Last night I was in our basement, painting cabinets (for the kitchen, final coat of paint before the protective top coat...The end is in sight). J and Dee came down to "hang out" and it turned into J sitting on a ball, using two plastic arrows to tap out a song on one of the metal support poles (to accommodate the expansion and contraction of the clay-soil our house is on). Dee was playing a "video game" that involved killing vampires so they wouldn't eat her baby that she brought down. J saw a giant (like 1") cricket and thought it was a spider, and nearly freaked out, but we caught the cricket in a jar (female, massively long ovipositor clearly visible) and Dee proudly marched the jar upstairs to show C, and ask him to please release the girl cricket outside. J visibly relaxed once the monster bug was out of his realm. I resumed painting.
I made pumpkin cookies to bring in to work today. Of course I had to eat a couple before bed, so I paid with heartburn and reflux all night, compounded by Dee getting up 3 (only three?) times, as well as needing to pee and chomp some more papaya enzyme tablets.
Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I don't know if I can claim a loss I'm not even sure was really a loss. I don't want to falsely acknowledge something that never happened, but I also feel like I should acknowledge a loss that I had, confirmed by a stupid pee stick or not. I also feel, in my core, that Little Cat C (baby 3's current and possible forever bloggy nickname) was the child that tried to come then, and came back again. The child that was meant to be and fought like hell to show up on this earth. Do I mourn the loss of a child that came back? Of a child meant to be mine from the first? Or do I accept that I never knew if I was pregnant back then and move on? I never wanted to be part of the loss "club" but I also never wanted to be in limbo.
The melancholy persists, Little Cat C rolls gently in her sleep, meant to be mine.