What she'll never do

Last night, I visited with my sister and my nephew. Usually, being around him doesn't bother me, because he is a boy and Jenna was a girl. Little baby girls do cause me to tear up and want to break down, but little boys are different.

But, last night, as I looked into those big blue eyes of his and held him on my lap, I began to think about all the things he will experience that Jenna will never have the chance to do. Oh, I've thought about all the big things, graduations, weddings, children, and that hurts. But it also hurts to think of all the the little moments we will miss out on.

My arms will never hold her again, and I will miss that feeling of her in my arms, falling asleep as I gently rock her and sing lullabies, all the while looking into her eyes as they get lower and heavier with sleep. Jenna and I will never get to have those middle of the night bonding sessions, where it seems only the two of us are awake, her warm body pressed against mine. Jenna won't ever be able to learn to bounce on my lap, as my nephew Miller loves to do.

No crawling, no running, no first birthdays, not even a chance to pick out a backpack for the first day of preschool -- Jenna will get none of that. All she ever knew was me and my voice and my body, and how I long for her to have had so much more than that.

She and Tessa will never get to have all the fun sisters have. She won't be the bridemaids in Tessa's wedding and vice versa. She won't be there to hold Tessa's hand when Brian and I are gone.

And, I'm mad that she won't get to experience all of life. I'm sad that all she got to know was my womb. Even if she had lived, the Trisomy 18 would have kept her from living a full life, but I might have been able to show her more love than what she was able to get while she was here. When we weren't able to say goodbye early, I was secretly hoping for a few minutes with her. I didn't want her to suffer, but I wanted her to hear that I loved her. I think every baby should have that chance.