Baby fever. I've got it. There are pregnant ladies all around me. Fresh newborns to cuddle and smell are everywhere.
And I still want one.
I still lay in bed at night and think about a new baby.
A baby in my body, that I'll grow and birth and nurse and watch grow outside of my body.
I think of it every day.
Two of my best friends are pregnant, and while I'm incredibly happy for them, I'm also insanely jealous. I'm living vicariously through them.
And that will have to be good enough.
Babies are not what my husband wants. He's done - and 45. I'm 39 and I know that I should be done - done wanting, done having kids. If we had a baby right now, my husband would be 55 when the baby turned 10. I'd be 49.
I'm OK with my number, but I know he isn't with his. And I respect that - during the day. At night when I'm laying in bed and the house is quiet, I stroke my belly and wish for it to grow. I cup my breasts and crave the quiet nursing of a new born.
These things won't happen. They can't. We made a permanate choice when John was a baby. It was the right choice. Because another baby would have broken me. I was on the edge of a breakdown and my husband knew this, somehow. He knew we needed to be done.
And I thank God that he knew.
The meds I am on cause birth defects. I know this. And yet I still crave a baby of my own.
Adoption isn't an option, because my husband feels complete in our family. He feels that we are a solid, complete unit. He's completely fulfilled.
Then there is the money factor with adoption. That's daunting. And again, our ages.
I want a baby.
It's not going to happen and somehow I've got to learn how to get through this. To accept and move on.
I'm trying. I truly am.