To my dear first baby:
Today is the day you were due to make your entrance into the world. It's a bittersweet day for me: I am at once sad, thinking of you and what might have been, and at the same time joyful because your brother or sister is kicking away inside me. It's a strange mixture of things to feel.
I wonder who you were, who you would have been, if you would already be here with us or if we'd still be waiting impatiently for you to arrive. I wonder what (and who) you would have looked like. I feel in my heart that you are a girl, which seems strange to me because I have absolutely no intuition about what gender this second baby is. Maybe that's part of how I have unknowingly protected myself against the hurt I felt over losing you.
I know that you are in heaven with Jesus, and with all of our loved ones who have passed away. I like to think that your Great Granddad is threatening to "rock" you to sleep by going out in the yard and getting a big rock to do it with (all the while winking and joking around and generally making you laugh), and that your Great Grandma is giving you tasty things to eat and giving you big hugs. That your Great Grandpa Big Al is teaching you something interesting and taking you with him when he visits with all of his many friends. That your Great Grandma Pat is making you beach breakfast. That my mom's grandma, your Great Great Grandma, is giving you one of her bone-crushing hugs. That your Great Uncle Larry, and your cousin who was lost like you were, and your Great Uncles Glenn and Allan who died when they were babies, that all of these people, together with Jesus, are surrounding you and loving you as we would have if you were here with us.
I will always think of you on this day. In my mind and in my heart, it will be your day. I prefer it this way, to think of you on the day you might have been born and not the day we discovered you weren't going to live.
I can't remember who it was now (the time after we lost you is such a blur to me) but either Marci or Annie, I believe, told me of a vision they'd had of you, a beautiful blonde toddler, in Jesus' arms, waiting for me to arrive in heaven. When I arrived, you jumped out of Jesus' arms and ran to meet me and jumped into my arms.
That vision brings tears to my eyes, and I look forward with great anticipation to that day when I will get to hold you and to know you as I will get to hold and know your brother or sister in a few more months.
I'm not as sad as I think I could be today, mostly for two reasons: one, I know that I will get to know you in heaven, and two, that your brother or sister is on his or her way, and he or she could not have been if we had you. It is a weird thing to think, and sounds almost callous (I don't mean it in a callous way) but it's the truth, and it helps me to feel happier today than I could have otherwise.
I love you, and I will be thinking of you, especially today, and on this day every year.