My favorite spot in my house is the top of my stairs. After I put my girls down for their naps, I usually sit there and wait just in case someone needs me again. After my husband and I conquer bed time, I find my spot and wait for him to change out of his work clothes so we can binge watch tv. After I’ve had a difficult day filled with anxiety and depression, I sit there and take a breath before picking back up.

Then, there are days like today when I sit here and spot the fingerprints on the walls and the baby sock that has lost its way out of the drawer. I sit here and think about the babies I miscarried before finally having my two beautiful children.

I think about their first words.

I think about their little hands reaching for my face.

I think about their favorite books.

I think about the color of their eyes.

I think about whether they would be belly or tummy sleepers.

I think about whether they would want me to sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star or The Wheels on the Bus before bedtime.

I think about them.

I think about them and miss them.

I think about them and miss them and wish I could have held them.

And, I cry.

I cry for me.

I cry because they were mine.

I cry because I’m a mama without three of her babies.

And, then, after the tears have all fallen I remember that they’re with one another in heaven. They’re with Jesus.

And, I’m here sitting on these stairs waiting for the day I can hold them again.