One. That’s how many pills I forgot to take during my honeymoon. I made sure to take two the next day.
Eight. That’s the number of days I was late the following month.
Four. Four is the number of pregnancy tests I took—each on a different day.
Two. Two times the nurse punctured my arm to draw blood for the pregnancy test.
Five. Five minutes I spent in my car crying as the truth sank in.
I wasn’t pregnant. There was no embryo, no fertilized yolk, no tiny human waiting to burst into my life. My urine wasn’t going to magically morph into a baby. No mythical unicorn would descend from the heavens to sprinkle pixie dust on my test, conjuring hCG into existence. I couldn’t wish it into being. It simply wasn’t there. No baby. No. Baby.
You might be baffled by this, and that’s understandable—so am I. If you’re sitting there thinking, “Wait a minute! Isn’t this the same person who expressed her dislike for parenting? Isn’t this the same individual who daydreamed about being in Paris, steering clear of the daily dilemmas of motherhood? Didn’t she voice concerns about raising a Black son?” Yes, that’s me—often critical of parenting. Yes, I often advise young women to consider postponing motherhood as long as possible if they can. And yes, when faced with the possibility of being pregnant, I felt a rush of excitement, yearning for a second chance at the “new mommy magic” (since the first experience felt dull, like the bottom of a work boot).
But there would be no magic this time. No opportunity for a redo. I wasn’t expecting a child.
In theory, I should have felt liberated. My life could proceed without the shrill cries of an infant demanding my attention. My career could flourish, uninterrupted by a toddler’s incessant pleas for one more game of peek-a-boo. My sleep would remain undisturbed, and my husband and I could enjoy our intimacy freely. Plus, the fear of facing a second child with special needs was behind me—a significant hurdle cleared.
But honestly, the bullet didn’t just miss me; it struck hard, piercing right through my heart. I didn’t realize I wanted another child until the moment I acknowledged I wasn’t going to have one. I didn’t understand how deeply I craved a little being that reflected both Mister and me until that dream faded away.
I wouldn’t be able to twist soft reddish-brown curls around my fingers for hours, nor would I count freckles on an impossibly tiny nose. I wouldn’t gaze into long-lashed eyes while they slowly drifted into sleep in my arms. Charlotte Elizabeth wouldn’t meet her big sister; Solomon Andrew wouldn’t connect with his siblings. I wouldn’t reflect on how grateful I was for the beautiful life I could create with a partner who complemented me perfectly. It simply wasn’t in the cards.
And even though we had made conscious choices to prevent this from happening, I should have felt elated when it didn’t. Instead, I felt buried under a weight I hadn’t anticipated.
As I said before, I didn’t know I wanted another baby until I did.
This article was originally published on Jan. 28, 2016.
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Summary:
In a candid reflection, the author navigates the emotional turmoil of realizing she is not pregnant despite initial hopes for another child. The piece explores themes of unexpected longing, the complexities of motherhood, and the weight of choices made regarding family planning.