When I was pregnant with Arthur, I was terrified after having our 18-week ultrasound. I wanted so badly to know if Arthur was going to be okay, that our little family was going to be fine.
Everyday that I am able to hold and kiss and drink in Arthur’s smell, I silently pray thanks to God for allowing my little boy to have safely arrived. And all those many months ago, when I desperately wanted it to be Arthur’s birthday so I could meet my second sweet son and be proven to that all was okay, I fantasized about what I had hoped for him: a group of visiting friends and family at the hospital to greet him after his birth, a big brother introduction, a sweet homecoming, a first walk in the stroller, his Baptism, a first Halloween costume. But I also imagined whose name I would put upon this–would it be a boy’s or a girl’s–and would everything be okay?
And apart from a little cold, all is well here with the littlest one, and Ian, too. We’ve got our hands full and the blog has suffered, but I’m OK with it. Hopefully I can muster up enough energy to come back here before several months have gone by, again.