My. Bust. Is. Massive.
So much so that my cute little bump is now being overshadowed (figuratively and literally) by the enormous mountains towering above.
I just look fat again. Fat and busty.
Like, g cup busty.
Other that that, nothing to report. We’ll be 18 weeks Wednesday.
Have a scan booked for next Friday to find out if we’ll be team Blue (again) or team Pink. I’m not leaning one way or the other despite shedding a few tears last time over the thought of having a boy and never going wedding dress shopping. So in that respect, Pink would be super. But in terms of all the great stuff we have and all the great things we do with our super can’tbelieveIeverthoughtIwantedanythingtobedifferent little Man, another Blue would be great.
That being said, we have a girl name we didn’t use that I’d be thrilled to give to a little pink bean. We only had one Blue name and it’s living and breathing and likely destroying something as I type. So we’d need to come up with another…which is hard!
Hopefully we’ll get an answer at the appointment and we can put the wondering to rest.
Unlike the wonder b.ra which is unlikely to get a moments rest until Obi enters the world. Preferably in about 22 weeks from now.
It’s amazing what time does. It dulls pain, mellows anger, softens regret. Not that there was anything to be done. At least that’s what they tell you. A missed miscarriage is no ones fault.
It’s been a year, sweet Olive. And I’m not sure one day has been the same since.
I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart.
Perhaps for this short while until Obi comes into the world, it’s in 2 hearts. Though Obi’s only beats because yours does not. If you hadn’t come and gone, I probably wouldn’t have been driven to carry on trying, so thank you for that. The sharp absence felt by your loss pushed me to go further than I would have.
I came across a woman injecting Gonal-f and luveris in a bathroom in the building where I do acupuncture. She apologized to me and I told her there was no need. That I had been there, done that and was expecting from the last attempt, 15 weeks along, through a clinic that also shares the building. I also told her to exhale as she injects. It hurts less. She thanked me, and looked a little more hopeful.
As I left, I thought of the ups and downs, of Bubble and Obi and you, Olive. You’re just as much a part of my story and although I wish that chapter ended differently, I wouldn’t change it.
Sweet dreams, Sweet Olive, where ever you are.