Every Second, Every Hour

Before I knew I was pregnant, I knew.


In June of 2014, I packed my bags and headed to a three-day conference for teachers in another part of the state.

While there, I went to dinner with my co-workers at a steak restaurant.  That night, I had my last drink.

It had been barely a few weeks since my son was conceived.  I hadn't even taken a test  or missed a period at that point, but I was hopeful.

Two weeks later, my best friend showed up at my apartment with a box of EPT.  Aside from the birth of my son and the fourteen weeks and one day that followed, that was the happiest time of my life.

The next ten months were difficult, to say the least.  From the beginning, Camden was a handful. From July to October, I lived with my head in the toilet.  I even threw up in the bathroom of a local restaurant once, while my student waited for our lunch order to be delivered.  We had spent the morning presenting projects at the local Farmer's Market, and afterwards, I treated her out for all her hard work.

I spent that morning working to conceal my pregnancy from my students and coworkers.  I was conscientious of what I ate and drank around them, and always knew where the nearest restroom was located.

The following week, he became too difficult to hide.  At four and a half months, I announced my pregnancy.  Actually, it wasn't that much of an announcement.  Those closest to me had known for a while, and most of my students had already figured it out.  From that moment forward, he was all I could think about. And all I could talk about.  I know many of you quickly grew annoyed with my almost hourly comments, but I was thrilled to become a mother, and for that, I will not apologize.


My life changed even before I knew he existed.  I became a better woman, someone I hoped my son would be proud of.

I still strive to be that woman today, even though he is no longer looking up at me, and is, instead, looking down over me.

I have fallen short of being that individual, and it haunts me every second of every hour.  I want to continue to be a good mother to Baby CJ, but my hurting heart has allowed me to become bitter, angry, and hateful.  I can't stand to see pregnant women or women with young children.  I'm selfish and undeserving of the happiness, joy, and peace he brought to me.

I pray, daily, to ask God to heal me and my soul. I know that it is a process.  One that I hope no one else ever has to endure. But it seems that it won't come. Every day is more painful than the last.

I worry that I will not remember the sound of his squeals, his smiles, or even his poopy grunts (my favorite, and those that I wish I had caught on camera).

Since he passed, my mother has talked of all the blessings to come. She keeps suggesting that maybe, the next time around, I'll have twins.  But today, reality hit me hard.  She said "You will have to love him/her for who they are. You can never replace Chubby Chubby," which is the nickname she affectionately gave her first, and only, grandson.

There is a hole in my heart, in who I am.  It is one that will never be filled completely.  For every second of every hour of every day to come, there will be an emptiness.  Even when I have another child, in due time, the void will still be there.  It aches.  And it's not just a dull throbbing.  It's a pain that comes in waves, each one strong and unyielding, sweeping me up and crashing over my head.  Just when I've found my way back to the surface, the next one comes rumbling in.

I'm not sure when I'll find my footing again.  I am no longer who I am without changing diapers and burping a baby.  I still find myself doing the things I did for my son, like rolling down his window when I'm in the car alone and singing to him at the stoplights.

I have to discover who I am again.  I became anew with the promise of a child to love, care, protect and provide for.  Now, I have to change who I was for who I was meant to be.