Riding the F Train, alone for the first time in over a year, we were drunk and happy. We had lost another baby a couple of months before. Dave was adamant that we stop trying to add another member to our family. Lost is such a cruel word for miscarriage. I know exactly where she went when the blood started rushing 31 hours after I had a faintly positive pregnancy test. She wasn’t lost, she just wasn’t where I wanted her to be. When we were on the train I grabbed Dave’s hand, smiled at him and whispered “let’s just see, just tonight, just because we are in New York. We may be a perfect family of three, or maybe tonight’s the night we are meant to become a perfect family of four.” Memory is funny. I can never be certain if those were my words, but I will never forget the way Dave’s dimple looked when he nodded his agreement.
Thirty-four weeks later, screaming to show us his little lungs were capable of such miracles as breathing independently, our son gave me the most visceral reminder that sometimes our best decisions are the ones we make when completely removed from our ability to reason.
Last night, around 2am, our son sneaked into our bedroom, whimpering quietly. He sidled over to my side of the bed and whispered that I forgot to come to his bed and check on him after I turned off his light. I reminded him that he had fallen asleep, and that when I came in to check he was already riding on the clouds of his dreams. He crawled into my arms, put his beautiful hands on my cheeks and said, “Mommy, I would rather fly with you in my dreams then on a cloud if that’s ok.” I cradled him, tucked his head into the crook of my neck, and thanked the universe for F train logic.