When I was in primary school, a friend gave me an autograph book.  I thought it was great fun to get all my friends and family to sign it and write a little message.  Most of them were silly rhymes or jokes, but there was one message I still remember.  It was from my Dad.  He wrote, “To my second red-headed daughter and nicest Christmas present I’ve ever had.  Love Dad.”  He was referring to the fact that I came home from hospital on Christmas Day.

Something about those words from my father spoke very powerfully into my young heart.

I still find it hard to understand exactly why that message was so precious to me.

Maybe it was simply because they were words of affirmation that were written down for me to keep. 

Written words endure.  They carry the weight of intention.  We know that the person wrote them deliberately, so they somehow mean more.  We have evidence of being loved, special, cherished.

Perhaps it was the idea of being somebody’s gift that resonated with me.  And not just any gift, but a Christmas gift!  To a child, Christmas presents are really exciting.  And not just any old Christmas gift, but the nicest one ever?  Really?  Could that be true?

My Dad is very much a present person.  He would always buy extravagant gifts for all of us, but especially for my Mum.  Each birthday and Christmas she was showered with expensive lingerie and nice perfume or dresses that cost a week’s wages, even when we couldn’t afford it.  Then she would model the new clothes and we would all join in with admiring comments, while Dad said something appreciative like, “Whackydoo!”  From his actions, it was clear Dad thought that presents were important.  Gift giving is definitely one of his ‘love languages’.  So being called a present by my Dad was a poignant expression of love.

The idea that children are a gift is not a new one.

It dates back to ancient times.  The Hebrew Scriptures say, “Children are a gift from the Lord.  They are a reward from him.”  Harsh words for anyone going through recurrent miscarriage or infertility, but the part about children being a gift, that bit I can relate to.

Last year on my birthday I unexpectedly discovered I was pregnant. 

My one-year-old had just weaned herself and we had plans to go out with friends for karaoke, so for the first time in almost two years I was looking forward to having a few drinks and letting my hair down.  I also knew it was technically possible, but extremely unlikely, that I could have fallen pregnant recently.  Just to rule it out, I did a pregnancy test.  I almost passed out when I saw a feint line appear in the positive window.

For so many women, seeing that line would have been a source of joy – a gift, even.  But for me, pregnancy is scary.  I’ve been pregnant nine times and have two children.  I’ve had far more sad endings than happy ones and some of my experiences have been unusually traumatic.  So when I found out I was pregnant, the overwhelming emotion was one of fear and anxiety, of feeling incredibly vulnerable, while still wanting to be hopeful.

At the time, I didn’t tell my family – I didn’t want them to be anxious for the next twelve weeks.  So I kept my feelings to myself and went about my day as if nothing had happened.  I had lunch with my parents, I went out as planned but drank mineral water – (not what you need for karaoke!) – and I made a passable show of trying to be relaxed, while on the inside I was stressing about how I would get my hands on the specialist medications I needed before the looming Christmas break.

In spite of my worries, the pregnancy went smoothly.  At thirteen weeks, we had a very thorough scan in which we were told that the pregnancy could now be considered low risk.  I started to believe we were having another baby.  I started to change my plans for the New Year and make new ones around the baby.  I started picturing my family with three kids and wondering how on earth I would get dinner cooked every evening with my husband on night shift and a toddler and a newborn hanging off me.  I started telling my friends we were expecting again.  Then at a routine check-up, just before sixteen weeks, there was no heartbeat.  Later that night, I was giving birth.  And for a few minutes, there was a tiny, purple, perfect little boy, wrapped up in a blanket on my bed.  And then he was gone.

Lost.

“I lost a baby.”

So here’s the thing.  I don’t want Alexander’s life just to be an accident.  A mistake.  A regret. 

When I think or speak of Alexander, I think or speak of loss.  But when I think or speak of my other, living, children, I think of them as a gift.  When really the only difference is the amount of time I got to keep them for.  If Caillie or Molly died tomorrow, I hope that I would still consider their lives to have been a gift to me.  So I hope that one day I can see Alexander like that too; as a precious gift, not just as a loss, because every baby deserves to loved, special, cherished.

Right now, it still hurts too much, but one day I hope I can write:

“To Alexander, my second son and the best birthday present I ever had…”

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