Thursday, July 4, 2013

Talking in my sleep

It should've been me. And that's a shitty way to feel. Like I somehow deserve it more than someone else.

Oh not with him. But somewhere, with that Someone.

I don't know anyone who likes babies the way that I do. I don't know anyone who longs and aches and positively trembles at the thought of more children.

I've been through enough fertility treatments and trauma to know all the ridiculous platitudes: "on God's time", "it just isn't the right time", etc.

Oh I held it together pretty well. All told, I should be proud. I find I sort of like her. She's sweet. Charming. Loving. And that made me want to do the right thing. When Stomp asked about the baby, I asked for pictures. I waited until he left the room before I let my eyes fill with tears at the sight of that sweet, wrinkly baby. Stomp asked to buy her presents. We went and picked her out her first giraffe because it's only right that her first giraffe come from Stomp. I didn't cry at all, although I had to stop short of picking her out an outfit, as much as I wanted to.

But when I dropped Stomp and Goshie off, I got out of the car, handed her the giraffe and almost reached out to hug her, this woman I'd found myself irrationally despising for so long. Who I now found myself really kind of liking. And then I did something I never should've done.

I looked into the backseat at that sweet little tiny thing all scrunched up in Goshie's car seat. Eyes closed, as all babies fall asleep in the car. I could feel it happening. I could feel the walls sliding down with a violence that startled me. I felt my eyes fill with tears. I felt my lips start to tremble and I realized if I didn't say goodbye to my boys and get out of there and fast I was going to lose it right there...right there in front of the people I'd worked so hard at putting on a brave front for. It's not just that I didn't want Stomp or Goshie to wonder why Mama would cry at such a happy event. I didn't want him and his girl to feel like they'd hurt me. And it wasn't them. It's simply the utter shittiness of a situation.

I want to have more babies. Lots more babies. 6 or 8 more. And someday maybe I will. I've found a wonderful man who loves me more than anything and thinks I'm worthy of mothering his children. If they can ever get the situation with Frankenuterus under control then more children are a real possibility. But because of my health issues, there's also a real chance that they're not.

I beat a hasty exit. I got in the car, cranked up the only thing I had (Mumford, of course) and tried to keep the sobbing at bay until I got home. And then I just let it go. I wept for my situation which doesn't allow for children to be born tomorrow. I wept for my health issues which may not ever let more children be a possibility. I wept for the parents of those babies killed in Newtown Connecticut. I wept for babies killed every day in abortion clinics. I wept for Mamas all over the world sending their baby boys off to war. I wept for couples all over the world hearing the words "you can't have children". I got lucky. They told me that and they were wrong. And I wept for Joshua. For my miracle baby whose birthday was just the day before all this. I wept for how a doctor had told me I couldn't do any better, my body and my uterus and everything else about me that makes me a woman was broken. I wept about how wrong they were and how I had my Joshie. My sweet boy who insists on giving cheeks and saying things like "I loaf you" and "pretty, Mama, pretty". My Goshie, who thinks every football player is named Wes Welk-uh. Who loves his brother more than almost everything in the world. I looked at pictures of him born, just 2 years ago. I thought about how hard I wept and prayed to God that he would be safe and that this wasn't a mistake and I would't lose this baby like the other one I'd lost. I thought about how fast he'd grown up and how much I loved him and how that love was so different than my love for Stomp. Not more, not less, just different. And I wish I'd had him home in that moment just to hold him. To feel him curl against me and knead his fingers and whisper "I loaf you Mama".

Then I cowgirl'ed up. I cleaned up the mess from his party. And I told myself to get over myself. I slept fitfully last night, as I have been for the last several weeks, knowing this birth was coming. There were nightmares about dead babies, and empty uteruses and women who were literally broken or who were made of dust that blew away in the wind. There was waking up out of breath and with scratches on my body. I woke up in tears. I woke up mumbling to myself about being sorry and wishing I were stronger.

Then I told myself to give myself a break. Today is the first day in 9 years I don't have the kids for the 4th of July. I've done most of our town's festivities. And to be totally fair I may not do anything but mope.

It's time to give myself a break.


  1. This was just gut-wrenching. And so poignantly written. Thinking of you.

  2. Thank you, as always, Marianne.


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