As I edged toward my late twenties, I would hear myself practically exclaim my timeworn response, always the same emphasis, always the same self-satisfaction.
Still, I knew the time was not far off that I would be ready to have children. And, fearing that God, having heard my smug tone, would strip me of that ability, I decided I had better start sounding a bit more humble when answering that question.
An unplanned pregnancy is many things to many women. For me, it was the place where all my roads diverged. It was panic and logic. It was mania and purpose. It was disappointment and hope.
The miscarriage that followed was a meridian of time that marked my departure from the selfish, egocentric ways of my twenties, and in their places opened up a rabbit hole, down which everything I had believed to be sane and certain about my life suddenly fell.
The dark and dreary days thereafter are mostly jumbled somewhere in the annals of my personal history, but some are chronicled here and there. (And then there was this heartbroken Christmas wish.)
Today, I read this, and had a stirring in a primal place of my heart – perhaps the mother place that, though once dormant, has been there all along – and I feel now an urgency to here proclaim that even though I always viewed pregnancy as a means to an end, there was not a single solitary day I was pregnant that I took that miracle for granted. I never glanced sidelong at the gift that was mine, wishing it was something else, and no scoffing or scorn ever once escaped my lips.
I embraced pregnancy with my arms thrown wide, like one is wont to do with a long lost friend. Still, as sometimes happens even between long lost friends, the 10-month stay wore out my welcome to the point of being threadbare. But, as it goes with long lost friends, when pregnancy once again graces my doorstep, my enthusiastic embrace will be as warm as it is welcoming, as appreciative as it is affectionate.