Posted on | October 21, 2016 | 7 Comments
I ended my last post with just a sentence, nothing exciting, but some of you had questions. Did it mean something? Was there a hint of information behind that innocent little period? Was I trying to reveal a little piece of what’s been going on in my life… a life that has been unfolding in a real way rather than a written one?
The short answer is “no,” I wasn’t trying to reveal anything. I honestly just forgot that I was holding this piece of me from the blog, maybe hoping that by not putting it out there, everything would be fine. Perhaps feeling that if I didn’t mention it here then it wasn’t really real, you know? Even if everyone else knew. But the long answer is still very much “yes” with fireworks and that burst of hearts exploding on your screen.
At nearly 20 weeks, it feels almost real enough to say here, finally, that I am playing host to another little boy, a brother for J, a piece of our family we didn’t know was missing. But it’s only almost real; not fully real yet…at least not for me. I still have that moment of panic every time I use the restroom, waiting to see red and examining the tissue in my hand for even the slightest of pink. I wonder more if he’s okay, if he’s functioning properly… all fingers and toes and valves and bones rightly put together in a way that makes a keep-able baby… not a lose-able one. I poke more for motion, pressing gently as if to quietly but urgently ask “are you still there?” maybe more than I should. But every appointment, every ultrasound is one held breath away from loss or hope … wondering if this is the moment when he disappears but praying it is instead the moment I settle into mothering another child, expecting another child.
Because as much as I long to, I honestly I don’t feel “expectant”.
I feel anxious and worried, terrified and alarmed, and constantly prepared for only the worst of things.
The thing is, no one can really prepare you for what it feels like to carry a child after you mis-carry one. No one can explain to you the reluctance to purchase baby items, the desire to forget you are carrying a child in case you carry him wrong… again. We haven’t picked out names. Our “nursery” is just a collection of boxes that haven’t made their way to the attic from when Banks moved in a year ago. And though I feel I am doing this child a great disservice for not talking to him more, not getting to know the life inside me, I am reluctant to let myself love in the grand, big way that a mother loves a child. So on top of the fear, I worry that I am also scarring him for life with my anxiety and my forced nonchalance that comes with desperately holding on to the pieces of myself so I don’t grow too attached… just in case…
So yes, I am having a baby, though I stop short at saying I am expecting.
I am, I suppose, only secretly hopeful and anxiously yearning for a far off moment when I am able to hold a second child in my arms.