Dear Baby,
Social media can be such a cold and unforgiving place.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to stay connected with old friends, and post pictures, and express funny little thoughts that were once confined to your shower. But it’s also a place where people like me have to watch women we’ve known nearly all of our lives start having children of their own, while we sit with our arms empty and our hearts bursting.
An old friend just announced she’s having another baby.
This happens all the time these days. Women my age are having babies, and I should be used to seeing their happy announcements and updates via social media. And I am used to it, to an extent. But every time I see it, it still punches me in the gut.
Anyway. She’s my age, she married her husband exactly one day before your dad and I got married…and she’s having another baby.
That’s right. Another baby. Her second.
I can’t even find you, and she gets a second baby. And every day, I get to go on social media and watch her joy unfold, and see her tummy grow, and I know one day I’ll see her new baby and start watching him grow up…all before I meet you. And I get to see the joy of all the other new moms and soon-to-be dads out there, every day in black and white (and blue..), while I sit and wait for my number to be called.
I won’t lie and say I’m not jealous, because I am. I’m so, so incredibly jealous of them. I want what they have so badly, and it’s completely unfair that you’re so far out of my reach.
And I get that life isn’t fair. People have crammed that little adage down my throat so many times I’ve choked on it.
Life isn’t fair. Okay. I get it. But life shouldn’t be this cruel, either.
Seeing their joy reminds me, constantly, of what I’ve lost. Her first little boy is so cute, and he’s this amazing hybrid of her and her husband. I look at him and I see my old friend I’ve known since we were just a few years older than he is now. And my heart HURTS.
But I’m also incredibly, overwhelmingly happy for her. For her, and for all of the other soon-to-be parents out there. As much as this hurts, I’m so glad that they get their joy – because I know how horrible it is to want a baby so badly and not be able to have one. I wouldn’t wish this situation on anyone. This gut wrenching, joy-stealing, nightmarish hellscape of not being able to get pregnant. It’s awful, and to see others not have to deal with it…as much as it hurts me, I’m so glad they’re not dealing with it.
If I ever do find you, will people look at you and see me? Probably not. You will never come from me. If your dad and I get super lucky, I may grow you inside of me, and we may share blood, but unless something miraculous happens – something that doctors have said is impossible – we will never share DNA.
You won’t have my eyes. You won’t have my smile. You won’t have my one little annoying dimple stuck to your left cheek. And as much as people try and tell me that doesn’t matter…it does. It matters to me.
I’ll still love you more than you can imagine. I’ll still be your mom, and you’ll still be my baby. But I’ll never get to look down at you and see a younger version of myself, and that bothers me. I wish it didn’t. I wish I could say that no matter how you come to me, it’s all the same and appearances and DNA don’t matter. But these things do matter, and anyone who says they don’t have no idea what they’re talking about. They can choose to look down at their children and see themselves. I don’t have that choice.
What’s the first thing that women say when they see a new baby?
“Oh, he looks just like you!”
“Oh, wow, he has his father’s chin!”
“He looks just like his grandfather, how crazy!”
It’s biological. It’s basic human instinct. I have a very dear friend who lost her mother when she was a little girl. My friend now has a son – who looks like her mother. Every day she gets to look at her son and remember her mom. I think that’s incredible.
I read an article once about how newborn children look overwhelmingly like their fathers. Whether they do or don’t I can’t say, but supposedly it’s a trait passed down from our primitive, nomadic ancestors as a way to keep families and tribes together. A mother will always love and stay with her newborn, so when the baby arrives and looks like the daddy, it triggers something in the dad, some primal instinct that instantly bonds him to the child. That may all be BS, but from where I’m sitting, I can’t deny this instinct, because I feel it wondering if you’ll look like me. Will I bond as closely to you as I would if you looked like me? I don’t know. I’ll never know that kind of mother’s love.
It hurts more when I see mothers and children on social media and they look so alike it’s crazy. It hurts when I see people having their second and third babies, and I know they don’t lie awake at night, pregnant, wondering what their baby will look like. Because it’s a given. The baby will look like its parents.
I don’t have that option. I have no idea what you’ll look like, and while I’d love to say that doesn’t bother me…it does.
If we get really lucky, you’ll look like your daddy. I really hope you do. Your daddy has these amazing Galveston Bay green eyes that just light up my world. I’ve never seen eyes so deeply green. And his smile is so mischievous, just thinking about it makes me happy.
And he’s tall, so there’s that. You won’t be short like me. And I guess you won’t be missing a ligament in your shoulder or a vertebrae in your spine like me. And you won’t have Celiac or any other autoimmune disease like me, either. And those are good things. So maybe when I look at you, I’ll see your dad, and his beautiful eyes, and his perfect nose and his amazing smile, and that’ll be enough to overcome all the negatives.
Still thinking about you. Still missing you, every day.
Love, Mom
My Stork Got Lost 