One year ago today I walked into work, doubled over in agony, and my water broke all over my cubicle. Two days later I delivered a healthy baby girl--at 17 weeks--way too early for a baby to survive outside the womb. We spread some of her ashes on a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
It's been a year, but that whole experience still seems really fresh. Especially because Jon and I are expecting again. And the timing is a little unsettling: This pregnancy is at nearly 17 weeks and the due date is two days before it was for that first pregnancy, October 30.
The last few months have been kind of rough; nonstop nausea, paranoia, trying to keep it a secret. You know, because there's nothing worse than having to take back good news.
We're taking it one day at a time.