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The Baby That Wasn’t There
One. Just one pill slipped my mind while I was away on my honeymoon. I doubled up the next day, thinking nothing of it.
Eight. Eight days late I was the following month.
Four. Four separate times I found myself staring at those little pregnancy tests.
Two. Two times the nurse had to poke my arm to draw blood for a pregnancy test.
And five. Five minutes I spent in my car, tears streaming down my face as reality hit me like a freight train.
I was not pregnant. There was no tiny embryo, no fertilized egg, no baby to dream about. My body wasn’t going to magically transform into a vessel for life. No fairy would swoop in and sprinkle magical dust to make things right. I couldn’t wish it into existence.
It simply wasn’t there. No baby. No. Baby.
Now, I can sense your confusion, and honestly, I’m grappling with it too. You might be thinking, “Wait a minute! Isn’t this the same woman who said she wasn’t fond of parenting? The one who’d rather be sipping coffee in Paris than making tough decisions for her child? She mentioned not wanting a Black son, right? Didn’t she go on and on about the challenges of motherhood?” Yep, that’s me—the one who sometimes struggles with the whole parenting gig.
Yes, I’m the one who often tells young women that if they can avoid having kids, they should, but if they do want them, they should wait as long as possible. Yet, faced with the possibility of being pregnant, I found myself uncharacteristically excited, yearning for a chance to relive that “new mommy magic” (because let’s be real, my first experience felt about as exciting as a trip to the DMV).
But there wasn’t going to be any new magic this time around. I wasn’t getting that second chance because I wasn’t pregnant.
On one hand, I should have felt liberated. My life could continue undisturbed by the wails of a newborn craving the comfort of its mother. My career could flourish without being interrupted by a toddler in need of yet another game of peek-a-boo. My sleep would remain uninterrupted, and my husband and I could enjoy our intimate moments without worry. I had successfully sidestepped the possibility of having a second child with special needs—a significant relief.
But deep down, it felt like that bullet didn’t just miss me; it struck me hard and lodged itself in my heart. I didn’t realize how much I wanted another baby until that possibility slipped away.
I wouldn’t be able to curl my fingers through perfect ringlets of reddish-brown hair or count the freckles on a tiny nose. I wouldn’t gaze into eyes adorned with long lashes, watching as they blinked slowly while my baby drifted off to sleep in my arms.
Charlotte Rose would not be able to meet her big sister. Ethan James would never know his siblings. I wouldn’t get to relish how blessed I felt bringing a beautiful little one into a world with a partner who is everything I could wish for, and then some.
It was all supposed to be a decision we made long ago, ensuring we wouldn’t have to go down this path again. So, I should have felt ecstatic about not being pregnant. But instead, I felt crushed, buried under a weight I hadn’t anticipated.
As I said… I didn’t know I wanted another baby, until I did.
This article was originally published on Jan. 28, 2016.
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Summary
The author reflects on the emotional turmoil of discovering she is not pregnant despite her initial excitement. She grapples with the contrasting feelings of relief and heartbreak, realizing that she unexpectedly desires another child.