Sometimes the strangest things catch me off guard. The most recent: I was sitting on my brother in law's couch on Thanksgiving and my eyes rested on the glider in the corner. Memories of the last time I'd sat in that chair came flooding back. It was Labor Day weekend. I was reading to my niece who was sitting on my lap. I was 12 weeks pregnant and thought how soon enough I wouldn't have space for her or my own children on my lap. The memory brought silent tears to my eyes while the rest of the family happily prepared to play Settlers of Catan. It was then I realized that even the game was a reminder: We were playing that same game while on vacation in Florida in July when Troy told his parents I was pregnant.
Over the last nine years, I've had eight pregnancies. Two ended in the births of my daughters, Lily (8) and Ella (5). Five have ended in losses between 5 and 16 weeks. Chemical pregnancy, miscarriage, missed miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, and late miscarriage are all part of my history. Finally, my 8th and final pregnancy, brought us our baby boy, Will, who has Down syndrome. With the loss of Olivia at 16 weeks on October 5, 2014, I turned to writing as a way to work through the challenges.
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