I’m not going to say that’s the most ridiculous blog title ever (this is the Internet, after all) but it might be its second cousin. And odd appellation though it may be, it’s kind of perfect.
When people ask me “When are y’all going to have another one?!”- which is and has been rather often, since our Single Child just turned 8- that usually ends up in the conversation. “Don’t you have baby fever?”
“I have baby fever like whoa.”
As you can see, I am clearly quite the linguist. But honestly, the silliness of it is appropriate. I experience anamount of baby fever that is just… silly. I’ve been jonesing for more loin fruit ever since our not-so-little one was still wearing diapers and mumbling her own language. I always assumed I’d have my many babies (and I do mean many… I thought I’d have like 5 or 7 or 30 or whatever) between 18-24 months apart (you can’t see it, but I’m lol-ing at the idealism of my younger, stupider self). Yet here I sit, one beeb that will be a teenager in 5 years, and no other beebs to speak of. Five years ago I had a very early miscarriage, and almost immediately went on birth control, a decision that had many factors. I had the Implanon implant for two years, and really enjoyed it. No menstrual cycles to get hung up in, and no possible pregnancies to worry about. I had it taken out a little over two years ago, and pretty much from the moment I had the green light (with a few months hiatus in the middle) it was go-time. We’ve been trying ever since, but with no success. I hate to say it that way… “success”. Like we’ve spent the last decade building a firm foundation for a nationwide company and are now reaping the benefits. It’s not a complicated thing. Unsuspecting teenagers do it often enough that there’s a show or three about it, and in the olden days it was referred to as “falling” pregnant. I am super good at falling, you should see me. How hard can getting knocked up really be, right? Well, the answer is, “way”. It can be way hard. And it sucks.
Against my better logic, I take every pregnancy announcement and ultrasound upload on Facebook personally. If you’re my friend/ relative/ acquaintance from high school, and I’ve congratulated you on your fruitfulness within the last several years, I lied. And I probably made a snarky comment about you to the nearest person when I learned of your condition. Sorry, dude, just bein’ honest. I was not happy for you. Or at least, not at the time. (Probably not ever, but that sounds harsh.) And every idiot out there who engaged in the act of coitus and wound up pregnant, and laments about it or can’t take care of the offspring they have, or whatever, I hate them. Asinine, but also true. Why them? Why not me? God doesn’t think I’m doing a good enough job with the one I got? The Universe felt BootyShorts McSmokes-a-Lot’s genetics needed to be propagated more than mine? Have ya seen my kid? She’s effing adorable. And smart, and strong. What, the Earth doesn’t need another one of her walking around? It’s during existential diatribes such as this that my husband offers me a glass of wine, and I accept, because it’s not like anyone’s getting fetal alcohol syndrome up in here (I just pointed to my uterus).
I take it to a dark place. I’ve gotten to the point that I can make jokes about it, I can be funny. I can even offer kudos to new mothers-to-be in person without spitting (much). But it doesn’t mean that every fiber of my being doesn’t cry out for a baby every time I see one sleeping or nursing or just being. Or every time I go to one of my mommy groups, and I’m the only one there without an infant or a toddler. It doesn’t stop me from buying that brand new olive green Moby wrap at a garage sale a few months ago. And while time has enabled me to not feel quite so “you’ll see the Lifetime made-for-tv movie about me and my craziness” when I buy something baby related and when inevitably asked if I have a baby/ am pregnant and say no with my big fake smile, it doesn’t keep me from feeling that one day I will actually go insane, carrying around an old cabbage patch doll and trying to breastfeed it. It doesn’t keep me from having to stop typing this several times to keep from getting tears all over my new keyboard. I don’t know if That Point is somewhere I’ll ever be. Maybe this longing, maybe my soul crying out for a baby this long will help me appreciate the baby I do have one day (soon?!), because God knows that as a young mother I took my first for granted. Or maybe it will just make me grow bitter and spiteful, unable to feel anything for any other fertile woman but contempt. Who knows. Guess I’ll just have to see.
We’ve made lots of really great lifestyle changes to up our chances of conceiving. I’ve cut out nearly all gluten and dairy- and honestly feel worlds better for it- as well as tracked my cycles for the last 8 months (they’re crazy, of course), trying to pinpoint the optimal baby-making times. I’m trying to lose weight, which should help, and I’m drinking red raspberry leaf tea daily, which has had a tremendously positive effect on my monthly cramps and the nearly constant ovary pain I was experiencing the rest of the month. There are other things we’re looking into as well, so hopefully we won’t have to go all the way to medical intervention. If we do, however, I’m up for it. Anything short of actually snatching a baby is pretty much fair game. I don’t care how clever and chic Orange is the New Black is, I am not tough enough for lady prison.
If what we’re doing works, you can be sure I’ll be back here gushing and sharing and making you all sick. If not, I don’t know. My post will probably be too salty for the likes of WMC. But hey, that could be fun, too. Motherhood isn’t all about nursery rhymes and loveliness. Sometimes it’s about f-bombs and wine, amirite? But hopefully, fingers and toes crossed, wood knocked upon, candles lit and prayers said, I’ll be back here writing a post entitled In Need of Sleep Like Whoa.
Because I had a baby. And it’s up at night. And I’m tired. Yeah, you get it.posted by Anna Sites, Whole Mothering Center Featured Blogger