It all started with a doll...

A little stuffed doll with no plastic on its arms or legs. Just a cotton stuffed doll with orange braids made out of thick, coarse yarn. She smelled just like my great grandma, Florence. It was a gift from her. I remember after she passed away, I put this doll in a plastic bag because I wanted to save the smell of her. I hid her in my bedroom closet behind my clothes that were hanging up. And every so often, I would take the doll out and wrap its body around my nose taking in the scent of my great grandma. The smell grew fainter and fainter, until finally, she started to smell just like the rest of my closet.

I'm afraid that one day, I will forget. Right now, the scent is so strong. I can physically feel my heart hurting. I can look at my body and see the product of 3 pregnancies in one year. I can look at my bedroom and recollect every moment. I have baby books and little gifts from people from each announcement of our newest addition. I have ultrasound pictures of each baby but the first. I remember the shirt my husband was wearing the night we first miscarried and the day we found out we had lost our third. I have bruises on my stomach from the daily shots I was taking. The lump in my throat has become my constant companion. I remember ever meal that has been delivered, every gift of sympathy that has been given. But most of all, I remember the connection I had with each baby.

Baby number one, there was an unabandoned excitement..a constant touching of the stomach with happy fingers and huge smiles...there was the nightly prayers for health and its future...there were conversations between Scott and myself about our greatest hopes for this child and our biggest fears for the new territory we would be crossing into called parenthood.

Baby number two, there was a secret and quiet love. The protective yet tentative touch of my hand to my stomach, asking my baby to just quietly and quickly make it through the first trimester. There was not nearly as many prayers, for fear that our expectations would get too high and we would be crushed in the end. But when we prayed, we told the Lord that we accepted whatever path we were heading down. This time, we gave the baby to the Lord before we took it as our own. As afraid as we were of it, we still connected. How could we not? I remember my husband sitting crumbled on the bathroom floor as we lived through another miscarriage crying out to God and asking him, WHY?!? I remember seeing this baby...and I remember the overwhelming amount of love I felt even though as quickly as I said hello, I was saying goodbye.

Baby number three, there was a sense of hope and determination of love. My hands met my stomach with a strong and powerful touch, as if I was trying to protect my little one while begging him to stay strong. Every day, we chose to celebrate the time we had and desperately hoped that this day would not be the last. I remember talking daily to our baby. I remember getting the baby books back out from hiding and reading out loud to my husband as we celebrated the arrival of its fingers, eyelids, ears. I remember laughing the first time we heard the heart beat. I remember walking a little taller knowing that my little guy was as determined as I was.

I don't want to look back and forget. I don't want to lose the scent of my babies. I am so afraid that this will go away. As much as I hate the lump that is always in my throat, I am afraid that one day, it will be gone. That one day, I will forget what it was like to feel what I felt. To see what I saw.

I want to be able to move forward, but I dont want to move on. I want to have a smile on my face and see a bright future, but I dont want to leave this deep sadness, because it is what connects me to my little souls.

I just don't want to let go. I am afraid that one day, I will go into my closet and find the little dolly and it will only remind me of the closet it has sat in for so many years.