Jeff and I just took a long weekend to go up north and visit his sisters.  It was wonderful to get away, but from time to time I did find myself despondent about all of the things we would never do with Emma.  She would never ride the speedboat with us, or jump on the water trampoline, or go fishing with Jeff.  I'm trying to balance those thoughts with some gratitude for the things we did experience in her short time.

I'll never know the color of her eyes.  How ridiculous is that?  There are basic things we should know as parents...length, weight, hair color, eye color, and I'll never know one of those things.  I was very upset about that in the hospital, and Jeff said, "They can be whatever color you want them to be.  I like to think she has your eyes."  It was a sweet sentiment, but I didn't want to guess.  I still don't.  I want to know for a fact.  Even though I'll never know the color of her eyes, I know she had dark, curly hair.  She had my nose and Jeff's mouth, my feet and his ears.  She had my nail beds.  I was fascinated by that.  Such a small thing, but she had the longest nail beds.  She was perfection.

I'll never see her walk or crawl or turn the wrong way in her first ballet recital.  She'll never use the play sets that now sit on shelves in the basement.  But I felt her move within me for months.  Her own ballet of turning, kicking, and punching.  We had dance parties in the car together.  When she grew weary, she would park herself in the upper part of my right rib cage.  Such a stubborn child, I could never get her to move.  What I would give to have that discomfort again.

I'll never hear her laugh or cry or hiccup or say her first word.  But I was able to hold her and touch her and smell her sweet scent.  Skin softer than any rose petal, hands that I was able to grasp in my own.  Jeff and I each changed her diaper and swaddled her.  I held her in my arms and kissed her and cried to her and told her all of the dreams I had for her - for us.

My time with Emma was sickeningly brief.  It was a blink of an eye.  But it was something.  I was able to say things I needed to say and make sure she knew how loved she was.  The things that will never be will never be, and I can't change those.  I am grateful for the things that were, however insignificant they may seem.