So today is my birthday. I am having a particularly tough day. One of those days where the tears will not stop flowing, despite efforts to turn the faucet. I turn, and turn, and turn. It must be broken. I must be broken.
Last year, Speck, our happy little man in the tum, put on quite the celebration for his mummy, kicking and squirming, being his joyful little self. As always, he ate well (all thanks to his daddy). Big birthday sushi rolls for mummy, complete with some baby sushi rolls for, well, baby. We had such a good time together.
This year looks so different. Everything is different to expectation. I am filled with longing. An insatiable yearning for expectation. I just want my baby. In my arms where he belongs, where I thought he would be. It isn’t what I expected. It isn’t what we want. It isn’t easy.
I am not posting this to encourage any messages or salutations that are customary to pass along. Well-intentioned people have told me to have a “happy” birthday, or something of the like implying that my day should be nothing short of amazing. It is what you say. The sentiment is there, but the words are difficult to swallow. I am surrounded by an abundance of care and love, yet today I have felt so alone. So helpless. So empty. So sad. So unhappy.
… And then my husband returns from work holding a bouquet of wildflowers that a special little voice told him to pick on the way home. And I cry. Happy tears.