So very rarely in life have I ever felt any type of regrets. I always felt that the Universe did things for a reason and even if I did not, could not, would not, understand it I would just go with the flow. I could wait on explanations. But lately, I’ve felt betrayed. Both by my mind and by my body. By what I believed to be true. It’s been eight months since I went to sleep and then awoke to no longer having a uterus. It’s been eight months that I have not had daily pain in my life. I am no longer doubled over the bathroom sink wishing the waves of pain would.just.stop. I am no longer laying in bed, day after day, aftraid to bend at the stomach for the cramping will begin and there was no end in sight. I am no longer dreading that time of the month where for three to five days I felt like I was giving birth all over again. Add to that that I acted like a USDA-grade-A-bitch.
It’s also been eight months where every day passes by and I’m filled with dread and regret. I’m filled with hopelessness that I will never again have a baby. It’s not that Shawn and I are regretful of not having more children. It’s a purely selfish act on my part. My motherly instincts are on overload when we trek through the infant/toddler section of department stores. The tininess of the outfits. The crisp new smell of a never worn before Onesie. Or the mixed smells of sweet soaps, all natural lotions, and unscented diaper wipes. They say they are unscented, but they are. They smell like the sweet newness of a baby just born. Where you can nestle your nose into the cozy of their neck. Their hair. Their hands. Their back. You can smell the faint scent of sweat, especially when they are tucked into a blanket, snuggling with you. Being suffocated by your motherly ways. So easy to be lost in a baby. To learn from them. You do not teach them, they teach you. They open you in ways that you can never imagine, so you dare not try.
I made sure to enjoy every single moment of Scout’s babyhood. I bathed her in warm water. I dried her with new, fluffy towels. I lathered shea butter lotion on her bare little body and told her, “No more dirty bird”. I inhaled her. I consumed her. I held her to my breast even when she indicated she was full. I held her in my arms when she slept. I kept her close by every moment of the day for fear that I might miss something. A cry. A laugh. Anything. Somehow, two years passed by. I continue to use the shea butter lotion. It’s the only scent that can take me back to those first few weeks. When she needed me and only me.
Now I go to bed regretting my decision. A little more pain for another baby certainly seems a bargain. But hindsight is 20/20. I can not make deals, though I would given the chance. I wish I had been less selfish then so that I could be more selfish now. If it were only so easy.