Mel over at Stirrup Queens wrote a beautiful post recently, about her ghost child. It's haunting, and perfectly describes something I've been trying to articulate for myself of late. Please go read it. Then come back.
For those of you who don't follow directions thus didn't go read the post, Mel talks about a recent family trip where she was followed by a ghost child. A child who is only a possibility. Or perhaps, a child who is no longer a possibility. She's reminded that because that child doesn't physically exist, this trip was possible for her family. But also that the carrying of this ghost child prevents her from fully participating in the experience with her family. (Or at least that's what I took from her words.)
I've been grappling with my own ghost child recently. She's reflected in the questions others have started asking about whether we're considering a 3rd child. She's waiting to be nursed as we move towards what feels like baby E starting to wean. She's there, watching, as I wonder what to do with all the things baby E is outgrowing. She's there in the night, when I am startled awake by a newborn's cries. I feel her weight on my chest when I see a friend carrying her newborn in the Moby wrap.
And she is always a she. The dresses. The hair bows. The girly-ness of her. It's painfully palpable at times. She is painfully palpable at times. A shadow. A possibility. A ghost. A question. A maybe.
She's there. Waiting. Waiting for us to decide whether or not she will be. Always there.
Today's Lesson: Sometimes others are better at giving words to our thoughts than we are ourselves.