No one remembers our babies. At least not until someone in the family gets pregnant. Then its “don’t tell Stephanie” or “How do I tell her without hurting her” or “I don’t want to remind her that she lost a baby. She’s so fragile about the ‘incident’.”

NEWS FLASH: I don’t need your pregnancy announcement to remind me that I lost two babies!

I think about them every day. I can tell you exactly how old they should be. I can tell you exactly what we should be doing today. Today is Saturday about 6:30 in the morning. Kayda would be 6 years old and Matthew would be a year and a half. I would have a kindergartner in school and a preschooler. My husband and I should be woken up on a Saturday in September by kids jumping on the bed asking for breakfast. The laundry would be piled up, dishes in the sink, and the bathroom in need of a good scrubbing. But instead, the kids and us would be getting up and getting breakfast and maybe watching a few Saturday morning cartoons before heading to the library to get a few books, then onto a grand Saturday adventure. Maybe a short hiking trip to the waterfall to swim since its still hot out or taking the dogs to the dog park. Its September, so there’s bound to be a few fall festivals around. The kids love all the free stuff and music at festivals. After spending the afternoon outside, we’d be coming home, getting baths and dinner, and curling up on our bed, all of us, the kids, the dogs, and the cats and watching a movie before bedtime. Then we’d divide and conquer. He’d put one of them to bed and I’d put the other. We’d read a book then tuck them in, then get stern with them when they ask for their umpteenth glass of water. Turn out the light. My husband and I would lay down and hold each other and fall asleep with our perfect family of four wrapped up safe and sound behind the walls of our house.

I see our children so clearly. Both have round faces, Kayda with long thick brown hair like mine but has her father’s curls and deep brown eyes; Matthew with his baby fat rolls still on his arms and legs, a little round stomach, and those same dark eyes his daddy and sister have.  They are both so happy. So loved. So wanted. They both love to be in the back yard with the dogs, love going to the pet store to see all the animals, and can have extended conversations with our bird. Matthew loves the firetrucks we pass on the way to the store. Kayda loves to read. Their personalities are similar but very different. Kayda learned to walk and talk early, while Matthew is a great runner but lets his sister do most of the talking, not because he can’t but because she can. Kayda comes home from school every day to tell us about a new friend or to give us a painting she drew in art for the front of the fridge. Matthew plays with his dinosaur toys and watches Jurassic Park about 50 times a day and begs to watch football with daddy and his “uncles” on the fantasy football days. My children are happy, excited….alive. Here.

This is the dream. This is not my reality. This is my nightmare. Every. Single. Night. I have that dream. Then every morning, I’m awakened by the alarm and for the briefest of seconds, I wait to hear the pitter patter of feet. Then it dawns on me. I am awake. The laundry is piled up, there are dishes in the sink, and the bathroom is in need of a good scrubbing. But I am getting up and getting ready for work. Shower…dry hair…put clothes on…find keys, badge, and purse. Drive to work, stopping for a coffee with an extra shot of espresso because the exhaustion has set in already. Exhaustion not from being a full-time working mom, but from spending another night in a dream that will never be. Exhaustion at fighting my own demons. Exhaustion from pretending to be a-OK all the time. No matter the children we will hopefully have one day, there are still a couple of puzzle pieces missing.

The truth is that I am OK. I have accepted the reality. I don’t live in an alternate universe, at least not while awake. I live a mostly full life. This doesn’t mean that I don’t still grieve my children though. It just means that I am living in a world where I am a childless mother and the only two people in the world that seem to remember this on a daily basis are my husband and I. The rest of the world does not remember. And that’s OK. They don’t have to. I know if Kayda and Matthew were here with us they would be so loved and cherished by all their aunts, uncles, grandparents, and especially their cousins. But they didn’t know these children. Only I and their father do. We remember them every “birthday”, every miscarriage day. Every mother’s day. Every Father’s day. Every anniversary of the day we found a positive on the pregnancy test. Every time I walk past the cabinet where I have their pictures discreetly displayed. Every time I run into the pack of nursery rhyme books in a random box that my husband bought for Kayda before we knew that she wouldn’t survive my whole pregnancy. Every time I see a post about a child on Facebook or a baby in the store. Every time I get a baby shower invitation. But I plaster a smile on my face, tell my babies I love them and go about my life. I accept the reality I live in.

But I still have feelings of shame and guilt. Not so much over my losses anymore and the could haves, should haves, and would haves that that I obsessed over for months and months after their deaths, but over the feelings of envy, jealously, and even anger towards the women that are experiencing the life I should have had. Then I feel guilt and shame and anger at myself for feeling that way, even subconsciously, towards them. But these women don’t know that I feel that way and I’d like it keep it that way. They don’t deserve it. THEY have a RIGHT to be happy. To celebrate. And I have the right to be happy for them and celebrate too. And I am, honestly. I would never wish this life on another person. Not even my arch nemesis, the girl who made my life hell in high school. I could never hope that another mom goes through life this way. So I push all that guilt and anger and jealously and sadness away. I push it down. I put that smile on my face and I go to the baby shower. I love the baby when she or he is born. I celebrate the life that is beginning. All while constantly keeping my children relevant in my heart and my mind.To the expecting mom, please don’t push away your joy in hopes of sparing my feelings. There are no feelings to spare, because you see, despite the extreme joy and happiness that you are feeling, you experiencing these does not bring to the surface my pain and anguish. Those are there daily already. Allow me to celebrate with you, even if only in spirit. Please understand that I AM so happy for you. It might be hard for me to come to your baby shower, or stay through the whole thing. But it won’t be hard to love you and your baby. Maybe ask your guests not to ask me when my husband and I will have children. It makes things awkward for me. I never know how to answer.

Please don’t treat me with kid gloves. I am not a child. I am a grown woman who identifies as a Childless Mother. I can handle what you throw, your happiness…your baby.  It will never be worse than what fate as thrown at me.