see what his face looks like beyond the 3D ultrasound. (So far he seems to resemble his brother and sister a great deal). I wonder if he has hair and if he’ll be a better sleeper than his siblings. I worry that he’ll get this brother’s food allergies and both their tempers. But mostly I just want to be able to look into his face and tell him that he is loved, and special and that being third doesn’t mean he is any less. He is wanted, yearned for and found.

 

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