So our doctor gives us an 85 percent chance that Baby Thompson is (drumroll please) a boy. He says 85 percent because he’s fairly sure he saw – and I quote – “a winkie” on the ultrasound at my last visit (love it when docs use those clinical terms), but baby was being modest and keeping those little legs shut tight, so he only got a glimpse.

Man, are we hoping the doctor is right about this one.

Not that we wouldn’t be thrilled with another girl. We would. I don’t know if our house – or our sanity – would survive it, but if that’s what God gives us, we’ll give it our best shot. And we’ll reinforce our home’s foundation. Just in case.

You see, for those of you unfamiliar with my sweet little Dixie family, we have two beautiful little girls – a seven-year-old redhead and a four (excuse me. I mean four-and-a half) year old blonde. As expected, the eldest is a typical first-child, Type A control freak (why no, I don’t think she takes after me – why do you ask?). Blondie, however, is not your typical laid back, mellow, go-with-the-flow second child. She’s a Diva. A capital D hardcore Diva.

And when Redhead Diva and Blonde Diva clash in our house (which happens at least once every 27 seconds), I do what any responsible mom does – pretend to get an important phone call and lock myself in the laundry room  firmly assert my Mommy Authority and get the situation under control quickly and calmly.

Yeah, right. Actually, I’ve found that duct tape really is the way to go in these situations. Masking tape just isn’t strong enough once they get past the terrible threes, y’know.

So the thought of adding one more headstrong, opinionated, assertive female to the household (oh, like we’d get anything else) is enough to make my dear hubby’s twitch even worse (funny, he didn’t have that twitch while we were dating). 

In two weeks, we should know definitively whether the estrogen-testosterone ratio in our home will be somewhat balanced come December, or whether we should throw in the towel and move the family to a steel bunker in an effort to simply survive until someone heads off to college.

Pray for us, people. Pray for us.

And the due date? The same date our little Jake was born into Heaven. God is good.

Eight weeks after the loss of our baby, we have closure on a few things that have helped so much. First, genetic tests revealed that the cause of our baby’s death was Trisomy 18. It’s a fatal disorder, with most babies not making it to birth – those that do almost never live long after birth and suffer from severe birth defects. We are grateful that our little one went straight to heaven and never suffered.

We also learned that our baby was a boy, and we’re so grateful for that knowledge. We’ve decided on a name – Carson Jacob – but we also decided that his nickname would be Jake. It’s a good old fashioned name that makes my dear knight smile every time he says it – he says it would sound good when pro sports broadcasters said it: “Here’s Jake Thompson taking the snap in the 2035 Super Bowl!” (Dads always seem to go straight to the Super Bowl for their proud dad fantasies, don’t they?)

This knowledge helps so much. I feel like I’ve passed through the fog of grief and emerged with God’s faithful promise of hope and peace lifting me up, encouraging me to go on, enjoy every moment I have with my princesses and look forward to the day when I can hold Jake in my arms. My heart is heavier, and until I can hold him, my arms will ache and never feel entirely full, but I am better. God’s love and His thoughtfulness in surrounding me with amazing friends have ensured that I am better. And I am grateful – thank you all for your love, prayers and support. They’ve all helped more than you will ever know.

Carson Jacob (Jake) Thompson

Born into Heaven

December 19, 2009