Bittersweet

I did not love pregnancy.

Labor and delivery was awful.

The first year or so I spent in a horrific post-partum fog so blinding that I’m honest to god amazed that I made it through. The next few years after that were spent clawing my way back to something approaching normal.

I do not care for babies – they are boring, and, to paraphrase Fran Lebowitz [maybe? I’m too lazy to find my book and look it up], they offer nothing to the conversation.

But there have been moments lately that I have ached for a little girl. I remember how small and sweet and kind my daughter was and it kills me that I am never going to have that again. I see this tall and sweet and kind teenager walking away from me [always walking away, for some reason; can’t her future be right next to me? And can’t she be small again, so I can put her on my hip and carry her around, pointing things out and listening to the non-stop chatter?] and I want, so desperately, another little girl.

We had one child. That’s it. We tried a few times after that, to no avail. It was fine. Neither of us was desperate to have another kid, but we kind of wanted to. And when we couldn’t, that was fine, too. Adoption was discussed, in great detail, at great length, but ultimately it was a no go.

Now we are older – not super old, lots of women start having their kids at my age – but older. And the girl is older, too. And my husband doesn’t want to be 60 when our last kid graduates from high school. I guess I don’t either.

But sometimes, I dream about a little girl who looks quite a bit like her big sister, and I wish things had been different. I wish we would have had another kid.

This lasts until I’m out and actually see another child acting like a kid and remember how my nerves were so frayed that I just about lost my shit. I don’t have the patience.

Maybe a niece visiting would be fine.