Dear Little Boy,
Tomorrow is a day when we might meet you—or sometime this week. Either way, we have just a few days left until you are in our arms.
I hope you always know how much you are wanted and loved. How we’ve waited so long for you, in the midst of so much pain this past year and a half, your impending arrival was light shining through that tunnel of grief. We miss your twin brothers. We miss the lives they never got to have with each other and with us. It’s a strange feeling for a parent to know that one child wouldn’t be here if the other was, but it doesn’t diminish how we feel about you or them.
We are as ready as we can be to see you. I feel extra pressure to do this all “right” since we’ve had so much go wrong before, but I know that I’m in capable hands and I’ve done the best I can to prepare myself—no matter how you end up getting here. I simply want to leave with you, and your Daddy feels the same way. Our main goal is for you to be here safely. Your sister is beyond excited, tonight we put your car seat in and I thought she would explode with excitement. I’m pretty sure at this point she feels I will be this large permanently and unable to move quickly for the rest of my life.
We have dreams and plans for you already in our lives. We joke about never sleeping through the night again for quite a while. We wonder if you’ll have reflux like your sister, if you’ll love to be swaddled, if the infinite number of baby wearing devices I have will bring you comfort. I long to see your face, count your toes, hold you close to me, watch you sleep. There will always be a tug wondering what the twins would have been like—how close you all would have been in manner and looks—but even if the joy doesn’t void the grief, the grief also doesn’t void the joy.
You are loved. You are anxiously waited for. You have been prayed over from the time we knew you existed by more people than we will ever know. We can’t wait to meet you.
Daddy and Mama