They are everywhere.
The signs of a fecund spring. I see nestlings, calves, colts, lambs, the cutest little kids—mama goat was lucky I wasn’t close enough to pinch their sweet fuzzy cheeks. And babies. I see new people. Everywhere.
I smile; having been through the whole nine-month miracle, I know what each mother-to-be is going through. But I also see women who don’t smile. Who don’t even glance at the newest, chubby, bubbly arrivals. They look downright grim, depressed. I think I understand, not every woman likes children. I was never a big fan of two-year-olds until I had my own. But I didn’t understand the whole picture until my sister admitted that after suffering through four miscarriages (don’t even get me started with the fertility clinic business!) she simply stopped her baby-watching. She pulled a cold turkey on baby showers. Declined invitations to one-year-olds’ birthday parties. And refrained from complimenting moms, who strolled their precious munchkins through her building. And I thought babies were hard to resist.
It wasn’t that she stopped liking babies but she couldn’t handle the gnawing ache. She was told that she would never have any of her own. Sure she could adopt, but that was a 2 to 5 year process that would have set her and her husband back nearly $10 grand. Adoption seemed to be only for the wealthy. Unless she went to a foreign country—that had numerous drawbacks as well. She got to a point where she knew what she wanted. She wanted nine months. Everything else was a flimsy second best.
Years ago when I was pregnant I kvetched and complained through the last five months. Becoming more grumpy as my due date neared. There comes a time when you just want to have the baby—like now! I never realized how I affected other women. Never noticed if they looked at me or didn’t look at me. But my sister opened my eyes. They were there looking, silently yelling at me: “How dare you! Do you realize what you’re taking for granted?” They wanted to be in my stiff, swollen ankles. To wrestle with pillows each night. They wanted the cravings (mine was oatmeal—go figure?)and the crying jags. They wouldn’t have bitched about the weight gain or the big boobs or the stretch marks.
I had looked at pregnancy as a lengthy biological process; going from point A to point B. I forgot to live in the moment and I made a lot of women sad—especially my sister.
So I am so sorry to you my very dear Mary. And I apologize to those women I’ll never see, who struggled with fertility. Who turned away from my daughter’s tiny little fists and feet. Whose little diapers were no bigger than a man’s handkerchief (which work in a pinch by the way).
But know this: Mary now has three rough and tumble boys. Your turn will come. Being a mom is also a process, she and I have both found. But neither of us are in a hurry to get to point B any more. |
Bernadette Sukley |
| About the author: |
| Bernadette Sukley has written, edited, fact checked for nearly 20 years. Her topics range from health to sports and lifestyle, from human interest to hard news. Her work has appeared in Men’s Health, Sports Illustrated for Women, and ABROAD magazines. Currently polishing up 3 novels for publication, she welcomes discussions on women and literature.
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