He’s at it again. Tormenting me. Consuming me.
Contrary to what Mark might have said in his “que sera” post, I can’t seem to convince myself that “whatever will be, will be” when it comes to having another baby. I fervently, desperately want another child. We’ve been trying for eight months, with no luck, and it’s been such a shock to me, because we had Ava with NO trouble at all. In fact, we got pregnant with her three months after our wedding, during our first month of halfhearted “trying” without birth control. I guess that’s what gave me the misguided hubris to believe that whenever we’d be ready for another, we’d have one.
Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I’m a slight *ahem* control freak, so even a cursory pop-psychology assessment would reveal that this is partly about me wanting what I want, right when I want it. But my desire isn’t like dreaming of a pair of Manolo Blahniks, or a new car, or a Tiffany bracelet. I want to bring another human being into the world. I want to ensure that my daughter will not grow up alone, without a co-conspirator with whom she can giggle at night. Without a pest to tease. Without a sworn enemy trying to ambush her room or invade her side of the car. I don’t want her to be in her 30s, on her own, with no one to say, “Remember that time Mom embarrassed us on vacation in Grand Marais?” Or “Can you believe Dad is still cursing at other drivers behind the wheel? He’s gotten even more crotchety in his old age.”
Without making Mark too uncomfortable, I can safely say that I am ovulating, and that we are timing things correctly. But month after month, I find myself quietly weeping in the bathroom while I obsess about every “over-35-infertility” post I’ve ever read online. Maybe I did wait too long. But I just wasn’t ready before Ava turned two. I had to wean her after her second birthday because she was still waking up to nurse several times a night. Hell, she still wakes up all the time! And I just wanted to feel like I had my body back to myself for a few months before we started trying again. Now I’m kicking myself for that decision.
To make matters worse, almost everyone we know is pregnant right now or just had a baby. And it kills me to admit this, but I am so jealous of each and every one of them. I know this sounds petty, and small, and ridiculous. And believe me, I have given myself the “I’m blessed to have one; some people have none” pep talk a million times, but it doesn’t seem to dampen my feelings of loss and desire.
Today, we were at a play date with three babies. Ava, who has been calling herself “Big Sister” for months now, and has been constantly grilling me about whether I have a baby in my belly, was ga-ga over these babies’ every “goo-goo.” I watched her tenderly kiss their tiny noses, and I found myself filled with overwhelming sorrow.
I just want to be pregnant. I want to feel the secret life within me, flipping like a little fish. I want to watch my daughter hold our new baby. I want to live in a house filled with children’s laughter–and listen to back-seat squabbling on long car trips. Oh, I want, I want, I want.
As one of Ava’s books says, “Go away, big, green monster. And don’t come back!”