on specificity, and the end of summer.

I never intended to start a blog.

I never intended to be a grieving mother either, so I suppose nothing is really going according to plan.

Growing up in a classic nuclear family with pretty awesome parents, I always figured I knew what my future would look like. The career piece was malleable, and like any teenager the “husband” role was always filled by the beau-of-the-moment in my daydreams, but a few things were resolute: I wanted to get married. I wanted to own a home with enough land to spend time outside and have a little garden. I wanted three or four children, and I wanted to stay home with them at least part time. In a way, I got everything I wanted.

I should’ve been more specific.

As life played out, I could see more clearly what it would become. I met my husband, and within a year we were surprised to welcome our oldest, Tate. We bought a fixer upper the following year, and got married a week before I turned 24. His career was taking off, and I was building a wonderful clientele as a hairstylist. We found out we were expecting our second, Dax, within months— it felt like everything was falling into place. At 35 weeks pregnant with him, I was in a head on collision with a drunk driver. The ambulance ride was hell; there was no way to check for his heartbeat, and I didn’t know he was okay until I saw him squirming on an ultrasound screen. The relief was palpable, and I remember thinking “I have no idea what I would’ve done if I lost him.”

Fast forward a few years, a whole home renovation, and a pandemic: I was pregnant again, after nearly a year of trying to conceive. This baby was so loved and longed for, and when we found out we were having a daughter we were OVER. THE. MOON. We went all out decorating the nursery, building a wardrobe (with so many bows!) and daydreaming about how our family dynamic would change with a baby sister in the picture. Aside from diet-controlled gestational diabetes, the pregnancy was easy, and she showed her feisty personality every step of the way. We named her Camellia Noelle, after the gorgeous flowers we had seen on a Valentines date to the botanical gardens; their beauty radiated through the cold winter temperatures, and we knew it would be a perfect fit for our December girl. Everything was perfect.

We didn’t make it to December.

I woke up with cramps on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Nothing unusual, as I always have Braxton-Hicks contractions with my pregnancies. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. We decided to head into the hospital, and by the time we got into the car, the contractions had turned into one, unrelenting, excruciating cramp. I later learned that this was my placenta abrupting. It was the worst pain I had ever felt, but it was nothing compared to “I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat”.

Her birth story is story for another day, but I can’t help but note the irony. I was in a car accident at 34w6d pregnant with Dax. I lost Camellia at 34w5d.

“I have no idea what I would’ve done if I lost him.”

Well, now I know.

I keep breathing. Even when its excruciating. I survive. I fight. I make candles. I try to make her proud.

Just when I think I’ve come out on the other side, I bury her baby brother right next to her. Another story for another day.

It’s relentless.

And yet, life goes on.

The older boys are starting school this week. Kindergarten and second grade.

It’s hard not to think about how quiet the house will be. Camellia should be getting into anything and everything— with the personality she displayed in utero, I have no doubt she’d be my first baby to climb out of the crib and color on the walls. We didn’t get to know Elliot nearly as much, but I’ve always pictured him as my sweet, gentle boy. He should be just starting to sleep more than three-hour stretches. If they were here, I’d be running on fumes, counting down the minutes until the bus whisked the big kids away for the day. Instead, I’m counting down the minutes until the house goes quiet. I should be home with the babies. Maybe I’ll go visit them at the cemetery instead.

Life doesn’t go according to plan. Sometimes, that’s the beauty of it.

Sometimes.. not.

So here I am. Married. Finishing up the last few projects on our fixer-upper, picking strawberries, cucumbers, beans, and tomatoes from our little garden. Running my own business, and still getting to be a stay-at-home-mom to four beautiful babies; two heading off to school, two buried side by side in a beautiful cemetery. And now writing a blog, I guess.

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