My husband and I wanted a second child after little T. Admittedly, we didn’t try right away. We were just too caught up in loving every single minute with her that we forgot one important matter to parents of a certain age: t-i-m-e. You see I was 37 when I gave birth to my darling girl. We should’ve seriously tried after her first birthday.
He wanted another daughter, I yearned for a little boy. We tried when T was around three, but I guess it just isn’t meant to be and I’m okay with that now (I think). Though admittedly, for the longest time, it actually felt like I was grieving for the son that I’ll never have. And sometimes, when I allow myself the “maybe-it-can-still-happen thoughts”, I feel a tiny minuscule flicker of hope ignite inside me, but as the months turn into years, that already small flame is diminishing little by little.
We kept little T’s buggy and car seats (from baby to toddler) up in the attic. But last month, when we cleared old stuff because of the move we thought we were doing, we decided to give them to a friend who gave birth a few months ago. They are all gone now. All her baby toys and clothes she’s outgrown. There won’t be another baby to use them, at least not ours. We saved a few bits that we really love like her first shoe, first winter duffel coat and other special things.
A week or so go ago I blurted another “What if once we finally move … with all the stress behind us … What if I get pregnant again?” My poor lovely husband gave me a tired smile and said “Yes, you’ll never know, it might just happen”. But I knew that sad smile also meant “My poor wife, she’s still hoping …” Later on that very same day, I was happily chatting to one of our mum friends and I also mentioned it, she agreed “Yes, you’ll never know”.
Then that night, as I lay in a hot nice bath I tried to remember my age. You see, I’m the kind who keeps forgetting. (Now whether this is done intentionally, I have no idea 😉 I called to T who was just in the other room and asked her “How old is mummy, sweetie?” She hollered back “43 mum” and then my heart sank. Forty-bloody-three, who am I kidding? I’ll never get pregnant again. It took us ages to get pregnant with T.
It’s easy to write about the happy days, isn’t it? Or about the awful English weather outside, how it paints a grim picture as I sit and type this. Or the sunshiny days we’ve been having lately, or how lovely it is to live in a small village by the sea.
But I struggle with the words to describe how I feel about my hypothetical other child. The one that I’ll never have. All I know is this, every time it’s that time of the month, my heart breaks a little, even though I know the chances of me getting pregnant is slim and getting slimmer by the day. Who am I kidding? I’m afraid time is more of a foe right now. Yes, I know it can still happen. A blogger friend insists that it can still happen, because it happened to her. But each year goes by and nothing happens and I’m slowly accepting that perhaps, it just isn’t meant to be? And I know some of you may think, oh but you should be thankful that you have little T, some keep trying and aren’t even lucky enough to have one child. Yes, I am thankful every single day that we were blessed to have her, but given the chance, I’d love to have that second child.
What’s the most difficult reality you’ve had to accept?