I’m sitting in the same spot. The worn-out cushion on the reclining couch that I spent 8 straight weeks on, day in and day out. I’m wearing similar clothes – baggy, ugly, mostly my husband’s to fit comfortably over a 27 week-pregnant body. The music is the same, Pandora in the kitchen, set to “Yoga Radio”, or “relaxing music” as the twins call it. The living room shades are up, the dogs are perched, the sun is shining, though I won’t be going outside to feel its warmth. It’s all the same.
And it’s so quiet. Other than the New Age music, it’s totally silent. No one is here.
There’s something about waiting for your first child(ren) that can’t be fully explained, at least not on an emotional level. Especially when you faced infertility treatments to get that child. Sure, the shots hurt a bit, but the shame hurt more. The frustration, the anger, the jealousy, the loneliness, the numbing feeling: Will I ever hold my own child?
And in my case, after those 8 weeks of home bedrest, with pointless TV on to drown out my own depression, with no one to keep me company until work got out – I went into early labor at 28 and then 31 weeks, landing me on hospital bedrest. THAT kind of bedrest is 10 times worse than being at home. Maybe another post for another day. But eventually, after all of that, from April-July, two little babies were born at just under 35 weeks, crying. I did not care that I had a C-section. I did not care that they were both taken from me before I even saw them. I did not care that my daughter needed formula right away to help her gain weight. I did not care that breastfeeding was going to be days away, if at all. I did not think they were in better hands with me than the hospital nurses and doctors. Frankly, I just wanted them to be here and healthy, and eventually in my arms. And they were.
And so, now, same time frame, same empty house and same dilapidated couch cushion, some of those same emotions come back.
Forget the fact that a few hours ago, the dogs were barking and fighting over a treat. B helped me make waffles. We all ate breakfast together as a family (and by ate, I mean the adults’ food got cold as we handled 1,000 minor issues). It was loud. Daddy took a shower, while the twins and I unloaded the dishwasher, sorted utensils. Snuggled on the couch. Sang “This Old Man” and “Old MacDonald”. They poked my belly, kissed the baby. I rubbed ouchies, dished out tickles and snuggles and “I love you”s.
The house is empty now and as much as the chaos drives me insane (and mostly the noise level more than anything else), I would prefer it to this, because this is being left to my own thoughts. I miss my children, and they’ll be back in an hour.
Same as before, I cross my fingers that I can make it to a healthy week, to bring this new baby here in whatever birthing manner it takes. I’m not picky.
I just want all my children to be here and healthy, and eventually in my arms.