You gotta baby in your tummy mummy?

I sat on the floor in my parents guest bedroom in front of one of those floor to ceiling mirrors staring blankly at my emotionless self for what seemed like hours. I'd gone upstairs to sort boxes. It's been just under a month since we arrived back in the UK and still half our things are stashed bagged under beds or boxed in the garage. I was trying to find a turtte and a suspected missing Kate Spade bag and instead beneath summer clothes and endless piles of socks, my fingers wrapped round the tiny heart shaped black board I'd bought the day before we left Hoboken.

When I was pregnant with William I overlooked so many things I wish I'd done. I forgot to keep a pregnancy journal and never bothered taking photos of myself pregnant, so now, almost 4 years later, my big bellied self is all but a distant memory. Thankfully being a boy he probably won't care about those sorts of things so I'm OK.
Then Emma came along. I knew she was a girl from week 17 so straight away I started creating, what I hope one day she'll appreciate, a journal of my pregnancy and everything about what I was feeling or experiencing being pregnant. Photos, keepsakes, timelines, memories you name it. But somehow again, self conscious me forgot belly shots.

When I found out I was pregnant with baby #3, whether it be boy or girl, I wanted to make myself take belly shots. If this was going to be my last child, and pregnancy, I wanted to remember in years to come what it felt like, and remember what I looked like every week I was expecting.

Sitting in front of the mirror with my little chalkboard it felt odd. Look at me. Nothing's changed. I still look exactly as I did two weeks ago. And yet everything's changed. I can't hold the board up and scribble 13 weeks because there's nothing in there. Last week I was pregnant. This week, well, I'm just slightly podgy really.

It's been one week and I still keep asking myself, has this seriously just happened? After everything else I've been through recently. Really?
Leaving my life in Hoboken was possibly the hardest experience I've had to live through yet. Life there suited me, and leaving my friends, the town, New York and the States will always be, one of the saddest memories I have. You only have to mention the word Hoboken to get a tear out of me. But behind all the sadness and the hurt was this tiny silver lining of hope that 2013 would be a better year. Because regardless of what happened next year, I was pregnant. I was going to have another beautiful baby....

In the run up to Christmas it was easy to pretend like we where on holiday. The kids where easily amused by the decorations, lights and the growing number of presents under the tree which William could easily identify as his. They love being with Granny and Gaga and despite the horrible english weather and lack of outdoor activity they seemed settled.
Christmas came and went and I looked forward to New Year. 2013 would be better. I was sure of it.

But mother nature had other plans and on Saturday 29th December, one day shy of 12 weeks, I lost baby #3.

What followed this discovery was a week of NHS (National Health Service - or free crap half decent medical service for all my American friends) torture. Three days in hospital, half a dozen doctors- two who didn't speak any English- and New Years Day in the Critical Treatments Unit ward- because after 16 hours in A&E (ER) they had no idea where to send me. New Years Eve 2013 has a lot to live up to.

Now, a week later, I'm almost back to normal, expected to get on with things as before, and yet, i feel completely different. I'm not pregnant. There are so many emotions I have, and don't have that I feel completely overwhelmed to write anything down. I am almost speechless.
When Emma keeps running up to me giving me cuddles and poking me in the tummy saying' You gotta baby in there mummy', I have to keep a brave face, force back the tears and try make something up that will change the subject. She'll soon forget. Me, I'm not so sure.