…I watched another woman give birth to the baby she intended to place in our home. We had met her and her husband a week or so earlier. I could get the exact details on the timeline, but I’m too chicken to delve back into my old posts and journals. The mother was adamant that she would follow through and place her baby with us. FlyGuy and I tried to be guarded, but hope won out and when the baby didn’t come home with us, we were devastated, shocked, worn out, hurt, wounded, isolated, and more…

…but that didn’t happen until a few days after the birth. On this day, one year ago, 2 people were in the delivery room waiting for a third to appear. It feels like it happened yesterday, the mother and me in that strangely dark delivery room, watching the fetal heartbeat, knowing we both loved and hated each other for the things we had that the other wanted. I feel strangely connected to this family/child because I witnessed her birth. I saw and held her before her own father and mother. I brought Chinese food to the delivery room because the mother had a craving. I tried to comfort her while she cried and told me this was my baby. She was wrong, it wasn’t.

I imagine they are celebrating their daughter’s first birthday today. Are they thinking of me, the woman who was in the room during the birth. They always knew so much more about us than we did about them. Is our profile still in their home, hidden in a drawer or the back of a closet, a testament to the the mistake they ALMOST made? Maybe we have been forgotten, pushed so far to the back of their minds it seems like a bad dream that they once chose another family to raise their daughter.

I’ve been present at 3 births, none of them mine. All of them are permanent parts of my memory, permanent parts of me. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have those memories because they are concrete reminders that I have a huge physical flaw. I can’t do that myself. I can’t give birth. I can only watch.

I’ve finally committed to writing a post every day and have lived up to the commitment for the past 10 days. Suddenly, for the first time in EggsBA history, my posts are randomly deleting themselves (or I’m going crazy, thinking I posted when I didn’t.) I’m almost positive I posted something about my attempt at organizing my coffee table drawer and Little Lassie’s closet yesterday, but that post is gone from my dashboard, archives, drafts etc. Did I really post it or just write it and accidentally delete it before sending?

I’m about to press the publish button on this post. If this post is not on EggsBA tomorrow, I’ve been robbed and my participation in NaBloPoMo: 30 Posts in 30 Days is wrecked. Lets say it together: Annoying.

“Ivery man needs ah uuuseliss hobba” FlyGuy likes to say when I complain about his current useless hobby, roasting coffee. He’s always been a coffee snob and earlier this year he took it to a new level when he bought green coffee beans and a roaster so he could “experiment” until he found the perfect roast/bean combo. A large drawback to this hobby is, the roaster produces copious amounts of smoke when in use. FlyGuy hooks a clothes dryer hose to the unit and vents it out the window as best as he can, but the house remains filled with the smell of roasting beans for days. (This randomness is going somewhere, trust me.)

FlyGuy roasted yesterday for the first time in a few months and I was suddenly taken back to the time when Little Lassie was transitioning into our home. We bought the roaster a week before meeting Little Lassie and FlyGuy was roasting up a storm during the transition and early placement. I didn’t realize until yesterday that my mind connects the smell of the beans with those bittersweet memories.

I’ve heard the sense of smell is the strongest memory trigger and after yesterday, I believe it. I’m grateful to have such a visceral connection to those first weeks as a family. I feel like I’ve been given the gift to travel back in time to the most important days in our lives.

Overwhelming. Amazing.