Yesterday morning while I was in the shower thinking, thinking, thinking, thinking about the upcoming ultrasound, it occurred to me that it might make sense to throw up a prayer or two, just in case. So many other people have been praying for us and the babies, it seemed wrong of me not to too.
So I tried. I really did. I mentally fumbled around trying to order my thoughts, trying to find words that sounded sincere - trying to convince myself and God that I actually believed that those mumbled, half-hearted prayers might actually make a difference.
But I'll let you in on a little secret: I didn't believe it at all, and I'm sure God knew that right from the first stupid word that fell out of my mouth.
The thing is, I just can't muster the energy to pray for all this to end well. I can't bear to beg God for one more thing that I know he can't or won't fix.
I figure if I don't ask him to make this pregnancy magically turn into a healthy, viable one, I can't be disappointed when I inevitably miscarry. If I don't ask, I can't get hurt. Again. I can't rage against him if I didn't ask him for anything in the first place.
After Thomas died I begged - absolutely begged - God to never let me lose another child. I was very clear on that point. I said I never ever wanted to be pregnant again if I wasn't going to take that healthy, live child home with me. I thought that was a very reasonable request, and one that I think should have been easy for him to grant.
And look where it got me. I'm waiting to miscarry not one, but two more babies.