Tomorrow marks 20 years since I lost my first baby. It took 10 years for me to stop crying all day long on that day. Now I sit back and think, I would have a 19 year old right now. 19! Kyle is 16 and it already makes me sad thinking about him going off to college and being an adult. On the anniversary of my first miscarriage I often sit and wonder about the first baby that wasn't meant to be mine. The only way for me to make it through is to remind myself that God thought that baby was just too pure to be here in this big bad world, too perfect. I often sit and wonder what that child would have been like. Boy or girl? Blue eyes or green? Would they want to go to college or explore Europe first for a year? Would they be like me or their father? Would they want to save the world or make a million? So many unanswered what if's, things that I will never know. My heart and arms ache to hold my three living children, they ache to hold the two that never made it far enough to have arms to hug me back. I got a tattoo last year to honor a few different things in my life.
My ancestors were beekeepers in England. My maiden last name is Bigbee. I had 5 children, 3 living and 2 miscarriages. They are all honored here. The two little ones that never made it are honored with angel wings and halos.
It's funny, talking about angels. When I think about angels, I think of my grandmother looking down from heaven in beautiful white robes, watching over me. I talk to her often and know she is around because I have had signs. However, I never think about the babies looking down. I wonder if they even know I was supposed to be their mother. I wonder if someday, when I go to meet my Maker, if they will be there to recognize me. Will I finally get the chance to hold them in my arms? At this point, only God knows.