I’ve been in a funk for quite some
time now, and I honestly don’t know how to untangle it and clear my head of the
thoughts. I’m nearing my mid-thirties, and have no children of my own. At the
age of fifteen, I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (translates to
many cysts on my ovaries). I was told I would never conceive, much less carry
and deliver a child. I’ve been pregnant once, but I miscarried at eight weeks.
It broke me at the time, but looking back on the situation I was in, not to
mention the person who helped create the child, it makes sense now why God
decided not to put that child on this earth. Had it survived, my child would be
in Kindergarten this year. No matter. He or she is undoubtedly being spoiled
and well taken care of by not only our Heavenly Father, but my late Granny Pat,
my cousin Alecia, and my friend Mikal.
Babies have been on my mind a lot
lately, in more than one way. Some days, I wonder if I’ll ever have the chance
to be a mother. When my fiancé Derek and I first started discussing our future
together, and the topic of children came up, he assured me that if conception
wasn’t possible, we would adopt. It’s a noble thought, and I would consider it
of course, but there’s still that selfish part of me that doesn’t want to do
that. The part of me that wants the excitement of two lines on that pregnancy
test. Who wants the tears of joy with my husband and with my best friend when I
tell her she’s going to be an aunt. That part of me wants the ultrasounds, the
growing belly, and the amazement when the life growing within me begins to kick
and move around. I want that moment of “It’s time!”, and the joy of looking at
my newborn child and knowing that a part of me has been immortalized in some
way.
But in the same instance, my mind
bounces onto the other end of the spectrum. I sometimes think that never having
children of my own wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe that’s God’s way of
telling me that if it doesn’t happen, I will be fine. In all honesty, the idea
of carrying, birthing, and raising a child terrifies and amazes me at the same
time. Children are expensive. What if my child gets sick or hurt? I am
extremely softhearted. Will I be able to discipline my child without being too
harsh or being too soft? What physical and mental issues would I pass on to a
child? There are so many dizzying questions that run through my head, and yet I
can’t decide whether I would be devastated or unbothered if I was never given
the opportunity to raise a child of my own.
Some days, it’s a sensitive topic.
To me, someone who has successfully conceived, carried, and birthed a child has
no right to tell me that I’ll be fine if I never have the same chance. And as
much as I know they mean well when they say it, it still hurts. I’m reminded
that I have nephews, I have my soon to be stepson, and I have countless of
others who call me “Aunt Amber”, but to me, it’s just not the same. Don’t get
me wrong, I love the ones who consider me their aunt no matter how they came to
know me. I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But they’re not mine. I didn’t
get the first words, steps, teeth, and all the other glorious firsts that
parents get from babies. That first day of kindergarten, where most mothers
stand outside their child’s classroom with their hearts in their throats and
tears in their eyes at the realization that their babies are no longer babies
anymore. The phrase “When are you going to have one?” sets me on edge as well.
That one is a cross between “Don’t you think I want to” and “I’ll get around to
it eventually!”.
It’s an odd thing to talk about out
of the blue, I know, but I think it’s because right around this time, six years
ago, I saw those two lines on that home pregnancy test.
Prayers and positive thoughts for some peace and understanding are appreciated, if you have them to spare.
Thank you as always for reading!
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