“You’re going to miss it, you’ll see,” she said to me, both of us sitting Indian style on my bed. My midwife grinned at me and I shrugged, “I think I love the belly so much because my baby is in there, I’m not bonded to the belly, but to the baby.”

She nodded, but went on to say that I was beautifully bonded to this pregnancy, that it and I agreed with each other so well, how I glowed and absently placed my hand wherever I felt a squirm, that I would probably miss just being pregnant. I was good at it, and she said frequently in those early months women adore their babies, but sometimes miss the intimacy of pregnancy, and she thought I’d be one of them.

Ten months later.

“I want you to start talking to them.” We’d heard about each other for months, but this midwife and I had just met. And it was as wonderful as it should be when two people who are good for each other meet. Her comment mentally stopped me in my tracks. I thought about my words for the last half hour.

“This.” (pointing to the belly)

“If we make it that far.”

“Now.” (more pointing)

“These.” (a glance downward)

“We hope.”

“Them.” (still more pointing)

I hate it that I don’t look at the Peppers like I looked at Joel. I hate it that I had to be reminded to talk to them. She was right, I don’t talk to them. And then I tried, and the first words out of my mouth were, “Do you talk to your brother? Is he here?”

(Drop head into hands)

I’m working on it. I am trying to believe that they will be babies. Real live babies who will come and live in my house and cry and wake me up at night in the bed where their brother was born. Babies who will live here on earth and need me and be able to tell me they love me. Babies who won’t go away.

I cannot describe for you how terribly, terribly hard this is.

Because the whole time I am racked with guilt that they aren’t getting the best of me. That I am not gushing over them and cooing when they wiggle and poking their feet when they stick me in the side. That they might think I love him more than them. That he might think I love them more than him. That I am not bonding to them like I bonded to him. That I am screwing this up. Again.

And because there are two of them it is both easier and harder. Easier because they are so unlike Joel. Harder because I don’t know how to give them individual attention. Already.

I try, and am trying harder all the time. Trying to balance the three of them, to love them all in their own way, to give them each what I hope I am supposed to give them. I talked to them a lot this weekend, focused on figuring out who was hanging out where and giggling at their wiggles.

I talked to Joel too, and in an instant I knew he wanted me to mother them. How can I make you understand what a revelation that was?

So here I am, trying to balance my kids just like the rest of you. Only I’ve got one in heaven I know pretty well, one in heaven I never had a chance to know and two in my belly that I just realized I need to try to get to know. Now pile on the world’s most amazing husband who is currently at an unknown location trying to nurse his body and mind through tasks that would drop pretty much all of us, a business to run and a blog I’m pretty good at neglecting. I constantly feel like my scales are out of balance.
Funny thing though, I just can’t stop this feeling that I really, truly have it all.
And having it all means I'm way too busy counting my blessings to worry about balancing the scales. Something tells me if I just keep counting they will balance themselves.