Yesterday I sat in a dark room, nervously waiting as the doctor tried to find you. She found a small black circle and zoomed in on the screen and my breath caught in my throat.
"There's the heart, already beating," she explained as she pointed to a small white spot, flashing quickly. "Still too small to hear but we didn't expect to see the heartbeat yet so this is good."
I was crying at this point, tears of absolute joy, as I watched your heart, still only two tiny chambers, beating so quietly inside me that the sonogram couldn't register it above my own blood flow. But it was beating. It didn't matter that I couldn't hear it. I could see it, and that was more than enough.
From the moment I found out about you, I was scared. Scared I would lose you, afraid I would never hear that heartbeat. The fear is still there, but it's not overwhelming. It's small and insignificant. Overshadowed by the complete joy I felt when I saw your tiny little heart flashing on that screen.
I won't hear that sweet sound of life for another few weeks. I won't feel you move inside me for months. Your Daddy won't feel you fluttering inside me for even longer. And we won't get to hold you in our arms for eight long months. But it doesn't matter how long we wait. The joy you bring us as you're nestled inside me, safe, warm, and completely loved, is more than I need.