I close the door. Peter Pan is a light sleeper.
And I turn. The opposite side of the hallway has two doors. An empty office for my husband's endless outdoor hobbies, and the bathroom.
Three doors are missing.
Three empty picture frames.
Three sets of fingers clutching their precious comfort item.
Three rounded cheeks my lips cannot kiss.
Three puckered mouths that have never uttered "mommy".
Everyone faces grief differently. And Mother's Day can become a very empty place. The remembering of lives that should have lived, but didn't. Consolations of "At least you have your two", "it all turned out okay in the end", and "God knew what He was doing"...they're all true. But they don't fill those three precious holes in my heart that went to Heaven one day and never came back.
Mother's Day is a celebration of who I am. But at times, I feel like I failed them. As if I could not protect them. I could not carry them to safety. I could not be...a mother.
But while the lie of miscarriage is rife with its reoccuring pangs of bitterness and grief, the truth that whispers in my ear every year, comes in the echoing voice of their daddy, who loved them as much as I did.
"Just imagine where our children are! Holding Jesus' hand, in complete security, spared the agony of evil and sin, blissfully protected and waiting for you..."
The three empty places in my heart are still there. They always will be there, waiting to be filled that day I arrive on Heaven's doorstep and their little feet trip and tumble and race to find me.
I am a mother of five. Some nights I travel the short jaunt down our dimly lit hallway, and before I peek into the chickadee yellow and pink flambe room, I blow kisses toward the sky. Good night, sweethearts. I'll see you in the morning.