I'm busier than I want to be lately, which is not exactly why I didn't write yesterday, though it was half of the two-part excuse I gave myself. The other half was that I didn't want to bore you with what felt like yet another redundant, tedious, repetitive rant on how unsure I am that I really want kids at all. This always happens to me when the possibility of pregnancy exists. And this month, the first of J~ and I actually and officially trying to make that possibility a reality, the doubt-demons are especially ferocious.
What if I'm pregnant now? I can't help wonder. I don't get excited when I think this - I've learned to keep that heart-opening hopefulness tamped way down. Foreboding, on the other hand, runs rampant in its place. I imagine a snotty, whining, ugly baby, crying and clinging to me while I feel far too alone and overburdened, overweight, unhappy, longing to run away. Good-bye freedom, I find myself thinking in a grim monotone. Good-bye sleep.
But then again, last night, lying in bed in the dark, the what-ifs took an unexpected turn. What if my body actually could support a pregnancy now, but J~'s sperm are no good? I know I've said a million times that I'll be happy either way. J~ and I have said as much to each other on more than several occasions. But that was before I considered the possibility that his body mightn't be up to the task. Whoa Nellie, hold up just a second here!
Okay, so maybe the real reason I didn't want to write about this again is that I didn't want to admit - to you, to myself - just how much I want a child. But here it is in all it's undeniable glory: I want it to happen! Despite loss of sleep and freedom and moments (and I'm sure there will be plenty) when I'll feel like running away. Despite a million precious but boring hours of baths and laundry and chauffering and feeding and not chopping wood or playing tennis or losing myself in my writing, I still want it to happen and I want it to happen now.
Right this minute.