You’re far too young to understand the words I’m about to write, but still, I will jot them down so the memory pops up and reminds me (and one day, you) just how much of my rock you’ve been over the past years and especially these past few weeks. 

Miscarriage has been an unpredictable mess.

One that’s taken about two months to be over. Every week, I dreaded my weekly appointments because seeing all those expecting women there was gut-wrenching. I knew I wasn’t there for such a joyous occasion. Rather, just to check that my hCG levels were steadily dropping. And how slowly they dropped. Each week I was certain they must have reached zero, but they hadn’t.

I almost felt embarrassed to be there, the odd one out, unworthy. I felt I needed some sort of proof I still deserved to be in that office. So each week, I’d bring you. 

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I know, as I say it out loud, it sounds silly. It was crazy to pull you out of preschool before going to each appointment, but oh, how I needed you there sweet girl. Each time you’d ask, “Are we going to the blood doctor again?” And I’d say “Yes! Aren’t you so excited to ride the elevator?!”

Having you next to me each time was such a comforting distraction from the sadness that kept dragging on.

You’d sit on my lap and the whole waiting room seemed to smile. When it was our turn, you’d hop up and skip happily the whole way to the back, completely oblivious. And every time the nurse finished taking my blood you’d say, “Good job, Mama, you’re all healthy!” Finally, we’d get a special treat and have a me-and-you date somewhere on the way home.

See, while I dreaded those visits, I cherished our quality time. You were just what I needed—my security blanket, and I never would’ve been able to get through it all without you. 

Over these past weeks, I’ve had some of the best days with family and friends then cried the whole way home. I’ve watched my naive assumption that every positive test will end with a baby completely fade away. And I’ve faked a smile through really, really hard moments.  

Through it all though, you’ve snapped me back to the joyful side of life. 

Today I found out my numbers have finally reached zero. It’s weird being happy that I’m officially no longer pregnant, but I feel I can breathe again and move on to a brighter chapter.

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Yes, this experience has taken a lot from me, but oh, what it’s given us.

The stronger bond we’ve formed is so special. So give me the dragged-out bedtime routine, the “hold you mama” as you reach up, the tears when you fall, the pleading for five more minutes to play, the “I want to do it myself.”

Give me the joy, anger, sadness, and neediness. Give me all of your feelings because I’ve given you all of mine—more than a 3-year-old should ever have to deal with. 

Mama’s back now, but with a whole new appreciation of life. My chest is much lighter and this chapter of extreme heaviness is closing as I finish writing this. Together we will always melt each other’s sorrows away. As much as I am your definition of comfort, you are mine. Never forget that. May our days ahead shine as bright as you