There are a great many things I write about on a daily basis (mascara and coffee possibly topping the list), but there have always been a few subjects that are off limits. Previously, this was matters of health or somatic kvetching… but now I have a tremendous community of lung-sick friends and lame-organ counterparts that brings support, solace and humor to an otherwise sticky situation. I also used to never talk about the dark sides of my past relationship, which (save for a few elucidations and vagaries of yore), still holds firm. But if there is one thing I never imagined myself being open and honest about it’s the following: wanting to have another baby.
The best belly shot I have: only a few weeks before I had my second!
If any men are reading this right now (I somewhat doubt it, since my web serve is powered by estrogen and glitter), feel free to avert your eyes immediately. I’m not sure how many of you have felt the burning ember of innate mommahood- an instinct as clear as “fight or flight” or “falling head first”- compelling you towards parenting. I have felt this twice already in my lifetime, and both times my pregnancies were far from safe or advisable. After the birth of my first daughter, my midwives advised me to reconsider procreating on the biological level ever again (but in nicer words). We went over the ramifications, the dangers, and the overall rotten “human incubator” that I’ve proven myself to be despite every effort to the contrary. My second daughter had a scary start to the world: being shipped off to an Advanced Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at another hospital shortly after birth because of pneumonia in her lungs, and an ensuing pneumothorax. Perhaps it’s safe to say I blamed myself, whether I should have or not (CliffNotes: not).
Knowing what we know now about my own inept talents towards wellness, this is not that shocking (again, bad incubator = me), but thanks to various miracles, my mother’s prayers, and possibly more glitter… my baby pulled through and is a healthy, growing 4 year old lunatic. So after surviving two pregnancies from “double hockey sticks” (that’s Mom code for… well, you know)- including a vastitude of hospitalizations, physical declines and depletions- it’s safe to assume that another baby would not be smart. In fact, every doctor I’ve spoken with since has basically said: “Don’t be a Dugger, dude.”
However, now that I am in love with someone who is a Dad and makes a tremendous parent… naturally, the idea of procreating free from the control, strain, fear, and nuptially-bound-single-parenthood of my past seems a worthy experience. To look in the eyes of a baby and see the traits of someone I respect and adore (even if he looked like a tiny John Cusack as a kid. Hey, High Fidelity is the best!). To not be the only person waking up at night, or excited to feel an inner-belly kick, or embracing the highs and lows in full… This is something I’ve never truly had, and can’t help but want.
Of course, I have two perfectly crazy, neurotic, beautiful, unique, quirky, independent little girls… And nothing could detract from them, or my journey in raising them thus far. Still, every part of my being has the irrepressible hope of another kiddo one day (not now, obviously, but in the future)… yet that desire seems selfish and delusional at best. The reality of my health is that a baby would likely never be in the cards – two was already a medical anomaly- and would certainly be a self-oriented risk in spite of my preexisting, lovely family. If we could pick, we would adopt (that’s our first choice even if my health was perfect), but it’s simply too expensive for this Freelance Writer/Teacher combo of a couple.
So why am I writing this? I think sometimes when certain realities of our lives become too painful (even if they’re irrational, or emotional, or somewhat deluded)… it’s almost always best to stop isolating yourself within the experience. I have known and loved many women who have lost pregnancies… lost infants… or been unable to conceive at all. I have been blessed above and beyond with my medical-miracle little ladies, and wouldn’t change our history for the world. Yet, so many women still deal with these wishes, hopes, worries on a daily basis, but feel too cliché to talk about it (I am soooo Steal Magnolias right now, right?) Maybe I am isolated in how I feel, but the truth of the matter is… every time I see a precious little baby, or feel inspired by his fathering, or think about how we’d give them the middle name Wilde (after Oscar, of course)… it hurts.
It’s that simple.
Somehow saying that it hurts, makes the sting just a little bit better.
But then again… maybe it always will?
Want to rant with me? Share any of these pics on Makeover Momma Pinterest page or just talk amongst yourselves.
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