This morning a friend who just found out she’s pregnant (One of many right now!) asked me if I was glad I wasn’t the one calling with the news.
My gut reaction was a resounding Duh! Twenty-one months without sleep does not foster any kind of baby lust at all. The thought of another two years of being woken up multiple times a night sends shivers down my back, and not the good kinds of shivers.
And yet, as glad as I am to not be pregnant, a part of me is insanely jealous. Don’t tell anyone, OK? But I kind of miss being pregnant. No, not the nausea, weird cravings, back aches, constant peeing, or wild mood swings. I just miss that oneness with the baby.
For nine (or ten, depending on how you count) relatively short months my babies and I were a whole. It was the two of us, united against the world. During those months I was that baby’s entire world. She didn’t know anything else and no one else knew her.
It’s selfish and shallow and even maybe a bit silly, but I miss being my children’s whole world. These days Daddy is their prince and I’m just in the way. Last week, two days in a row I was summarily dismissed when he got home. Sent away with a resounding “Bye bye! Mommy go! Daddy stays!” I walked away, a bit shocked that I could just walk away and leave them behind.
There are no words to express the love that wells up inside me when I watch my children play with their father. When them run to him in the morning for a last hug goodbye or beg for one final kiss at bedtime I marvel at the bonds they’ve developed over the years. It’s everything it should be. It’s ideal and perfect.
But sometimes I watch them from the sidelines, one hand on my belly, remembering what it was like when I was the only one who knew them at all, and hoping that one day I’ll get to feel that closeness again.