One. Just one little pill slipped my mind while I was reveling in the bliss of my honeymoon. The next day, I doubled up.
Eight. Eight days late I found myself the following month, filled with a mix of hope and anxiety.
Four. Four pregnancy tests I took — each one leading me deeper into the maze of uncertainty.
Two. Two times the nurse punctured my arm to draw blood for yet another pregnancy test.
And five. Five minutes I spent in my car, tears streaming down my face, as the crushing realization dawned on me: I was not pregnant. There was no embryo, no fertilized egg, no miracle waiting to be born. My body wasn’t going to magically conjure a baby from thin air, nor was a unicorn going to sprinkle magic dust on my results to change the outcome. I couldn’t wish it, I couldn’t hope it.
It simply wasn’t there. No baby. No. Baby.
I can imagine that you might be feeling a bit perplexed by this situation, and honestly, I am too. You might be thinking, “Wait a second! Isn’t this the same woman who said she wasn’t fond of parenting? Isn’t this the same person who’d rather be exploring the streets of Paris than making life-altering decisions for a child?” Yes, that’s me—the one who has often advised young women that if they can avoid having kids, they should. And if they must, to wait as long as possible. And yes, I’m also the one who, when faced with the possibility of pregnancy, found herself filled with unexpected excitement and a yearning for a second chance at “new mommy magic” (because let’s be honest, my first experience was as dull as a rock).
But alas, there would be no magic. No new beginning. I wasn’t going to get a second chance because I wasn’t pregnant.
I should have felt relieved. My life could proceed unaffected by the incessant cries of an infant needing their mother. My career would flourish without interruptions from a toddler asking to play peek-a-boo for the hundredth time. I could continue to enjoy uninterrupted sleep, and my husband and I could maintain our romantic escapades whenever we wanted. Plus, not being pregnant meant I had successfully avoided the possibility of having another child with special needs—a significant relief.
However, if I’m being honest, it felt less like I dodged a bullet and more like it hit me squarely in the heart. I didn’t realize how much I craved another baby until the moment I understood it wasn’t happening.
I wouldn’t get to curl my fingers around perfect, reddish-brown curls or count the freckles on a tiny nose. The dream of gazing into eyes adorned with long lashes, watching them slowly blink as a baby drifted off to sleep in my arms, would remain just that—a dream.
Charlotte Grace would not meet her older sister. Jake Matthew would never have the chance to bond with his siblings. I wouldn’t have the joy of feeling blessed to share this journey of parenthood with my amazing partner. It simply wasn’t in the cards for us.
And even though we had decided long ago to take steps to prevent another child, I should have been ecstatic about the outcome. But instead, I found myself buried under an emotional weight that felt heavier than anything I’d faced in a long time.
As it turns out, I didn’t know I wanted another baby until the reality struck that it would never be.
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Summary
This heartfelt reflection dives into the emotional turmoil of discovering a pregnancy that never was. It explores the complexity of longing for more children despite previous decisions and the unexpected grief that accompanies an unfulfilled desire.
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