Tell me about that day I was born.

Eleanor turned 3 this week.  I hate that her birthday so closely follows Christmas, but we do our best to make it special.  After surviving the holidays without too much heartache I plunged right into party planning.  E wanted a rainbow theme, so we ordered brightly colored balloons, ate cupcakes arranged in a rainbow pattern, and hung streamers from everything.  It was bold, fun and lighthearted.  Just the perfect 3 year old party!

Everything about her party and birthday was fun and we celebrated with lots of blissful smiles.  We were about to sail right through the end of the year.  That was until E asked, "Mommy, tell me about that day I was born."  I love to tell Eleanor the story of her birthday about as much as she loves hearing it.  It's often a bedtime routine, but for one reason or another (likely because God knew my heart couldn't handle it) she hasn't asked me to tell it since Amelia was born.  That was, until her birthday.

I froze.  I had no idea it would hurt so much to think over the details of Eleanor's first day in this world.  Her story is similar to Amelia's in a lot of ways... it starts as a normal day, an unexpected trip to the hospital, an emergency (my placenta detached with Eleanor) and then the stories diverge.

It was the first time I had thought of their birthdays at the same time.  I remembered the hospital room when E was born and her beautiful cry.  Dave remembers the hospital room when Amelia was born and the deafening silence.  I remembered E's warm red cheeks that caught my tears of joy and then thought of Amelia's cold cheeks soaked with tears of sadness.  But most painfully I remembered Eleanor's eyes.  I have always ended her birth story by telling Eleanor that I looked deep into her beautiful blue eyes while she looked back at me and I fell in love.  I have no similar memory in Amelia's story.  I've looked at her pictures for hours willing those eyelids to flutter open and flash, just for a second, eyes that say, "I need you.  I love you."  But I have never seen my second daughter's eyes.

I dream about the day I get to heaven.  I imagine holding Amelia in front of me as tightly as I can without hurting her.  And I imagine staring deep into her eyes.  I have never longed for anything more.  But for now I have only one set of eyes that watch me closely.  For now I must cry only for a little while, wipe my tears and tell E the story she deserves to hear with joy.  She needs to see that it's ok to miss someone.  It's ok to not understand and it's ok to trust God knows what he's doing even when we can't see.