Snapshot of My Psyche

I have several posts’ worth of upset & angst about the miscarriages, but I’m just not sure I’m up for the pathos, so I’ll keep it brief. Suffice it to say that the snotty teenager with her 9-month belly whining to her mother at Target was *not* what I needed to see tonight. And really, neither was tonight’s SVU, revolving around a teenager and her boyfriend killing their 24-week baby in utero. My second good friend (S) to deliver this fall has probably had her baby by now (haven’t heard for sure) – I thought back in May that I’d have a keeper of my own by now. I thought back in May that I’d have a keeper by the time T’s baby was born in September. Obviously not. I never thought I’d be wrestling with a chemical pregnancy while telling a 15-year-old that she’s pregnant, but that was my life back in September.

It’s not that I begrudge S or T their babies. They’re good people, and great mamas (well, I know S is, and I’m betting T is too, just haven’t seen her in action yet.) It’s not that I really even begrudge the snotty, silly teenager her baby, though I’m guessing she doesn’t know what a miracle she has. I’m envious. Pure and simple. The miracle that seems to fall into other women’s laps isn’t mine.

I want to be another link in the chain of protoplasm that goes back to the dawn of time. I want to feel the flipping and twirling of a tiny little creature inside me. I want to sit in the upstairs bedroom, watching through the east windows as the sun comes up and nursing *my* child. I want these things so much. So much that my chest tightens and my hands shake. But at least, for now, the answer is no. Or at the very least, not yet. So I’ll wait.

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