This morning, Westley asked, "Mommy, is there another baby growing inside you?"
"No, honey. Not yet."
His little face melted into a frown, and he started to cry. I tired to get him to tell me what was upsetting him, but he didn't want to - or couldn't - talk about it. It didn't matter. I knew. The adults who had been joyful and busy and liberally peppering their speech with the word "baby" are suddenly quiet and sad.
Today was the first day in several that I've felt really weighed down by sadness. My bleeding has slowed to almost nothing, and I had the strange realization while in the bathroom that I'm actually sad not to be passing clots anymore. Feeling those large pieces of uterine insides stretch my cervix open before slithering down and out was disturbing, and somehow, I miss it. The process of "emptying" is coming to a close.
At the same time that I feel not-quite-empty, I'm struck that I can feel so full of love for Westley. It's practically a physical sensation, a fullness behind my breastbone that feels like anxiety and heartbreak...in a good way.
Westley has curative properties. He's getting a too tall to cuddle easily in a chair with me, but we still manage, and it's magical to hold him. He's so strong and grown-up seeming - in a T-shirt and jeans, he looks like a miniature Rob - but his silky hair, delicate skin, and sweet smell all remind me that he's still very new. It wasn't that long ago that he was the baby growing inside me.