The pitter patter of little feet: this was the only sound my heart wanted to hear.
I was 25, happily married to the man I met and fell in love with at 21. We had been married for a few years, had travelled far and wide, and were ready for a baby. We wanted to be parents.
Ah, to be young and naïve. When you spend the better part of your sexually active life trying to prevent pregnancy, it’s a bit of a catch 22 to discover that the very thing you fought so hard to keep at bay is now the one thing on earth for which you would give anything. Worse, that strong maternal and paternal desire for something so deceptively simple turns out to be far more complex than some of us bargained for. Sure, for some couples it’s as easy as making the decision to stop birth control and then watching the stick turn blue the next month. I hope those people know how lucky they are.
At first, we “didn’t try not to get pregnant.” We just went about our business and waited for the good news. Six months later, we were still waiting. I was cool, collected. “It will happen when it is supposed to.” (I call BS on myself. I was in no mood to wait around for Fate to do her work.) The truth is that I was TOTALLY FREAKING OUT and could not understand what we were doing wrong. I confided in some trusted friends who had been there. I purchased a crazy lipstick tube that was really a magnifying glass-laden ovulation test. I licked the glass every morning, then examined the pattern of my saliva to look for clues regarding my cycle…through a lipstick tube. I kept a thermometer beside my bed diligently took my temperature, charting it before daring move a muscle. I examined my body looking for clues that something promising was happening. No dice. I had become that crazy, obsessed person we all know and fear. Finally, I made the phone call and set up an appointment with my doctor.
Who knew that having intercourse every night was contraindicated when trying to get pregnant? My husband wasn’t too pleased, I can tell you that much. He had grown spoiled from the many, many months of “trying.” The doctor handed him a sterilized cup, an address, and recommended that he purchase a magazine or two. Poor Brian was mortified, but he went along with it dutifully. (Thank you to all you husbands out there who let your temporarily insane wives put you through these things!)
He checked out. Was it me?
We changed our approach and finally, FINALLY, the stick turned blue. Too excited for words, we rushed to the doctor for a blood test confirmation. I will never forget the look on her face when she informed us the pregnancy had “disappeared.” It seems it was a “chemical pregnancy.” The egg was fertilized but quickly absorbed so as not to produce a baby. I was crushed and heartbroken. My husband tried to keep me buoyant. “It will happen when it is supposed to,” he said. I knew he was lying, but l loved him for making the effort.
A year from the day our journey toward parenthood began and several chemical pregnancies later, I was despondent. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with me, yet there was no pregnancy. A dear friend said, “I think you need to step away from this. It has taken over your life. You’ve lost your perspective.” I knew she was right. With every ounce of faith I had in me, I returned to life as it had been. I started training for a marathon because I knew I needed something to keep my mind and body occupied. I trained for exactly one month before being sidelined for extreme dehydration. I couldn’t kick it, no matter how much Gatorade I poured down my throat. It turns out there was a little one cooking and making his mommy very, very sick. Nine months later, the love of my life was born.
It turns out that sometimes you have to let go of the thing you want the most in order to attain it. My “baby” is a decade old now. Yet, I still love the sound of his big, size eight feet, pitter pattering through the house. I am ever grateful to hear that sweet song singing in my heart.
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