Romancing the Baby Bump
My husband and I got a late start with baby making. I was 38 when we had our son and a few days shy of 40 with our daughter. Considering that we originally weren’t going to have kids at all, the planets aligned perfectly for us. We had an early miscarriage and a breech baby but we ended up with two remarkably healthy kids.
Lately, I’ve found myself wishing we’d gotten an earlier start so that we could have another. My husband will kill me just for writing the words, like it’s putting the intention out into the universe but I know what’s really going on.
When I imagine having another baby, I picture how excited my kids will be to find out they’re going to have a baby sister or brother. I fantasise about us coming up with the perfect name. It has to start with a C so that they can all haven the same initials. I imagine the shock and excitement when we tell our family and friends. They’ll gather around us like wagons to make sure we have everything we need (seeing as we’ve given everything away). I romanticize my big belly and the delicious feeling of fullness. I love being pregnant and feel so beautiful.
But then I look at the moms with babies when I’m dropping my kids off at preschool and I feel nothing. No tug, no pull, no desire for a baby. They’re cute in their little footsie pajamas and I smile at their drooling faces but I’m devoid of longing.
That delicious feeling of fullness? More like the feeling of a parasite taking over my body. A new sibling? My kids fight over everything like starving lions and then discard their kill as soon as a new plaything comes along. I don’t fantasize about sleep deprivation, sore boobs, c-section recoveries and colic. I don’t romanticize the fact that right as my kids are peeing, pooping and feeding themselves mostly on their own (and that’s a generous mostly) , I’d have yet another human being completely dependent on me. Not to mention the fact that I’ll be 44 in May and the host of potential problems that come along with pregnancy at my age.
Nope, I’m just bored. I’m eager for a new hope, for an adventure, for something to be excited about. I like the idea of doing it differently this time, of getting another chance at pregnancy and new motherhood without as much anxiety. I want to get attention and have people ooh and aah over me. I want gifts and praise and prayers.
But I don’t want a baby. As I feel the first twinges of cramps, I thank God for all I have.