We had an evening of being almost pregnant a few nights ago. I’ve had plenty of them over the last five years. If my period’s even a day late then I start to worry. There have been many frantic moments where we waited to see if there would be two pink lines or just one on the pregnancy test.
But this time it was different. This time I held the smallest glimmer of hope that it might be for real. Hubs and I joked around with big goofy grins on our faces. He told me to go lay down after dinner so that he could bring me some ice cream. We talked in a silly voice and patted my tummy, while asking Bri if she’d like to be a big sister. I imagined a tiny baby growing inside me and was already loving this future child.
So I was really disappointed when my monthly gift arrived the next morning. I know, I know. It was only one evening of make believe. I can’t even imagine the heartache that must accompany a miscarriage or a stillbirth after months of dreaming. We weren’t even trying to conceive. The sadness that followed me the next day seemed disproportional to the happiness of our little evening.
I guess I’ve been suppressing this baby bug more than I realized. Our plan to wait a year or two makes so much financial sense, and yet my heart and arms are aching for another baby. It’s a good thing I have a newborn session in a few weeks. Maybe that’ll be enough of a fix for now.