At this time last year all I could think about was babies. They seemed to be taunting me from within strollers, popping out from around corners, and parking themselves next to me in cafes to gloat constantly. Their tiny, smug, powder-scented selves were perpetually pitying me, judging me, and being just generally insensitive to my plight. Somewhere between then and now so much has shifted. Babies are no longer jerks to me I'm happy to report (if you're a baby reading this, thank you, much appreciated), but the shift runs much deeper too.
The other day I was walking down the street with Jeremy and I heard myself saying, "I don't think I'm going to have a baby until my late 30s". I think this statement seemed like a joke to him after the pregnancy mania that he has been forced to co-endure over the last year, but as I heard myself speak that future projection, I realized, I don't know if that's 100% true, but I also truly don't have a pregnancy plan at the moment. I always thought that we would "get right back on the horse" (that phrase feels unattractive for this scenario, but you know what I mean), but I feel like whether it was entirely conscious decision or not, somewhere along the way I decided to take a little time out from baby fever.
Miscarriage has a way of consuming you. The fact that it has effects on your body, your mind, your spirit, sometimes tricks you into thinking that it is everything. For a long time it felt like everything. For ages the only key out of the maze of pain, of surgery, of blood level monitoring, of longing seemed to be having a solid plan regarding when we could try again. "When will we be able to try again?" I asked my doctor every step of the way and after each new medical intervention. "When will you be able to try again?" asked every person ever (regardless of whether it was any of their business) as if that was the universally accepted next logical step. I think for many people that is the next logical step, and that's wonderful if it is, but for whatever reason, I have needed the time to take stock of my life post-apocalyptically.
Miscarriage creates a tidal wave that I at first thought I would ride directly back into Babytown, but for me it has turned out to be different. It is taking me longer than I expected to repair my relationship with the babies of the world, but not necessarily in a bad way. My distance from breeder-mania gave me the time to look at the things I want in my life outside of a successful pregnancy. My miscarriage was a radical pause in the momentum I had been swept along with for my whole life. What resulted was a period of time which I am currently in where I have been able to start to take stock of what is what. I see this time as a gift even though it came along with the worst heartbreak I've ever felt.
I still cry when I see anyone give birth in a movie or at that recent commercial where little kids have to identify their mommies with a blindfold on (that one snuck up on me, but sob I sure did, i'm such a sucker), so I know in my heart that I still very much ache to be a mother, but now I know I want it in a much more intentional kind of a way. Was it worth the excruciating pain and resulting falling-out with the High Counsel of Tiny Babies? Who's to say. And actually, I don't think it matters. It's just like everything in life, we can't put a judgement of "worth it" or "not worth it" on the paths that got us to where we are. We can only look at where we are in the present moment, accept it, and make choices from there.
The other day I was walking down the street with Jeremy and I heard myself saying, "I don't think I'm going to have a baby until my late 30s". I think this statement seemed like a joke to him after the pregnancy mania that he has been forced to co-endure over the last year, but as I heard myself speak that future projection, I realized, I don't know if that's 100% true, but I also truly don't have a pregnancy plan at the moment. I always thought that we would "get right back on the horse" (that phrase feels unattractive for this scenario, but you know what I mean), but I feel like whether it was entirely conscious decision or not, somewhere along the way I decided to take a little time out from baby fever.
Miscarriage has a way of consuming you. The fact that it has effects on your body, your mind, your spirit, sometimes tricks you into thinking that it is everything. For a long time it felt like everything. For ages the only key out of the maze of pain, of surgery, of blood level monitoring, of longing seemed to be having a solid plan regarding when we could try again. "When will we be able to try again?" I asked my doctor every step of the way and after each new medical intervention. "When will you be able to try again?" asked every person ever (regardless of whether it was any of their business) as if that was the universally accepted next logical step. I think for many people that is the next logical step, and that's wonderful if it is, but for whatever reason, I have needed the time to take stock of my life post-apocalyptically.
Miscarriage creates a tidal wave that I at first thought I would ride directly back into Babytown, but for me it has turned out to be different. It is taking me longer than I expected to repair my relationship with the babies of the world, but not necessarily in a bad way. My distance from breeder-mania gave me the time to look at the things I want in my life outside of a successful pregnancy. My miscarriage was a radical pause in the momentum I had been swept along with for my whole life. What resulted was a period of time which I am currently in where I have been able to start to take stock of what is what. I see this time as a gift even though it came along with the worst heartbreak I've ever felt.
I still cry when I see anyone give birth in a movie or at that recent commercial where little kids have to identify their mommies with a blindfold on (that one snuck up on me, but sob I sure did, i'm such a sucker), so I know in my heart that I still very much ache to be a mother, but now I know I want it in a much more intentional kind of a way. Was it worth the excruciating pain and resulting falling-out with the High Counsel of Tiny Babies? Who's to say. And actually, I don't think it matters. It's just like everything in life, we can't put a judgement of "worth it" or "not worth it" on the paths that got us to where we are. We can only look at where we are in the present moment, accept it, and make choices from there.
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