It wasn’t my son keeping me awake. It was myself.
The past few months have been hard. I’ve been struggling internally with the idea of a second child. And it’s been shockingly more painful to have on my mind than having my first was.
I wasn’t the kind of woman born knowing I wanted to be a mom. The idea of being a mother existed, but it wasn’t something that I connected with something I wanted until my early 20s. I love kids and always have, but I just didn’t know if “mom” was right for me. In my late teen years, I became so focused and driven in the field of work and education, that I didn’t know how I’d do it.
Then, it hit me hard. I wanted to be a mom.
In the typical style of my life, it wasn’t going to be easy. PCOS and infertility made sure of that.
My son is, flat out, a miracle. I’ve said it before, I’ll continue saying it. My doctors were even amazed. My odds were almost non-existent, and now, here he is.
Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice, and what are the odds that that miracle can happen again?
I hate having people tell me, insist, that because I was able to have my son, it’d be easier this time around. They didn’t take that journey the first time around with me. They didn’t go to those appointments, hear the results, SEE the results. They don’t realize that I do not have a left side to my uterus. Or that my health diagnosis in February now leaves my maybe/possible reproductive future in even more uncertainty than before.
Women in the same situation, or extremely close, understand. They’ve all made the go for a second, and it just never happened. Those are the stories that I can relate to. The ones that hit more close to home for me. Because I’m on that same exact path.
Around me, all of the women that were pregnant alongside me, are now announcing that number two is on the way (or for some, number three or four). And with each announcement, it gets a little bit darker over here.
I always said I’d be happy with just one. I just wanted one out of all the shit I had to go through. I never realized how much I would love being a mom, until it happened. How much I would love my child. How much it all just fit together, perfectly. How much fulfillment I’d feel as a mother. Even on the days where I feel 100% overwhelmed and even sinking. I still thrive on my work. I still love to learn. But being a mother has been more than any of that could have ever been for me.
I’m grateful to have my son. Grateful to be given the chance, finally, to be a mother. I love being able to look at him and call him mine. Being able to teach him new things, experience all of the firsts with him.
But my heart pulls at me for more, but I can’t give it more.
My son has begun patting my stomach and saying “Momma baby?” or calling it his baby. He doesn’t know that there isn’t, and most likely never will be a baby in there. I try to tell myself that right now, it comes from one of his schoolmates becoming a big sister recently and his teachers growing their families. I don’t know that for sure, but it helps. Some.
So, here I was, at 1:09 a.m. this morning, penning a letter to myself, telling myself, we’ll get through. My heart, my soul, my mind, we’ll all get through, and we’ll be okay.
It is going to be okay.
It will get better.
I know if seems like just as soon as “up” comes and that break is caught, it’s all gone, taken away and you’re back to forever circling that drain.
I hear you fight to push away that crack in your voice as you read Good Night Moon.
I hear that pain in your voice as you try to hide the dark from your son and distract you both with tickles and kisses.
I see you try to shield your eyes as you dance silly in your living room.
Soaking up his peels of laughter. His smell.
Reveling in his hugs, kisses and never ending love for you.
I feel that crushed soul when he gets out of hand and you have to help him back into line.
It will be okay.
He knows you’re doing your best.
He doesn’t understand the depression that creeps up on you without warning.
He doesn’t understand the anxiety that grips you from the moment you wake.
Someday, you can tell him, and he will understand. He will understand how strong and courageous mommy was, and is in her life’s journey.
Someday, he will understand everything you gave for him. To have him. The years of feeling like it would never be. The heartbreak. The tears shed.
And someday, he will understand why that miracle would also be why he would only ever be one.
You are resilient.
You have, more times than you care to count, grabbed those boot straps and pulled.
You have always stayed afloat.
You have always risen.
The feelings and emotions are overwhelming to say the least.
But, take it one day at a time. One moment at a time.
You’ve got this mommy.
You are strong.
You are brave.
You are loved.
I would like to think that there are other mommas out there that can resonate with this, at least in one way or another. We’re not alone. And we will be okay.