Baby. Crazy.

 

Baby. Baby. Baby. The little one I don’t have is invading my thoughts, haunting the equilibrium I am fighting to maintain.

Although he doesn’t say much at the time, my husband will later admit our inability to have another child will be, for him, the hardest residual side effect of my cancer.

Okay, so in our own ways, we’re both a little baby-crazy.

International or domestic adoptions through an agency cost upward of $20,000. And apparently, 1 in 5 couples has fertility problems; it seems there are more than enough families wanting to step in and take healthy babies here in the U.S. Our hope to help someone beyond ourselves through adoption is a little deflated by the apparent lack of need. Fees are less and need is higher for adoption through our county’s family services, but their children consist primarily of older, special needs, and siblings. These little ones really need homes and I would love to step in for such a child, but I question our ability to do so at this point in our lives. Do we have enough remaining fortitude for such a commitment as that?

I will continue to pursue adoption, whatever that looks like.

I will run through the women closest to me, imaging how they might feel about being a surrogate.

I loathe admitting, in desperation, I will concoct such outlandish scenarios as using one male relative on my side with a female relative on my husband’s side - as though these human beings, whom we love most, are impassive instruments.

I will sit at the park with my son and have absurd and disgustingly judgmental thoughts toward the happy, bouncing mothers of mulitples– in their yoga pants and ponytails, with their organic fruit snacks and expensive strollers. They don’t appreciate that baby. They should give it to me.

I’m joking, of course. But I’m marred with desperation.

Lord, I am praying, take this jealousy from my heart. Ease the consuming envy I feel toward every pregnant woman, toward every friend’s birth announcement…  toward every person living their normal life. Accepting my lot is an ongoing challenge, a difficult aim I am perpetually working toward.