I could sense a shift the moment I laid eyes on my best friend, Sarah. It had been about a month since our last catch-up, and something was undeniably different. Perhaps she had started exercising? Her figure seemed fuller, and she had a glow that was unmistakable. But when I asked her to take my kids outdoors, she mentioned the pollen was too much for her to handle.
“Can you watch the kids next week?” I inquired. “We have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday.”
“I’m not sure,” she replied, a wide, goofy grin spreading across her face. “It all depends on the ultrasound results.”
In that moment, I understood.
I rushed toward her for a huge embrace. We had often joked about Sarah and her husband, who is also a close friend of mine, having children. They had always insisted they were a pet-only household—she even claimed my kids were enough for her. But here she was, radiating that classic pregnancy glow. I was overjoyed for her.
Yet, as I held her, tears of happiness streaming down my face, a wave of jealousy washed over me. I’d give anything for another chance at motherhood. After my youngest son was born three years ago following a harrowing pregnancy, I had desperately hoped he wouldn’t be my last. I envisioned a bustling family with six or seven kids, but my last experience had been terrifying.
I had faced severe complications: hyperemesis and gestational diabetes. My mental health spiraled downward with each pregnancy, and a year after my last child was born, I entered outpatient treatment for depression and anxiety. It was a rough journey, to say the least.
Now, I find myself on a cocktail of medications that barely align with breastfeeding, let alone having another child. My psychiatrist advised against trying for another baby, concerned about the toll pregnancy might take on my mental well-being. When I mentioned adopting, she nodded, expressing her belief that it was the right choice for me.
So here I am, my body closed for business, with no more first ultrasounds, no more births, and no more chances for those magical moments: the first time a baby is placed on your chest, their tiny cries filling the room. I know my three-year-old will likely be the last child I nurse, and the thought of that weaning process breaks my heart.
Meanwhile, Sarah excitedly chats about her pregnancy, unsure of how far along she is. She expresses gratitude for our friendship and her need for support as a new mom. “I need your help with breastfeeding and baby-wearing!” she exclaims. I’m happy to step into the role of Auntie, feeling a mix of joy and sadness that I can hold simultaneously. I shared my feelings with my therapist, who wisely remarked, “The human heart is an amazing thing.”
In my excitement, I promised Sarah all of our baby gear—everything from cloth diapers to baby carriers. I meant it, except for the changing table; we’ll need it for the future foster or adopted child. This table represents a promise I’ve made to myself: one day, a baby will fill this home.
And for now, that baby will be Sarah’s. I secretly hope it’s a boy so he can wear the clothes I’ve saved from my sons. I can’t wait to help her with baby-wearing, nursing, and picking out adorable outfits. I’ll treat her child like my own nephew, and I genuinely feel joy for this unexpected miracle in her life.
Perhaps this new arrival can also ease some of my feelings of anger and resentment: anger at my body for failing me, anger at my mind for complicating the experience of motherhood. Maybe this baby is just what Sarah, the universe, and I need right now.
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In summary, while I am overjoyed for my best friend Sarah and her growing family, I cannot ignore the bittersweet feelings that accompany my own journey. Life’s complexities allow for joy and sorrow to coexist, and I’m learning to embrace both as I support her through this exciting new chapter.