Dear Diary

It's a Sunday night, and Sunday nights are perfect for a real good parking lot cry.  Right?

I just watched Bridget Jones have her baby.  It was hilarious of course, I snorted many times.  But it was romantic, and dreamy, and beautiful too.  I'm not sure actually, if Rene Zellweger has kids of her own, but she nailed that new-mommy, exhausted puddle-of-love-on-the-floor, glowy love look.  And I was not expecting that look to break my heart.  

One of my mommies had her second baby this evening.  It was a whole day full of he most amazing anticipation, waiting for updates and placing our bets on his birth time and weight.  We got the news not long before I left for the movies, accompanied by the squishiest picture of him, and her with that glow.  It was so exciting, and I was so proud of her, and beyond happy.  

Then I got to the car after the movie and checked my phone, and it just hit me.  So much harder then I thought it could.  Because I'd decided two years ago that I never wanted to be pregnant again.  I hated so much of my pregnancy, and I knew...I still know that I couldn't do it again, not physically or mentally.   I knew it would sting a little eventually, but not a full-blown punch to the heart so quickly that I couldn't breathe for a minute.  Because I have my baby, and he is so beyond perfect that it's ridiculous.  Like, perfect to the point that it would be greedy, and even stupid to ever push my luck and try again.  I have a perfect little family, and we are completely complete, which made it that much easier to choose a path that would definitively leave our baby an only (biological) child.  

But then I spend the day on the edge of my seat waiting for a new baby to be born.  And then I sit through the most adorably- dysfunctional, fictional pregnancy and delivery.  And then I get in my car and scroll through photos of my friend and her son, and his brand new baby brother.  And suddenly it hurts, in utterly unexpected magnitudes.  

This was my choice, and it was the right choice.  I know that.  It may sound a little selfish at first, but a healthy mommy and a healthy wife far outweighs the importance of the (very slight) chance of a larger family.  I know that.  And I know that thanks to the remarkable women surrounding my little family, we will never run short of new babies to hold, and smell, and kiss, and spoil, and watch grow.  And I know that if we ever really want to, we can adopt another one!  I know these things, but I also know that this hurt is part of the process.  Whether a woman is 30 or 60, whether she made the choice or Life made it for her, no longer having the (maybe) opportunity to grow and birth a baby (whether her first, or second, or seventh) is going to hurt.  And I now know that sometimes it is going to hurt way more then I think it should, all things considering.  

So I will sit here and cry.  I will feel sad for myself for one more minute.  I will question my choice for one more minute.  I will curse the disease that brought me to this point, for one more minute. And then I will drive home and sneak into my perfect baby's room for a good stare and a but-don't-wake-up good night kiss.  And then I will get into bed with the man who supports me, and loves me regardless of the size of our family.  And then it will be tomorrow, and we will be looking forward.