Fourteen years ago, my heart was broken. Our first child, a baby girl we named Grace, was born still on a rainy morning in May. My wife, Kerry and I were thrilled to be expecting. We kept a journal; we played our favorite music and read to her. We were excited, yet naïve that anything bad would happen.
Like most people who live in the Midwest, the green of spring makes me excited to finally say goodbye to winter and hello to some color and fresh air. But spring also brings painful memories, memories that always lie just below the surface, into sharper focus.
Eleven years ago my husband and I were expecting our first child.
Every day during her third trimester, without fail, Katie counted the kicks of her unborn son.
He was an active baby that was always on the move, until one day Katie noticed that within the normal hour it took to usually get ten kicks, she only got four.