Remembering the Miracle

I always knew I wanted to have children. I looked forward to being a mother and creating a family. I went so far as to have it planned out. I would have my first child at 28, and three more would follow shortly after that. It was all part of my plan. (Yes, the plan involved four children. I was a tad bit delusional back in the pre-kiddie days.)

We spend so much of our youth being fearful of becoming pregnant that you never realize that the conception of a child is, in itself, quite a little miracle. I never knew. I thought it would all just magically fall into place, just when I wanted it to.

I got pregnant right away. I was 28. And I had a miscarriage shortly thereafter. The miscarriage shattered me. I became even more undone when subsequent months of trying to conceive again came and went without any success. I watched close friends celebrate their pregnancies while my heart broke a little more each passing month.

Eight months after my miscarriage, eight very long months, I became pregnant with Aidan. We found out on Christmas Day. It was, and will remain, the greatest gift I have ever been given.

Since that time, I have learned that my 8 months of tears and breakdowns is a tiny, microscopic drop into the giant sea of women riding the roller coaster ride of trying to conceive a child. I had it easy. I had it good. And I never knew.

I know now. I learned.

Over the last six years, I have shared in the experiences and emotions with friends on their emotional journeys to become a parent. I learned quickly that I had been part of a miracle with my three children. I am more blessed than I deserve to be.

This week I was reminded of this through the tears of a dear friend. It reminded me not to take it all for granted. It reminded me to go home and hug my children tightly. It reminded me of my miracles.