It’s been almost two years.

I haven’t written in a while.

In fact, it’s been almost two years.

But every year I pay to own the rights to thinkingofsam.com

Even if no other words were to be written here, it’s my place for him. 

Which is why I’m here now.

I’m pregnant again.  Fourth time.

And only those closest to me know that I’m having a hard time connecting with this pregnancy.

Maybe because for the first three months, I was really sick.

Nineteen weeks and thankfully, I seem to be rounding that corner of pregnancy. (Fingers crossed)

I’m ready for our 20-week anatomy scan.

I’m hoping it makes it more real, seeing baby in 3D.  Spending extra time with my Doctor going over every inch of baby’s body.  Maybe soon baby Newton will start to move.  How I long for those kicks.

I feel a wild sense of peace this pregnancy.

Maybe because Norah keeps me on my toes.

Maybe because I’m more centered than I have ever been.

Maybe because it’s been six years since Sam died.

I couldn’t prepare Norah’s room when I was pregnant with her.

I was too scared.

But I’m ready now.

To take the leap to prepare for this baby’s arrival.

I’m hoping it will help me feel connected to the life growing in me.

Preparing for this baby means letting go, too.

Of Sam’s bedroom furniture.

It’s a choice I’ve made, but not lightly.

I told my sister-in-law over the weekend that I feel guilty for even entertaining the thought.

But it’s something I need to do to make a special place for the special one growing here, now.

I don’t want anyone who reads this to tell me that I can just use Sam’s furniture for this baby.

I COULD.

But I don’t want to.

I couldn’t with Norah.  She needed her own.

And this baby does, too.

But there’s still guilt hoovering over my choice.

Guilt and grief.

We packed up his entire room when we moved homes a few years ago.

I remember setting up his bedroom furniture in our new house and it felt like he still had a place here.

All we have left is a memory box with his things in our room, and his bedroom furniture.

It feels like a betrayal to sell it now.

But it feels necessary for my heart.

Another baby of mine can’t be placed in his crib.

I can’t fill the dresser with another baby’s clothes.

I can’t convert the crib to a toddler bed as another baby grows.

It will always be Sam’s to me.

$2,767 brand new if I were to buy it today.

Priceless in my heart.

And how do you price such a thing?

A bedroom suite that held so much hope.

A bedroom suite that held so much of my grief.

And how do I watch another family take it?

Six years later and it’s still a process – remembering, grieving, allowing myself to feel and trusting myself to let go.

It doesn’t get easier, you know.

Just different.

I’ve grown.

I’ve changed.

I am still better because Sam lived.

I’ve committed to selling Sam’s furniture and the furniture in my guest bedroom.

My high school furniture.

After we sell both, I plan to decorate the guest bedroom just the way I want.

And start making a physical space for the one whose heart beats alongside mine.

Placing my hope, yet again, in another baby.  Another room.  Another potential future.

Trusting myself and my body to grow this baby until it takes its first breath.

It takes a lot of courage that I sometimes don’t feel like I have.

Life after loss.

Pregnancy after loss.

But here we are.

Sam’s crib in his room, 2017.