Back in October I wrote this post. It was a good moment for me. I meant every word, which I think is important to remember when I write what I’m about to write.
Today I was working on a sewing project and got a call from M who I talk about in the linked post. His wife went in for her 36 week appointment and her blood pressure was up and her ankles were pretty swollen. Big red flags for preeclampsia. The doctor admitted her for a 24 hour urine hold. They’re not at all worried-she’s very far along, the baby looks good and has a strong and steady heart rate, but if the urine hold comes up with bad results they’re going to go ahead and induce her tomorrow.
M didn’t need my reassurances, but I gave them anyway-she’s had a picture perfect pregnancy. She’s 36w1d today, so baby is basically full term. There’s no reason to think that everything won’t be fine. He said he felt the same way, especially since her blood pressure had significantly dropped by the time they got to the hospital. It’s very possible she was just out of breath from rushing into the doctors office (they live 30 minutes away so it’s a bit of a jaunt for them).
I told him, genuinely, that if they need ANYTHING to call me. Either Chief or I will run anything they need up to them no problem. We live a bit closer to the hospital and plus, M doesn’t want to keep leaving L to go and get last minute stuff I’m sure.
When I got off the phone Chief came into the sewing room with Charlie and asked what was up. I told him. And I looked at my big, beautiful, healthy, ten month old daughter and felt….sad. I love my daughter so much. I would never ever trade her for anything. But that doesn’t allay the sorrow that I feel over the fact that she may have been the only newborn I’ll ever hold that is my own. I should be happy with just her and if she is all we ever have-she is more than enough. But I am an inherently selfish person. So while I’m happy for M and L, excited for them, joyous to meet Charlie’s soon to be best friend, planning all the freezer meals I’m going to prepare for them, I’m also extremely, heartbreakingly jealous. And ashamed for it.
I’m bracing myself for the joy and pain I’ll feel at holding my best friend for the past 15 years’ son. The son that was conceived within two months (earlier I told the parenting after infertility group I’m in it was one month because I forgot, but seriously, it’s a potato po-tah-to sort of thing as far as I’m concerned) when they weren’t even really trying. To a woman who is five years older than me. I don’t WANT them to have suffered. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, but it doesn’t change the fact that it still stings and I WISH it didn’t.
I am still excited. I’m waiting anxiously for the call that he’s on his way so that I can start making them fruit salad and lactation cookies and freezer enchiladas. I want to know his birth weight and birth date so I can do some machine embroidery on a lovey for him. I want to hold him. M is like my brother. I want kiss his son’s cute little cheeks and see if he looks more like M or L. But I’ve forgotten what it feels like to hold a newborn baby. I realized that today. Charlie is more than twice what she weighed when she was born, and she’s not particularly cuddly these days because now she has this whole world to explore, and I know the tiny weight of a fresh newborn that I will love like my own is going to break me into pieces.
I’m no longer mad at infertility for making me wait three years for a baby, because if I hadn’t waited I wouldn’t have had Charlie. I’m not mad at infertility anymore for the money and the time it took from us. It was all worth it for Charlie to be our daughter. What I’m mad at infertility for is taking away even a small part of my joy at holding my best friend’s son.