18 Mar

Sometimes I want another baby so much it makes my eyes well up with tears.  The want swells inside of me pushing against my skin, inflating me with love and hope and fear and every feeling in between.

When I hear of friends that are pregnant I cry with such happiness at their joy and tiny bits of jealousy. When I watch television shows and see children dying I cry with tears of pain, sadness and grief. And when I read. When I read of these real life stories. The grief that quakes in their wake. I cry with empathy that flows like lava. Hot. Burning. Tears.

There is so much fear wrapped up in motherhood. Fear you won’t get pregnant. Fear you’ll lose the baby. Fear the baby will be unhealthy. Fear of SIDS. Fear of falls, scrapes, cuts. Fear of a drunk driver, fire, crime, the unpredictable. Fear of illness, incurable all consuming illness. That fear like a cancer spreading throughout every moment of your life. Fear when they are grown and gone. Fear till the moment your last breath escapes.

It echos in your mind, a dull ache. A reminder of fleeting life. Yours. Theirs. Ours.

When it grips me. This fear. When the sobs catch inside my throat I push it down with joy. With tiptoes into my children’s bedrooms. Pushing the covers up to his face, kissing his warm head while my moist cheeks graze his. Standing on the tippiest tips of my toes to lean over the crib rails to reach her sweet face. I sweep the fear away with love. Overwhelming, all encompassing love.

I think to myself even if I ever lost them. I had them.

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