I was trying to write for Writing Workshop this week…
I started a few drafts about light… and a few on summer…
And all I kept coming back to was the same thought. If I hadn’t miscarried I would be 21 weeks right now. I would know if my baby was a boy or a girl. I could talk to her and she would hear me. I could read her stories. I could tell her about how wonderful her daddy is.
We don’t talk about the baby ever. Not that I expect to. AMP, like most men, doesn’t see the need to talk about something that’s in the past and that we can’t change. And, I don’t want to bring it up. I know he was relieved, but he was so wonderful when I told him that now I don’t want to hear any “well, it’s for the best” or “we’re not ready anyways”. I’m not yet done mourning the loss.
I think I’ve done a good job hiding it. Only six people know about it – AMP, my parents, my brother and Principessa. My parents don’t seem to take it very seriously. I guess it’s not a big deal after all. Makes it silly that almost 4 months later I’m still thinking about it.
But, I don’t think anyone knows that I think about it every day. I don’t think anyone realizes that every time I see a baby, I wonder what mine would have looked like. Every time I see a pregnant lady, I wonder how I would look pregnant – if I would be feeling my baby kick.
It doesn’t help that everyone around me seems to be pregnant. And they all seem to be at 18-24 weeks along.
I’m so sad. I want to be a mom. I really do. I don’t know why this desire is so strong, but it’s all I think about. I think I could be a good mom. And I think AMP would make a great dad… But he doesn’t want to. And I don’t want our child to have a reluctant father. But, I still want a baby so bad. And I don’t want to wait 3 more years, only to have AMP tell me that, no, he doesn’t think he wants to have a baby after all. By that time I’ll be 28. He’ll be 34. I want to have a baby while I’m still young enough to have the energy to run after her, to play and to survive the sleepless nights.
And now, I will go back to the real world, where I pretend that everything is okay and that I don’t miss someone I didn’t even get a chance to know.