A common theme among the comments about my friends’ newborn son and daughter, respectively, is how much the photo and stories of the baby make these women want one of their own. There was once a time where I wished I felt that way, but being comfortable in the fact that I simply do not is a huge development, and I’ve got to say I’m pretty proud of me.
As I’ve watched the most recent of my friends becoming parents, watching photos of their growing bellies, listening to their excitement and concerns, buying gifts and attending showers, I was sort of expecting to come to some big personal crisis. Would my body start to want a baby against my will? Would I start wondering about my legacy, wishing for a baby of my own? I waited and waited, feeling reasonably prepared to deal with the feelings when they arose, knowing that it was biology, animal instinct that would be kicking in.
But nothing happened. Even now I look at babies Ruth and Delilah, Morela and Cullen, and I think… well, virtually nothing. Morela and Cullen are the spitting image of their daddies, Delilah and Ruth undoubtedly their mothers’ daughters. But that’s about it. No pangs in my uterus, no wishing, no wanting, just “heh, cute baby” (or, in the case of one of the children, “yipes, NOT a cute baby”). Babies babies everywhere, and I sit here, the only woman in the room unaffected.
It’s an awesome place to be, because it shows just how far I’ve come, no longer mourning that which makes me different, but embracing it as a part of me that makes me me.