Baby Steps.
Chris and I have been married for the better part of a year now (What? How is that even possible?), and that seemingly simple and straightforward question has been asked more than once. The dreaded question. The one that stings even before it's finished. You know, the when-will-you-have-kids one.
To answer, I'm not sure how soon that will be, if ever. We’ve talked. I’ve cried. He’s held me and listened. We've set a tentative timeline. Despite all of this, I still continue to battle with this question daily.
If you were around almost four years ago, you know how difficult and challenging my pregnancy with Camden was. Before he was conceived, I was told, by a few different doctors, that carrying my own children would be highly unlikely due to numerous conditions and complications. When I did get pregnant, I was constantly ill and spent eight months losing weight (who would have thought I'd give birth to a NINE POUND baby just two months later?). The day Cam was born, I was rushed to the hospital because my midwife couldn't find his heartbeat. Labor was a grueling thirty-two hour process. At my six-week checkup, I was informed that the shape of my uterus would drastically reduce the already minuscule odds of any future pregnancies. Despite all this, though, I have hope.
My everyday struggle is between my hopeful heart and my hurting soul. Even if I do conceive any future children, I am not sure the broken pieces of me that have been glued back together with love, patience, and time will remain firmly intact. I worry that I will not be able to properly care for and nurture another child after having to cremate my first. I worry that again, I will go to bed and wake up to a world turned upside down. I worry that feeling the tiny flutters of feet in my tummy will spark more fear and apprehension than joy and optimism. I worry my body will betray me in worse ways than before. I worry my child will die. Again. And that is something from which I am not sure I could ever recover (again). I worry that I will not be a good mother because I've spent more time mourning my child than carrying him and holding him in my arms combined.
But I also hope. I hope to carry a healthy baby (or more!) to term. I hope to tell him or her about their big brother CJ. I long to watch Chris be the amazing father I know he will be. I hope for more snuggles and cuddles and even disgusting diapers. I hope for the surreal feeling of watching my child's eyes light up when they recognize their mother in a sea of strangers. I hope for all the firsts Cam never got to have. I hope to hear my child call me "mama," watch as they take their first steps, hold their hand when they're scared, tickle their worries away. More than anything, I hope I have the strength to mother after loss.
This battle rages without ceasing. People love to tell me to "live without fear," or not to worry about what might happen. But those same people never held their child's lifeless body and kissed him goodbye on a cold metal table at a funeral home.
This battle is one that Chris and I must navigate together for the sake of ourselves and our family. For now, I am working on my physical and mental wellbeing. I'm building a better mind and body more suited for carrying a child. I'm enjoying the process or creating healthier habits for a longer life when only a few years ago, I couldn't stand the thought of surviving another day.
So, the next time you're wondering when we're having kids, please remember that I already have one. Focusing on loving him, myself, my husband, my family, my students -- that's enough. That's all I can do (and sometimes even still, that seems to be too much).
To answer, I'm not sure how soon that will be, if ever. We’ve talked. I’ve cried. He’s held me and listened. We've set a tentative timeline. Despite all of this, I still continue to battle with this question daily.
If you were around almost four years ago, you know how difficult and challenging my pregnancy with Camden was. Before he was conceived, I was told, by a few different doctors, that carrying my own children would be highly unlikely due to numerous conditions and complications. When I did get pregnant, I was constantly ill and spent eight months losing weight (who would have thought I'd give birth to a NINE POUND baby just two months later?). The day Cam was born, I was rushed to the hospital because my midwife couldn't find his heartbeat. Labor was a grueling thirty-two hour process. At my six-week checkup, I was informed that the shape of my uterus would drastically reduce the already minuscule odds of any future pregnancies. Despite all this, though, I have hope.
My everyday struggle is between my hopeful heart and my hurting soul. Even if I do conceive any future children, I am not sure the broken pieces of me that have been glued back together with love, patience, and time will remain firmly intact. I worry that I will not be able to properly care for and nurture another child after having to cremate my first. I worry that again, I will go to bed and wake up to a world turned upside down. I worry that feeling the tiny flutters of feet in my tummy will spark more fear and apprehension than joy and optimism. I worry my body will betray me in worse ways than before. I worry my child will die. Again. And that is something from which I am not sure I could ever recover (again). I worry that I will not be a good mother because I've spent more time mourning my child than carrying him and holding him in my arms combined.
But I also hope. I hope to carry a healthy baby (or more!) to term. I hope to tell him or her about their big brother CJ. I long to watch Chris be the amazing father I know he will be. I hope for more snuggles and cuddles and even disgusting diapers. I hope for the surreal feeling of watching my child's eyes light up when they recognize their mother in a sea of strangers. I hope for all the firsts Cam never got to have. I hope to hear my child call me "mama," watch as they take their first steps, hold their hand when they're scared, tickle their worries away. More than anything, I hope I have the strength to mother after loss.
This battle rages without ceasing. People love to tell me to "live without fear," or not to worry about what might happen. But those same people never held their child's lifeless body and kissed him goodbye on a cold metal table at a funeral home.
This battle is one that Chris and I must navigate together for the sake of ourselves and our family. For now, I am working on my physical and mental wellbeing. I'm building a better mind and body more suited for carrying a child. I'm enjoying the process or creating healthier habits for a longer life when only a few years ago, I couldn't stand the thought of surviving another day.
So, the next time you're wondering when we're having kids, please remember that I already have one. Focusing on loving him, myself, my husband, my family, my students -- that's enough. That's all I can do (and sometimes even still, that seems to be too much).
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