A story unfolding...

This pregnancy was literally flying by. Seems like one second we were jumping for joy with tears in our eyes over a test that costs way too much for what you do to it, and in the blink of an eye we were over half way to meeting our little man. I kept thinking to myself, if the third trimester goes as smoothly and quickly as the first and second, I wont have to go through the agonizing torture of the anxious waiting game most all expectant mother experience.

And then at twenty-seven weeks I found myself a one way ticket into the hospital. Now hopefully you are lucky enough to never have experienced hospital bed rest, but if you have, you know first hand that every day feels like an eternity. I literally found myself so bored I would stare out the window in event something in my view changed or became exciting.

Ever since I was released I feel as though the hospital time warp followed me home. It is surreal that five weeks have passed already, but the thought of another eight weeks has become the daily torture routine. Not so much physically. But emotionally the third trimester is draining. For thirty-two weeks now, I have daydreamed about the baby I have waited two long years for. I have fantasized about the moment he is born and he cries those sweet cries. The moment the nurses say "congratulations" and leave us alone in the room with our newborn. No oxygen masks. No NICU team. No neonatologists. Just a healthy baby boy, tuckered out from a journey into our lives and even further into our hearts.

I realized today, that over a year ago we fully expected our lives to change. Our family life would be different, and everything we did would have to be changed or altered in one way or another. And it did. Just not in the way we expected it to. We do have children prior to the life and death of Savannah. I acknowledge and would never pretend that I know what it is like to loose my first born. I do know what it is like to hold a newborn, and bring that healthy baby home. But I cannot wait to experience it all over, having had those sweet memories erased by the tragedy of infant death.

A baby band-aid is what our Davis will be. You cover the open wounds and it heals. But your skin will never be the same. Most likely there will be a scar. Sometimes not noticeable to the naked eye, but it's there. In anticipating my band-aid being laid on my heart, the days seems longer, and the seconds pass slower.

But as I look at my three living breathing children, I cannot help but only want this moment. Because here soon, for the second time, our lives will change forever.