Buckle your seatbelt. This is going to be one hell of a post.
I haven’t been on here in a while. Didn’t know how to return. See, I had a perfect second post all worded in my head exactly how I wanted it. Adorable. Surprising. Exciting. I was going to post one day after Mother’s Day that our family was expanding again. That we really would be three kids and one dog, soon. That my husband, kids and I were excited to announce that for the previous 15 weeks I had a bun in my oven.
It was going to be perfect. There would have been pictures of my mother and my mother in law opening their Mother’s Day cards to see that they were signed from kid 1, kid 2 and future kid. And then I’d post my edited-for-privacy sonogram.
It was going to be the perfect post.
And then the night before Mother’s Day I started cramping. And bleeding. And BLEEDING. And the Tuesday after Mother’s Day, I passed my too perfect for this world Logan Lynn. I always wanted to use my middle name for a child. Lynn. It’s my parents middle names as well.
I’m no stranger to miscarrying. This is my husband and my third during our incredibly young marriage. But the first one that occurred after the first trimester was over. I passed 12 weeks. Logan was supposed to be safe inside of me. I did all the right things.
My life was kind of blurry after that. I poured myself into my two “on earth” kids. They are my world. Thankfully they didn’t mind the extra hugs and cuddles.
A funeral home director friend took care of Logan’s tiny body. Because it was a body. And Logan is my child, no matter how long he exsisted on earth. He’s in a urn, waiting to be buried with me or my husband, which the funeral director assured me is perfectly normal for angel babies. It gives me comfort, kinda.
I am beyond ready to stop having losses. I’m a damn good mom. And I miss my angels every single day.