I think as I braid, my hands falling into a now familiar rhythm, fingers moving on their own. I think about how I pictured my life. I think of the children I pictured when I was pregnant. Little girls with long smooth hair and freckles. Chubby pink cheeks. Eyes like my mom's and the Loy lips to go along with them. The Norwegian bone structure from my father peeking out through the baby roundness. I wonder what my life would have been like. Who they would have been. Who I would have been if things had gone according to plan and if things had not gone wrong around 12 weeks. And then the next time around 6 weeks. Do I still grieve for them? For the me I could have been, still trusting that really bad things won't happen? Maybe. Sometimes I think of those little girls and long for them.
Then I look down at the straight rows emerging from my fingertips. I see the dark ringlets run riot in the next section to be braided. I feel a small pat on my foot from my first and now middle daughter. I hear the laughter coming from upstairs as my eldest and youngest race to see who can get their pajamas on first, and smile as I hear their feet thunder down the stairs. My life is different than I thought it would be. My children are not who I envisioned when I was picturing my future. But they are mine. And they are perfect. And when I look at them, I see my children... not who I was anticipating, but better than I ever could have imagined. And for that, I am oh so thankful.
