There’s another baby in the family. Yesterday my sister-in-law had her sixth baby. The news struck me as I thought it would. When I saw the baby’s picture, there’s no way you couldn’t not fall in love. She was beautiful and perfect.
At one point I had a conversation with my sister-in-law about being out numbered. She said at first, when you have your first baby, you’re still in control. Two parents, to one kid. Easy. After the second child the playing field has evened out. Two parents, two kids. But after the third child you’re out-numbered. And after the fourth, fifth and now sixth, you’re grossly out-numbered. In that moment, I found it ironic that she was out-numbered with children, and I out-numbered with miscarriages.
With each miscarriage, it gets easier. Easier is the wrong word. More tolerable. Expected. Bearable. Familiar. Each loss is so great. But I think that the first one sets the stage for the others that follow. It’s almost like your heart is already so broken that each additional miscarriage just makes it break a little more. It’s never fully repaired after the first one and each miscarriage following the first just makes the hole get a little bigger each time. The hurt never went away, therefore it’s almost as if you’re numb to the pain. Don’t get me wrong, I cried and grieved for each baby. For each tiny toe that I never got to kiss I probably shed a million tears. But now I know that I’m out-numbered, and all I can do is hope and pray that I’ll be able to eventually kiss some of those tiny toes.