It all worked out.

"See, it all worked out in the end, right?"

Really? It all "worked out?" Because I still have two dead babies. And nightmares. And flashbacks. And two urns. And memories.

And, of course, a beautiful, adorable baby to cuddle-but does that mean that it never happened?

Yesterday I spent lounging around my house in my pjs. Gave A a bath, took a nap while she did, cuddled.

But there, in the back of my mind-the date. August 7th. My due date for the twins. Once I put A in her bassinet for the night, I cried myself to sleep. Thinking; remembering.

Every night we take a walk around the neighborhood. I push A in the stroller, B walks the dog. We talk. We smile. We laugh. We dream.

To someone who doesn't know us, we must look like we have it all. A nice house, good jobs, a cute dog, a sweet baby. Two teachers off in the summer, taking care of their new little one.

"She's beautiful!"
"She's a keeper."
"You must be just so happy."
"I'm so glad it all worked out for you."

And we DO have so much. We ARE so blessed. We pretty much DO have it all. But, there's more. More to that story.

I guess I should have known better. I guess I maybe thought that once she was here I wouldn't have to be afraid of leaving the house for fear of what people would say to me. After the twins were born, I didn't want to talk to anyone. While pregnant with A, I would make my husband go through the line at stores after a while for fear of all the "Is this your first?" questions.

I guess I'm still tender. I guess I'm maybe not as far as I thought in my grieving. I guess it might always be there-the little voice in the back of my head-the bitter one-the one that corrects what everyone says inside my head instead of aloud.

I guess I will admit that I really thought once she was here I would be "cured." I started to believe what my friends told me-that she would fix the pain.

I guess I'm still grieving.