Your Pregnant Belly, A Love Story

I stood on the beach not far from you, but enough so I thought your glow couldn’t physically touch me.  I knew that the rays would burn if they grazed my arm.

I watched, knowing your every movement would cause me deep pain, but I couldn’t peel my eyes away.  Your hormonally thick hair, in an easy ponytail, a perfectly comfortable but fitting t-shirt dress for your eight months to be displayed and your 20-something year old legs…thin, but strong enough to carry your tiny + baby frame.

The moments came, as I knew they would, when you rubbed your belly in mid conversation, then stopped and just like a shield, held your hands in place around your bump.  You would smile. The deepest happiness exploding from the corners of your mouth.

And I thought awful, jealous things. I thought desperate, sad things.  And I swiped tears away, pretending that sand had blown in my eyes. 

But mostly, I thought how beautiful you were.  I wondered if you knew how lucky you were.  And I thought how I’d give anything to be standing there, with my hair in an easy ponytail, in a perfectly comfortable but fitting t-shirt dress for my eight months to be displayed and shielding my belly while smiling – the deepest happiness exploding from the corners of my mouth.

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The Worst Day

It was yesterday.  But not present yesterday.  Yesterday one year ago yesterday.  365, now 366 yesterday’s ago that was what I’ve come to call “The Worst Day.”  As if I’d need a reminder, it’s even in my calendar as such.  

It was the day our RE said, “based what we know today, you can not get pregnant.”  

It was the last time I took the call to hear her say “I’m sorry but your blood test is negative.” 

It was the the last time I heard her “explain” that she didn’t know why it wasn’t working.

No one else on the planet recognized the day. Not my sister.  Not my best friend.  Not even Hubby. I am not certain how I feel about that, but I am certain of this….that I will likely never forget the date upon which my life’s dream ended.

If I’m being honest, yesterday’s anniversary of “The Worst Day” was not much different than any other hellish day that’s passed since.  

I started my day exhausted from lack of sleep.  I fought to get dressed in clothing that no longer fits for the weight I’ve gained and done nothing about.

I drove to my job – which I’ve come to be utterly uninterested in.  And then I drove home to do chores well into the night, not having real contact with anyone and hardly seeing my husband at all.

And , like every. single. day. since “The Worst Day” I thought regularly of the fact that I am not a Mommy.  

Instead of wondering how baby was doing at daycare all day, I thought of the papers from the RE’s office sitting on Hubby’s desk for a year. They require our signature and yet Hubby refuses to sign them to finalize the end of this.

I was reminded that I had no one to rush out of the office for to pick up from school or to help with homework as I stayed till 5 watching others leave at their specially scheduled earlier times to accommodate “mom-life.”  

I was reminded that I had no little one to cook a healthy meal for as we ate bowls of cereal for dinner.

I wish I could feel like the day not being significantly worse or better was a good thing, but like the other 365 days since “The Worst Day,” I feel the same emptiness, lack of purpose and sadness.

What I can say is that the anniversary of “The Worst Day” has passed.  And I survived it….which I only know to be true since I’ve risen this morning – exhausted from lack of sleep – to repeat another day like all the days since “The Worst Day.”