by The Wannabe Mom
My dear friend is having a baby. It’s her first. And we’re all very excited to meet her little one.
We showered her with love—and gifts–this weekend. There were crab cakes and cupcakes and the really good cake with ganache. There were laughs and happy tears, and way too many mimosas. It was a good day. A very good day, indeed.
I came home after, kicked off my heels and collapsed into the couch next to my hubby. He wrapped his arms around me and asked if I was sad. I told him I was, just a little. But not because of the new baby or the baby shower.
I was sad for a very different reason.
My girlfriend who threw the shower has two beautiful little girls. They are smart and funny and really cute. And they love me.
Her oldest couldn’t wait to show me her flowery ballerina dress, pink tights and her gold sequins ballet slippers.
We talked about her school and her ballet class and her iPod Touch she’d bedazzled in pink and white rhinestones. If she wasn’t the spitting image of her mama, I’d swear she was mine. She’s just a little high-maintenance and I love that about her.
I watched her dance around the kitchen while I chopped fruit for her mama before the guests arrived.
Her baby sister scooted around the floor. Stopping every so often to clap and smile and wave at all of us. She’s a happy baby—so easy going. After a few minutes she scooted her way over to where I was standing and she pinched at my ankles. I looked down to see her looking up at me and showing off her new baby teeth.
I couldn’t help but scoop her up and squeeze her tight. I held her on my hip while I chopped. And I chatted with her sister about headbands and hair-bows.
I smiled and laughed and put on a happy face for the girls but inside my heart broke a little.
As infertiles we become so focused on the baby. The glamour of what it must be like to carry our child. Birth our child. Hold our child for the first time. The baby showers—and the Diaper Genies–make us sad.
Baby showers don’t make me sad. Perhaps I’m a freak-being-infertile, but I don’t get teary-eyed when I think about the baby bump I may never have–or the estrogen-rich baby shower never to be held in my honor. I don’t mourn for a perfect labor and delivery or picture-perfect birth announcements.
I get sad when I think about that perfect little moment I had with those perfect little girls this weekend, and how those moments may never happen for me. When I share that heartbreak with my hubby my eyes get glassy.
I want to be a mama.
I want to cook dinner with an easy-going baby on my hip while my high-maintenance girl twirls around our kitchen.
I want to flip pancakes for little ones in footie pajamas. I want Slip-N-Slides and sprinklers and swing-sets in our backyard. I want Christmas mornings full of all the good stuff. And first-day-of-school pictures snapped every year on our front doorstep.
I want to bake cookies and read books and play dress-up and hide-an-seek with my babies. I want to teach them. Discipline them. Raise ‘em up right. I want to rock them to sleep until they’re too big to hold.
This weekend was good. I’m so lucky to have girlfriends who let me love their babies.
This weekend I was reminded of what’s really important–the reason I’ll keep battling infertility. I want to be a mama. My desire to try again is coming back, slowly but surely.
For me, it’s not about the Diaper Genie or the Breast Friend or the Bumpo.
It’s about everything that comes after.